"220 Central Park South."

The driver looks at me from his rearview mirror and arches a brow behind dark sunglasses.

"You are Edward Cullen," he says matter-of-factly.

I sigh.

"Yeah, I am. So what?" I lean back, the faint smell of food lingering in the taxi making me queasy.

He shakes his head, a smug, judgy little smile on his face.

"Nothin'..." He averts his eyes and snakes into traffic without so much as a second glance in my direction.

The flashing red lights of the meter are the thing I focus on. It's an attempt to not look at my phone, to not think about anything Cullen-related. Except I fail when my phone screen lights up with an incoming call.

Mother.

I don't pick up but shoot her a text. I don't want this taxi driver eavesdropping on a personal conversation. He knows enough about my private business anyway judging by the way he said my name.

By the time we get to the building, I'm almost ready to surrender to the jet lag combined with the achy back and sore legs from sitting on that economy seat for forever.

"Keep the change," I mutter to the driver as I pass him a fifty.

He looks at me funny, the heavy iron-cast rings on his fingers catching the dim lights of the car's interior.

"If I were you, sir, I'd hold on to every penny you still had."

I don't even look at him as I exit the car and take my suitcase inside.

"Mr. Cullen." Roberto stands in his navy suit, his hands clasped together behind his desk in the lobby. He looks at me, a weird expression on his face that I can't quite place.

"Roberto," I nod. "Are they in?" I nod to the elevator while Roberto scratches his neck, his salt-and-pepper, chin-length hair gelled perfectly around his head.

"They are, sir. I'll announce you," he says, taking the phone. I hold up my hand, stopping him.

"No need. I bet they're expecting me."

The gold doors of the elevator invite me in. As soon as they close and I ride up to the thirty-second floor, my head bangs against the mirror behind me and I'm forced to look at myself.

I look tired, I need a shave, and my hair is in complete disarray from worrying all fucking day. Or however long it's been. I didn't really keep track.

The oasis of beige and whites, the Donald Kaufman paint that gets replaced every year staring me right in the face as I throw my suitcase in the hallway. My shoes clack loudly on the dark, wooden floors until I see silver satin over tanned legs in the living room sofa.

"Darling," Mother sighs.

She places her halfway-smoked cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the coffee table, tucking wayward strands of caramel hair behind her ear. Mother looks…older, somehow, her hair imperfect as she seems to float over the flooring in six-inch Stuart Weitzman's.

"Mom." Her slender arms snake around my torso, her perfume caging me in as she hugs me, then places her left hand on my chest. Her tan tells me she's been abroad, the platinum wedding set on her ring finger brighter than ever but she's got this tired look on her face, her usually bright eyes dull and…somber.

"What the fuck happened?" I ask her. "My card was declined, everything has gone to shit and I just flew fucking economy from fucking France." I don't usually lose my temper on Esme Cullen but today isn't exactly any other day.

There's another sigh and mother turns away on her heels, taking another cigarette as the old one goes to waste in the ashtray. She offers me a Parliament, and I take it immediately, patting my pocket for a lighter.

"You need to speak to your father, darling." She can't even look at me, her face turned to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking Central Park.

"Then where the fuck is he?" I ask through the billowing smoke.

Mother walks over to the bar cart in the corner of the living room, pouring two glasses of Rémy Martin, the rich amber liquid swirling into crystal tumblers.

She hands me a glass before taking a drag of her cigarette, her silk dress fluttering along her legs.

"He's in the study," she says, her eyes darting over my shoulder. "I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

"That bad?"

"You don't know the half of it." She swallows down half her glass of cognac only to look at the rest of the liquid and downing that too.

That bad.