A/N: Many thanks to my Facebook group for helping me with this chapter. We have a lot of fun. Come join us!

So… tread lightly on this chapter, and if you have a question, remember you can always contact me. I will answer you.

In the soft light of morning, Edward just watched. He lay on his side, his eyes roaming the expanse of Bella's back as she lay on her stomach beside him. What a difference from the woman she'd been in his bed just a few days ago—timid and nervous. As much as it had made his heart ache to see her pain, the fear of rejection, it had been novel too to see she was afraid of anything. But as the days passed, it didn't take her long to find her stride.

She was full of fire, passion, life. He didn't know how she did it—lived each day of her life in the moment, stealing happiness where she could find it despite whatever else was going on. Last night, she'd had a squabble with Liam, who'd cut off her conversation with her daughter when the topic had taken a turn he didn't like. She was so frustrated and angry, and yet not three hours later, they were playing the games lovers did in his bed. They were wrestling, and she pinned him, straddling him with a cry of triumph. She was a goddess—pert nipples standing at attention, red cheeks, big, beautiful grin, hair wild; her eyes so bright.

Edward turned the memory of the moment over in his head now as he watched the rise and fall of her shoulders. He remembered the way her eyes had shone in the dim evening light, how her wide grin had turned into a tender smile as she ran her hands over his cheeks. And as she looked down at him, there was something in her expression that stole his breath. His heart, so cold and dead for too long now, had begun to beat in triple time. His body had arched up off the bed with the strength of what he felt just then. He drowned in it.

He'd made love to her that night. There was nothing else in the world but them. They'd made love to each other. Hard and soft, slow and deep, until they were both breathless and boneless.

His wife. He felt that connection to her in the marrow of his bones. It resonated in his soul, vibrated through him. It was like waking up.

Waking up was always disorienting.

He traced the back of his knuckles along the small of her back. He'd kissed her here, dragged his teeth along her skin, thrilled at the little gasp he'd elicited. Listening to her make those sounds, seeing her come alive under his touch and basking in that look of tenderness and adoration in her eyes, a single thought had run through his head.

I'm glad I didn't miss this.

His throat closed around the thought, and something deep in his heart twisted, turning the warmth he'd felt ice cold. His lungs constricted, like his rib cage had begun to pull inward, squeezing everything in his chest cavity and settling a stone weight on his shoulders.

What was he doing to this woman?

Bella was in love with him. He didn't need her to tell him. It was in her eyes and the way she touched him. It was in the intimacy that they shared—heads bent close, whispering and teasing. It was written in the way she peeled back her layers and showed him her most vulnerable pieces.

Once upon a time, when he was a young, foolish man, he'd thought love was enough. That he was in love with her was a given. He didn't understand how anyone could not be. And that should have been all it took to make their story beautiful.

But there was an ugliness at the center of his gut. Like black bile, it spilled through him, infesting his blood as it pumped through his heart, poisoning his soft thoughts for her with a whispering, wretched voice.

Liar, liar, liar, it chanted.

She thought he was some benevolent entity, a fantasy. "I feel like you're someone I made up. Everything I could need in my life," she'd said. He hadn't told her it was the opposite. He was the one who'd made everything up. Granted, he'd had good intentions, but now…

With a shuddering breath, Edward turned over, rolling onto his other side so he was faced away from her. There was a terrible pain in his chest, and he closed his eyes against it. Such a strange feeling, like he was about to asphyxiate even as his breaths came and went as they always did.

Beside him, Bella stirred. She made a sleepy little sound—part yawn, part sigh. The bed creaked and blankets rustled as she rolled, and seconds later, he felt her warm front against his back. She rested an arm around him, her hand stroking once, twice lazily just below his belly button. His heart hurt at the soft touch. It twisted even further into knots as she pressed the most tender trail of kisses to the back of his head.

"I like this," she said in a scratchy, half-asleep voice near his ear. "You're the only person I've ever been my whole self with."

