Happy Monday!

What is this, early posting? I may or may not have been gently nudged into this, and y'all DID propel CtN past 1,5k reviews over the weekend, so this is my THANK YOU.

This story could not exist as is without Team Momo, who keep my grammar clean and my head sane: Alice's White Rabbit and Midnight Cougar wield the red pens. Deh and Yummy pre-read. Emma is the shoulder I cry on and my purveyor of Robp0rn. Ausha Pasha provided some vital information and some of her own personal experience for the story. Pearly Fox made a gorgeous banner for this story - check it out on FB in my group (LaMomo's Lair - just type it in the search bar).

We're back with LawyerWard today. And it's Sunday morning or, in other words, "Brunch Day".

Chapter 25

On Sunday, I woke up with a harrowing pall of despondency hanging over me. The weather, with its skies of steel, crisp winds, and driving rain, didn't cooperate one bit in shifting my mood.

My verbal tussle with Bamford on Friday had nothing to do with it, of that I was sure. The slimy bastard was gone for good.

I'd had no opportunity to interact with her after the official announcement circulated. I'd had no means of gauging how she was faring, if she needed my help, or if she would even accept it.

Because whatever happened to her, protecting her wasn't my job.

And I was about to leave. That had been the official excuse for today's brunch. I had a million and one things to do with a week and change before my exploratory trip to Ithaca. I'd tried to beg off brunch, but to no avail. I'd faced a double-pronged attack from my mother and brother.

My mother went for the guilt trip. "How often am I going to see you when you're busy with Cornell?" Esme Masen-Cullen had zero qualms in unleashing underhanded tactics, especially when her children pulled recalcitrant stunts.

My brother had been more cryptic, which was an anomaly in itself. Emmett had no propensity for being cryptic. But he'd been relentless in his urging, eventually going as far as mumbling, "You're gonna thank me later, bro."

For what, I had no clue. Time would tell, I guess.

So I dragged my carcass out of bed, showered, selected appropriate clothes—dark gray slacks, a forest green V-necked cashmere sweater my mother had gifted me for Christmas, and the gray peacoat she loved—and set off for my parents' and this ominous, mysterious brunch.

When I arrived, my father opened the door and ushered me in.

"You look better rested, Dad."

"And you still look like shit," he quipped back.

Where my mother had zero qualms in playing the guilt card, Carlisle had a knack for calling things as he saw them. Case in point, I did look like shit. I felt like shit.

"Part and parcel, Dad." I hoped the tone of finality in my words would prevent him from commenting any further.

"Well, son, part of it is your own doing." Or not.

"We've been over this. Please, respect my wishes," I urged him.

"I'm not going to stand idly by while you destroy a possibility of happiness with your pigheadedness, Edward. And that's my final word on the subject. But suit yourself," he hissed.

Then he walked away, leaving me there in the foyer like a child who'd been put in time-out. I guessed I deserved it. It was, after all, a disaster of my own making, but at this point, I didn't see a way out of it.

Before I dismissed the thought again and went in search of my mother to greet her, my father threw a last comment over his shoulder.

"Sunroom. That's where you need to be. We'll join you later."

Weird verbiage—why would I need to be in the sunroom?

Still, on autopilot, to the sunroom I went. And the sight I ran into once there stopped me stone cold in my tracks.

Isabella stood there immobile with her face toward the bay windows, her back to me.

I almost walked away. Almost. Somehow, an invisible tether tied me to her, and on that day, on that gloomy morning, I could no longer deny its existence and gave in to its pull that drew me toward her. To the one I longed for but couldn't have.

I reasoned the rest of my family would soon join us, so it wasn't inappropriate for me to be there alone with her. And for once, I allowed myself to bask in her presence, to observe her closely instead of denying myself.

She stood there, her lithe figure dark against a wall of mullioned glass. For a beat, the rain pelting on the windowpanes provided a steady, rhythmic cocoon of disjointed sounds that blanketed the silence between us.

My gaze roamed over her, and an errant thought struck me—our attire almost matched. She wore slate gray corduroy pants and a long, soft-looking woolen cardigan that hugged her figure against the cold. Her mahogany hair fell in luscious waves over her shoulders. Shoulders that appeared to be shaking minutely. And that was when, amid the racket caused by the rain, I heard it. She sniffled and sobbed, then caught herself, drew deep breaths, and tried to compose herself. I saw it in the determined set of her shoulders, in how she stood up straighter, unfurling her arms from around her middle and stretching them along her sides, rhythmically opening and closing her fists, as if she had nervous energy to dispel.

