Prologue

I pull the lasagna out of the oven and place it on top of the stove, the cheese bubbling and aroma wafting through the kitchen. Tonight's our anniversary and it has to be perfect. James won't accept anything but perfection, but that's part of the reason I love him. He knows what he wants and likes and won't accept anything less.

Turning my attention to the table, I assess the work I've put into the place setting. A sleek black linen cloth covers our square table, not a crease in sight. It took about a half hour to make sure the creases were actually gone. I've brought out our plates we save for special occasions, like when we host holidays. James loves these plates, but doesn't like to use them when it's just a casual dinner. My parents gifted them to us as a wedding gift. Grandma Swan had them in her house and passed them down to my parents when they got married and the passing of the plates continued.

Pulling my gaze away from the plates, I check to make sure the wine glasses are positioned correctly. Then my eyes trail to the silverware and napkins. I bought red linen napkins while at the store today in hopes of keeping this anniversary as romantic as possible. Having a romantic place setting and adding white paper napkins wouldn't work.

Satisfied with my work, I turn back to the lasagna. It's had a few minutes to set so I begin to slice into it, the pasta so tender it's like slicing butter. I grab our plates from the table before placing a serving on each plate. I wipe away any sauce drippings from the edges of the plates before gingerly placing some salad next to each lasagna serving. The final touch is a drizzle of Italian dressing before the plates go back to the table.

Now it's time for the wine. I uncorked a bottle of Sangiovese to let it breathe before serving it. I pour a little bit in a spare glass and taste it. Smiling, satisfied, I pour some into the glasses on the table. When I'm finished, I put the cork as far into the bottle as I can before placing it into the fridge, making a mental note to put a cork stopper in it after dinner. I glance at the homemade tiramisu in the fridge and grin, excited to see James' face when he finds out I've made his favorite dessert.

The sound of keys in the door pulls my attention from the sweet confection. I quickly stand up and take my apron off, fixing my hair a bit by using my reflection in the window. He's a little early, but that's alright. I stash the apron in a cupboard and make my way to the entryway of the kitchen where it meets the front hallway. James walks into the house and looks at me, his eyes slowly raking over my body, starting at my lightly made-up face and curled brown hair, then moving down to my form fitting black spaghetti strap dress, down to my toned legs, and ending at my feet, shoved in the heels he loves. His eyes come back to my face and I see confusion in them.

"The hell is this?" he asks, effectively putting a damper on the romantic air I've worked so hard to create.

"Happy anniversary," I smile before walking over to kiss his cheek.

"Right, yeah, happy anniversary," he says as he shrugs off his jacket, hanging it on the hook. I try not to let the nonchalant tone in his voice bother me. It's our first wedding anniversary after all, I don't want to spend it in a bad mood.

"Come on, I've made dinner," I smile as I take his hand and lead him to the kitchen. I look up at him eagerly as he scans the kitchen, assessing what I've done.

"Is that the fine China?" he asks, a crease marring his forehead.

"I felt our anniversary called for it," I responded, my tone still happy. He walks over to the table and sits at his usual spot and begins to eat. Biting my cheek, I join him at the table and follow suit.

"What's in this lasagna?" he asks, making a face.

"The usual," I answer, hesitantly. "Meat, mozzarella, ricotta, herbs, pasta," I list off.

"It tastes weird," he huffs as he takes another bite. I take a bite of mine but don't taste anything different than normal.

"I think it tastes fine." He shoots me a look, silently telling me not to argue with him. I look back down at my lasagna, biting my lip. James takes his plate to think trash and dumps his food into it before tossing his dish into the sink.

"Hey, be careful!" I say before I can stop myself. He turns to me, his eyes cold. He grabs the dish out of the sink and drops it onto the floor, the ceramic shattering, shards dashing everywhere. My eyes widen as I stare at him, not truly believing he just did that.

"Clean it up," he spits. This is what happens when something isn't perfect. James gets angry and turns mean. This isn't who he really is, though. I know the real James. The kind and gentle James. But when he turns into this cold James, I do whatever he says so it doesn't escalate. I get up from the table slowly and get the broom and dustpan. Careful where I step, I walk over to the majority of the mess and start sweeping. James takes the broom from me.

"Pick it up," he demands and I crouch down, my toes screaming in protest as they slide further into the pointed front of my heel. I begin picking up the shards, careful not to cut myself, dropping each one in the dustpan. James walks past me to put the broom away and bumps into me, knocking me forward onto my hands and knees. I bite my tongue to stop from crying out in pain as ceramic shards tear at my skin. With tears in my eyes, I continue picking up the ceramic, not daring to look up at him or make a sound.

After a few painstakingly long, tense minutes, the mess is cleaned up and I stand, my knees wobbly from the pain of my cuts. I look over at James, his face smug.

"You're a fucking mess," he says icily, the smug smirk still in place. I swallow thickly, wishing this wasn't happening on our anniversary. I had worked so hard to make everything perfect. The lasagna was perfect, I know it was. I tasted it myself and I've made it hundreds of times before.

"I'm going to go change," I say quietly and start walking past James. He grabs my arm, squeezing it painfully and I wince. That's what he was hoping for, I can see it on his face. He enjoys it when his grip hurts me.

"I didn't say you were done here. Clean up the kitchen." My defeat turns into anger. I had planned this for weeks. I had planned this perfect night for us and now it's ruined. I know my lasagna was perfect and it wasn't my fault that the night was ruined. It was his. He was looking for a reason to be upset. He smashed my grandmother's plate. This is his fault, not mine.

"No," I say, hoping it came off firm instead of anxious.

"The fuck did you just say to me?" he asks, his voice completely cold.

"I said no. I planned this, James. For weeks. I know my lasagna tasted damn good. You had no right to ruin that plate." He shoves me against the counter, the hard plastic edge digging into my back. I do my best not to show that he's hurt me, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

"Get off of me," I say as I try to pull my arm away from him. I look him in the eyes and I can see the raging fire that burns behind his blue irises. His rage is bubbling inside him, almost about to overflow but I don't stop. I try to shove his arm off of me and I succeed, but his hand goes straight for my throat, cutting off my airway. Panic fills my body as I can no longer breathe and I struggle against him, slapping anywhere I can. My eyesight becomes blurry and I can tell I can't take much more of this.

The next thing I know, I'm in a hospital bed surrounded by my family.

Hey everyone!

Thank you to everyone who let me know my chapter posted weird! I'm so used to tabbing my paragraphs in Word that I forgot not to do it! Anyway, I hope this is better! I'll update again soon!

Also, if you see any grammatical errors anywhere in my story, feel free to PM me and let me know where! I will make sure to fix it as soon as possible! Thanks for your help and thanks for reading :)

- Twilight What?