She sighed, nuzzling the back of his neck, and her breaths evened out again. He didn't think she'd ever really been awake. Despite the weariness that weighed on him like a blanket of lead over his whole body, Edward didn't sleep. He lay awake, staring at the wall.

~0~

Marcus was a fastidious bastard. He'd sent back a message to Edward indicating he'd missed one question. He'd been asked to detail any mental health problems he suffered from or had a family history of.

Edward trailed his fingertip across the screen, covering the words he'd read over and over but didn't want to see:

Have you or anyone in your immediate family attempted suicide? Been treated for suicidal thoughts? If so, does anyone know who might talk about it?

He could, he mused, answer truthfully that he'd never attempted suicide. Alice and Emmett knew he'd planned to, but they wouldn't tell Liam's attorney if it, for whatever reason, came up. There was no reason having this information would help Marcus with his case.

The question fell under the umbrella of mental health. He was honest that he'd sought counseling after the death of his wife and son, and that he'd taken prescription drugs to mitigate depression. He was also honest that he was not currently on those drugs.

Paper, he knew, would back him up. He was a functioning adult. He lived alone—or had until he'd married Bella—ran a business, paid all his bills. All the hard evidence was on his side.

After he'd sent back his response affirming that he had never attempted suicide, nor was it a problem in his family, Edward leaned his elbows on his desk. He bent his head, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

Just days ago, he'd existed in a mostly-numb state. If anyone had asked him why—why he'd made the list in the first place, why he'd methodically gone through a list of ways, weighing pros and cons—the best answer he could have come up with was simply that he was tired. He didn't see the point to his existence. He could have spoken of the lethargy—how moving was an effort, little things like brushing his teeth or even lifting up his head. He could have spoken of the deadness he felt, like his insides were rotting, festering. He was a computer in sleep mode—draining resources, reduced to a low hum in a forgotten corner of the room.

He'd told Alice he wasn't miserable. He wasn't suffering. He wasn't in agony.

It hadn't always been the case. Losing Charlotte was agony. Not so much her actual death, but the road they took to get there. As Edward sat at his desk, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing at his eyes, memories playing over in his mind, mixing and meshing old pain with the conflict rising in him. His thoughts went in circles in his head.

Liar, liar, liar.

He was lying to his wife. A lie of omission. A big one.

Tell us about the future you see for yourself and your family.

His future. His future was still a blank—an endless void that made him all the more exhausted to contemplate. But he wasn't himself anymore. Somehow, he and Bella had become a true unit, and now his wife was living the lie of his existence.

But he had never promised her a future. Theirs was a marriage of convenience. There was his life and her life. He was merely helping right a wrong. That was all this had ever been about. He'd never promised her forever. He'd never promised to love her. That he did was his own damn problem. That she loved him…

She loved a lie, and she deserved to know.

Why did she love him? How could she? He'd told her. He'd told her about how he lied to his first wife, had kept his silence. He'd told her how something dangerously close to hate and anger toward Charlotte had taken root in him, how it had grown.

How his anger was big enough that he had held his son's tiny, lifeless form in his hands and felt nothing.

He loved her.

He wanted…

Edward slammed a fist down on his desk. He straightened up, tilting his head back. He gasped for air. There was an invisible fist closing around his windpipe. He clawed at his chest as though he could rip this thing that had come over him out. What was this? He pitched forward, elbows on his desk again, gripping his head between his hands.

His phone rang. His mind almost didn't connect the sound to what it meant. He took the thing out of his pocket, resting it on his desk, staring as his brother's face grinned back at him. Everything felt hazy and far away.

He connected the call and lifted the phone to his ear. It felt like lead in his hand. "Hello?" he said more out of muscle memory.

"Hey. I was calling to remind you about dinner tonight. Are you bringing Bella?"