But just then, another heart-wrenching sob shook her, and she turned abruptly in my direction. Her hands covered her face, but I still saw those tears falling, marring her beautiful face.

"Bella …"

I couldn't stop myself.

"I didn't know you were here," she whispered. "I'll leave you to it."

Oh, no. I couldn't let her do that. I couldn't let her shoulder that sort of vexation alone. The tether that bound me to her wouldn't allow it. It protested the impeding separation fiercely. So, for once in my wretched life, I threw caution to the wind. She was more important.

"Please, don't leave. Will you stay?"

Her gaze darted around the room, almost as if she were looking for any sort of escape.

I didn't want her to think she had no alternative. No freedom of choice. "Only if you'd like, though. I'd love to talk to you, Bella; if you'll let me. Please," I entreated. I took a chance and stepped closer to her.

She averted her eyes again, looking away from me. But then she spoke unexpected, blissful words to me.

"Yes, Edward." She'd said yes to me. "I'd love to talk to you."

I motioned for her to take a seat on one of the fainting couches by the window. Yes, my mother had fainting couches. She collected antique furniture.

Bella complied—just then I realized she was no longer "Isabella" in my head. I took a seat at the other end of the couch, at a respectable distance from her. I didn't want to crowd her.

"What did you wish to talk about, Edward? Did we miss anything? For Cornell, I mean?"

She thought I'd pester her about work. She had a point—after all, I'd striven to keep our interactions aseptic and professional over the years. Now, it was coming back to bite me in the balls. Disaster of my own making.

"No, you didn't miss anything. It was all perfect, as usual."

"Oh. I see. Thank you," she replied. "Then what—"

"I know it's been a difficult week, Bella—"

"I didn't want you to know!" she protested. She looked at me aghast, tear tracks clawing at her cheeks, and an expression of disgust marring her face.

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want you to know that I'd … shamed myself that way. That he—that he would—" A new wave of sobs engulfed her words.

My tether to her pushed me again, and before I knew, I'd clasped her hand in mine.

She didn't recoil and appeared to calm down some at my touch.

"I just want you to know how proud of you I am," I told her.

"Proud? How? Why?"

She needed to know. I needed to tell her. Fuck the plans. Fuck Cornell. Fuck the rules.

"I've always been proud of you, you know," I began. "But I've never been prouder than this past week, especially with everything that's been thrown at you since that goddamn party. You've held your head high, you worked, you subjected yourself to an investigation that you knew would be intrusive—"

"But I didn't want you to know. How do you know?" she asked, terror distorting her features.

"Nobody outed you to me. I pieced it together. And I had to sit through an excruciating meeting that included details of what happened to you. I had a bad, nagging feeling at the back of my head."

"What gave me away?"

"Migraines. You don't suffer from migraines."

She gave me a small smile and wiped away more tears. "How did you know that?"

"I've observed you for a long time, Bella. I may not have always shown it, but I know all sorts of things about you. Your favorite color; how you take your coffee; your food allergies; how many credits until you earn your master's; your unflinching work ethic; the way your hair has crimson highlights in the sunshine; the sound of your laugh; the grimace you pull when you want to insult Emmett but hold back because you're in the office; how you keep a pair of flip-flops in your desk drawer to catch a break from wearing heels; how you listen patiently to Emmett when he's rambling about things you don't give a flying crap about; how you take time out of your busy schedule to volunteer at the shelter with my mother. Your kindness, your strength, your wit, your intelligence, your determination, your honesty, your unassuming beauty. I've seen it all. I've treasured it all."

I'd dumped the entire contents of my heart at her feet.

"You've never called me Bella before."

"You noticed, huh?"

She nodded. "Why now?"

"Because I don't have the strength to do this anymore."

"This?"

I clasped her small hand in both of mine before answering. "I don't have the strength to stay away from you anymore, Bella." I squeezed her hand, then flinched. I'd gotten ahead of myself. Assumptions would get me nowhere. "I didn't even ask. How thoughtless of me. Can I? May I touch you?"

She leaned her head to the side, letting her gaze roam my features. It was more than a speculative look; it was as if she were trying to see into my soul.

"Your touch I have no problem with, Edward."

I sighed, content at last. But I had to know. There were millions of things I had to know. "Why didn't you come to me, Bella?"

She was reluctant to answer; I could see that. "Because … because … I didn't—it's not your job to watch over me."

"But what if it were?"

Time stood still for a long minute until she spoke again. "What are you saying, exactly?"

"Allow me to speak plainly to you."

She nodded.

I gathered my wits and my balls and continued my long-overdue confession.

"I steered clear of you for all these years because—no, let me rephrase that. I've watched over you all these years, from a distance, because I care about you. Deeply. And yet I chastised myself for my feelings. I believed—wrongly, multiple people have told me lately—that the firm's rules conspired against there ever being a chance for us to be, to have more. And then there was the age gap. I thought—I thought you wouldn't want to be with someone like me. But I still cared about you. I still do. And I don't have the wherewithal to fight it anymore because, if there's one thing this wretched week has taught me, it's that I want to be at your side when life throws curve balls at you. What if it were my job to watch over you? Not because I have to or because an organization chart dictates it. But because I want to. Because I want to be everything to you."

She went wide-eyed at my admission, then freed her hand from my grasp. I flinched, thinking she was about to deal a deathly blow, but then she caressed my stubbled cheek. And her touch saved me from my self-inflicted misery.

"Edward?"

"Yes, love?" The endearment slipped out unbidden, and in that moment, I realized it was true. It was a bone-deep truth that imbued every cell of my being. I loved this woman. And I couldn't wait to tell her. Because now I'd have a chance.

"Why would you make all those choices for me? Instead of asking, I mean."

I couldn't suppress a snort.

"Why are you laughing at me now?" she asked. Her tone was diverted though, not piqued.

"Because I should have listened to my brother. Emmett called it."

"What, in particular?"

"That in my stubbornness I was making choices for you. Well, I will strive to no longer make that mistake, if you're agreeable."

"Can I start by making a request?"

Bella's former anguish had dissipated, leaving only her beautiful, relaxed features in its place. Her tear-stained cheeks had turned rosy again, and a giddy sort of anticipation danced in her chocolate brown eyes.

"Anything you want." She only had to ask.

"Sit closer to me, please."

I complied, scooting across the couch to her side. When I slid my arm across her shoulders, she leaned into my side, cradling her head on my chest. Slowly, tentatively, I pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, and my entire body became a live wire.

"Is this close enough? You'll have to tell me."

"To start with," she replied. She looked up at me and wound her arms around my waist.

I kissed her forehead, marveling again at the sweet shape, at the tantalizing warmth of her finally in my arms.

After another beat of silence that crackled with electric intensity, she spoke again. "Would the firm's rules really be an obstacle? And what about Cornell?"

I sighed and held her tighter. "Cornell—well, Cornell won't be forever. I committed to one semester, and I'll be traveling back and forth from Ithaca to Atlanta anyway. And no, the rules won't be an obstacle. I was being pessimistic and pigheaded, as I've been reminded of lately."

"I thought so. If they weren't a hurdle for Emmett and Rose, the same should apply to us, right?"

"Do you want there to be an us, Bella?"

"Yes, I'd like there to be an us. If you still want it, that is." She'd said yes to me, again.

"More than anything. We can make this work. Do you want to make a go of this? Would you go on a date with me, Bella?"

"Yes, and yes." She'd said yes, again. Twice. "But …" A grimace passed over her face as she uttered that last word.

"Something worries you, though. What is it?"

"I'm not proud of some things I've done. I'm afraid you'll be—"

I had to disabuse her of that notion, but something in her statement piqued my curiosity. Then I remembered that unlikely scene—Alice gossiping with Tanya, the other rumors against Bamford that popped up everywhere. More pieces of the puzzle fell into place. "I think I understand what you did. Those rumors, did you plant them?"

She nodded. "Yes. I had some help." Her gorgeous face took on an adorable apologetic expression.

I snickered. "It was a well-thought out plan. Believable. I blew a gasket at Alice for spreading them."

She smiled, but then frowned again. "I'm not proud. It was petty revenge."

"No, it wasn't."