Edward blinked. All the words were English, but it took him several seconds to find meaning. Dinner. Bella. Emmett had told Edward in no uncertain terms that his deal about dinner or lunch once or twice a week was still on. As far as Bella knew, they were simply a family that got together often because they enjoyed each other's company. He hadn't resented it, knowing Bella needed more than him. She was so achingly alone.

So, he'd let her believe another lie.

He blew out a sharp breath. "Dinner. Yes. We'll be there."

~0~

They'd done a potluck for dinner that evening. The theme was hand-made. Edward had come home from work early, and somehow found himself doing something he hadn't done in a long time—making his own pasta. It was a painstaking process, and maybe that was what appealed to him in the moment. His thoughts were too loud.

He was feeling calmer by the time Bella got home from work. So much so that he was relaxed when she slid her arms around him from behind.

"Mmmm. What are you even doing here? That smells so good." She snaked one hand out, reaching for the spoon sticking out of one the pots he had going on the stove.

He caught her hand and moved it back to his waist. "No picking."

She made a disgruntled noise against his shoulder. "Seriously. What is this? I thought you were going to make something carb-o-licious."

"I made pasta." He nodded at the stack of small, circular shapes. "This is the filling."

"You made your own damn pasta? Why are you showing off? Who does that? They come in little boxes and bags for a reason."

"We're supposed to make everything by hand."

"No. A normal person understands you make the filling by hand. The pasta you defrost or boil—whatever kind you get. It still counts as by hand."

"Nope." He looked at her over his shoulder and winked. "That's cheating."

She grinned at him and licked the tip of his nose playfully. "Show off." She looked back at the stove. "So, what is it going to be?"

"Mushroom ravioli."

She leaned her head against his shoulder and groaned. "If you don't let me eat some now, I'm going to have to eat you." She nipped at his shoulder and then his neck.

He pulled away from her, laughing. "Don't you have something to cook?"

"Nope. Weren't you listening? I have something to eat." She dodged around him, grabbing up the spoon. "Nooo!" she cried as he grabbed her around the waist, pulling her away from the stove. She pulled the spoon with her, and put it to her mouth before he could take it away.

"Oh. Oh, shit. Oh, hell. This is damn good." She moaned, and Edward's eyes nearly rolled back into his head. With a feral growl, he took her by the waist and pushed her up against the counter, attacking her mouth with his.

He pulled back only after he'd licked the remnants of sauce from her lips. "Come on. We're going to be late if we don't get a move on."

~0~

Bella had said more than once as they cooked together that it was a dangerous thing they were doing—trusting each other to put together a meal that wasn't all desserts. The spread turned out to be pretty well rounded.

Alice had appetizers covered with an artful display of fancy cheese, meat, fruit and crusty bread. Rosalie had the drinks covered, providing a choice of three fancy cocktails along with a tasty apple-pear salad. Jasper had made his famous pulled pork with cornbread on the side. Bella had made two side dishes—green beans in some kind of amazing lemon caper sauce and zucchini stuffed with ricotta. The only dessert was Emmett's. He'd made the most decadent, rich, fucking divine molten chocolate lava cake Edward had ever put in his mouth.

"No. No, no, no." Jasper wagged a chocolate covered fork at him. "I call bullshit. I call absolute bullshit. You didn't make this."

"What, motherfucker, I bake."

"Nope. No. I second his bullshit," Edward said around a laugh.

Emmett and Alice's heads both snapped over to him, eyes wide. Jasper and Rosalie's responses were more subtle, but he could see they too were surprised. Bella's furrowed her brow. She obviously didn't understand the shift in the mood; she wouldn't know his family hadn't really heard his laugh in who knew how long.

Edward bowed his head, clearing his throat. "This tastes suspiciously like the lava cake from Dad's favorite restaurant," Edward said, keeping his tone light and pretending smiling wasn't an effort.

Emmett stared at him another beat before a slow grin spread across his face. "I make delicious cupcakes." He tapped his wife on the shoulder. "Tell 'em, babe. Tell 'em about the cupcakes."