The fucking bastard had attacked her and tried to besmirch her reputation. She'd not only reported him, but she'd also laid scorched earth around him. If he wanted to be remembered as the office stud, well—that ship had sailed. Now everyone associated him with wails and cries for his mom and an unidentified "Hercules." It wasn't the most mature way of going about things, but she'd taken back control. She'd fired back.

I lifted her chin with my finger and stared at her, unabashed in my devotion for once. Then I threw caution to the wind again and inched closer and closer to her until my lips captured hers.

She sighed into that kiss and gripped my sides harder. She, too, felt tethered to me. Her hands wove through my hair, and when she lightly pulled on it, I lifted her to sit on my lap. I needed her closer. I'd always need her closer. Freely, without prompting, with a wanton nip at my lower lip, she coaxed my mouth open until my breath mixed with hers, and the final shred of my restraint flew out the window. I cradled her face in my hands as my kisses grew deeper and bolder until the need to tell her gripped me, and I let her lips go, peppering soft kisses along her jaw as she nuzzled the crook of my neck.

"You feel it too, don't you, love?"

I felt her touch—calming and enthralling at the same time—on my cheek again and leaned down to look at her.

"I do. It seems wrong to deny it."

"God, you're so beautiful. I've been a fool, haven't I?" Why I'd denied myself for years, I couldn't fathom now that I knew she wanted me too.

We sat there, in contented silence for what seemed like hours but was realistically more like a good half hour. Those stretches of silence were interspersed with bits of disjointed conversation, still tentative touches, and more kissing.

At the end of one such stretch of silence, she poked me in the side playfully to attract my attention, which she didn't need to do—my entire sphere of awareness revolved around her.

"Where the hell is everybody? I was promised brunch."

"I have a feeling we've been ganged up on, my love."

"What do you mean?"

I smiled at her and caressed her cheek. I'd not stopped touching her. The tether wouldn't have it any other way.

"Well, who invited you today? Was it Emmett?"

Understanding dawned on her face. "The bloody nerve of that man …"

We laughed. His nerve had thrown us together when our own hadn't gone the distance. Mine, at least.

"I got a double dose of coaxing. First from my mother, then from Emmett."

"So we'll never hear the end of this, right? How it's all to his credit?"

I snorted. I felt liberated to the point that sedate reactions didn't belong with me anymore. "He can take the credit if he wants. As long as I get to keep you."

She kissed my chin, and her answering hum vibrated throughout me. She made it almost impossible to be a gentleman around her.

"You know, you never answered me earlier."

I frowned. We'd started a thousand conversations; I didn't keep track. I was too lost reveling in her closeness. "About what, my love?"

"You said that what I—what we did—wasn't petty revenge. That you understood why I did it. What was it, then?"

Oh, that. "You did it to correct the narrative."

The End

And for now, that's all she wrote. With this chapter, I mark Correct the Narrative complete.
This story originated from Ashley's Auction, and I brainstormed with Sharon Fulda over what she'd want to see in a story. She wanted it set in Atlanta and she was on board with an older LawyerWard. Then I posted in my group the meme that started it all, and Sharon let me ran with it.
I'm thankful for my team - betas, pre-readers, shoulders to cry on, and friends. Without them this story wouldn't be the same.
I'm thankful for my readers and reviewers.

There WILL be a sequel to this, because LawyerWard and Bella's story together has only just begun. They'll have plenty of things to learn to navigate together: Cornell, Bella's master's, their demanding job, shifting from a working to a romantic relationship, their respective stages in life, and so on. I don't know when it'll post because I haven't even begun plotting it.

I do know what is next for me. Details of upcoming story are below, and it will start posting sometime in January, after the holidays. So stick a pin in it, and watch out for your alerts.
Meanwhile, happy Thanksgiving, and/or Happy Hanukkah if you celebrate.

Behind the Ivories or, #EditorWard, or just #Ivories
Summary
A serious field accident ended Edward Cullen's career as a war correspondent six years ago, and left him with more scars than are visibile to the naked eye.
After a personal and professional betrayal uprooted her life in Europe, Isabella Swan has navigated a sexist and elitist industry by smashing stereotypes and glass ceilings everywhere, one concert and one social media post at a time.
They have nothing in common, until their worlds collide one fateful day for an interview that can't be rescheduled.
What kind of havoc will Isabella's appearance wreak into Edward's monotonous, solitary life?
OlderWard. PianistElla. Set in Boston, present day.