She quirked an eyebrow. "You poured 7-Up in Betty Crocker's white cake mix. It was delicious, but it wasn't exactly what anyone would call by hand."

"Babe!" Emmett put a hand to his heart. "We're supposed to be a team."

When the table was cleared, they settled into a game of Cards Against Humanity—an awkward, just-plain-wrong card game. The person who was "it" for the turn read a question or fill-in-the-blank from a white card. Other players chose the black card with the answer that they thought the "it" person would most likely pick. So, for Emmett, the strategy was to go the filthier the better. For Jasper, it was the most morally horrible answer possible, etc.

An hour later, they were all cackling like loons. It was Edward's turn. His card read, "Next time on Dr. Phil: How to talk to your child about blank."

"Oh, god. Oh...oh, no." Edward banged his head on the table before he read the last one out loud. "Next time on Dr. Phil: How to talk to your child about…" He sighed. "The primal, ball-slapping sex your parents are having right now."

"No!" both Alice and Emmett joined in his wailing.

"Why? Why? Why would anyone put that in my head? It's so cruel." Emmett put his hands over his eyes, shaking his head back and forth.

"Ah. I think that one wins for total damage done alone." Edward shook his head.

Bella smirked as she reached for the winning black card.

"Oh, I cry foul on that," Alice said. "You can't pick your wife's card every time it's your turn."

Edward put his arm around Bella, running a hand through her hair as he grinned at her. He'd picked her card four out of the last five times it had been his turn, but not on purpose. "It's not my fault she's brilliant, Ali. Get over it."

As he turned back to look at his sister, he saw her eyes were on his arm, not his face. Edward realized too late that the movement was intimate. His sister's smile was blinding.

Sure enough, as the evening wound to an end, Alice grabbed him by the hand, stopping him before he got in the car. "Things are different now? With Bella?" she asked. Her words slurred a bit. They'd all been drinking, though Bella had stopped hours ago so she'd be sober enough to drive them home.

Edward sighed. "Alice."

She shook her head, her smile wide and eyes bright. "It's fine. Don't tell me." She laughed—a delighted giggle—and hugged him tightly. "You're okay. You're better. That's the most important part."

Better.

In the small, pre-dawn hours, Edward was still awake. He was half way to drunk when they got home and, as deep night drenched the world in silence, he got even drunker. He hadn't had a drink in hours now, but it didn't matter. He'd been alone with his thoughts, his memories, his guilt.

He'd known, of course, that his plan would hurt his family, but that knowledge had seemed so far removed from what he felt at the time. Seeing Alice's glee at the idea he was better—liar, liar, liar—it finally sank in how profoundly his death would have affected his family.

He wasn't better. He was still wrong. Off. He was full of fury and pain and guilt. It was all so loud between his ears.

He was in love with Bella.

He was hurting her. Or he was going to hurt her. She didn't have all the information she needed to decide if she could love him. What business did he have coming near her?

He was glad he was alive.

He didn't know what he was alive for. What was the point?

He was tired. So tired. But he couldn't sleep.

There was so much…

There was too much…

He was choking. He couldn't breathe. He was hyperventilating. The noises he made, gasping in breaths, were raw and hoarse. The voices in his head screamed. The memories—awful memories—assaulted him.

Somewhere in there, as he writhed, running his hands through his hair and pulling, he tripped. He fell, catching the side of his arm against the edge of the coffee table.

Pain, physical pain, bloomed. Edward gasped, taking in the first deep breath in an age. His mind cleared—not enough. Just a little. He turned his arm and stared at the slash of bright red blood painted on his skin.

Blood.

A wound marred his otherwise smooth skin. Streaks of blood wound their way down his arm.

It had helped—the pain.

But he still couldn't think straight. The voices were still too loud. It was still too hard to breathe.

Clasping a hand to his arm, he made his way to his bathroom. Rummaging through his drawer, he found what he needed and held it up.

A razor.