Edward

I've tried a lot of things in an attempt to make me feel like me again. A shit-ton of things. Only to come to the pathetic realization, that there's nothing here for me. There's not a single thing in life that gives me any excitement anymore. That, at thirty-eight? That's a fucking blow to the fucking head. I never thought I'd be this lonely at this stage of my life.

I only find happiness in the warmth the smile of my son brings. I find it in the fruit-sticky fingers as he reaches for me and favors me over his mother even though she's home more often than I am. She's the one spending more hours with Clive. Yet he likes me better. One might wonder why that is, but I don't have to. I know the answer.

Vera begged me to quit her full-time job in the city to go for a part-time position at the local school here, under a sweet deception. It was a blatant lie. My wife lied. She told me about her desire to spend more time with her son and be a 'legit housewife', as she called it. But fuck. My boy has had more babysitters, nannies, and 'visits' from her family than I can count. And that habit hasn't been broken even though we moved to the ninth circle of hell: Suburbia, as per my wife's request. She moved us out here to hell, and it made me live in limbo.

This move was supposed to help the two of us connect, since we let therapists and friends get to us. Everyone blamed the relationship struggles on one thing: the big city made us grow apart. I almost snort out loud when I remember that conversation with Vera.

Now I commute by car instead of on foot. Now I live fifty fucking minutes away from the office instead of a brisk fifteen-minute walk. Now I despise myself even more.

I hate what's become of me.

Money and prestige are the only things I chase to the untrained eye. And the only ones chasing me? Well, those mostly come in designer skirts and ditto shoes. I used to chase passion and follow my dreams and my wants. Now, I just check all of the boxes that fit my stereotype. I'm sick of it.

Take my wife, Vera, for example. We met through our parents, of course, since my dad has a few partners at the law firm who all conveniently have daughters lining up to marry into the Vass family.

It was okay, a mediocre marriage with tons of social outings. It was 'okay' at best. Until our son was born. Then it all went to shits. Vera felt 'trapped' and 'underappreciated', even though nothing changed. Nothing changed, except for the additional few hours our housekeeper worked, or the nannies my mother frowned upon. Vera keeps insisting that her life is worse than ever before. Even though I've made as many arrangements as I could to meet her expectations halfway. I'll never do enough for Vera.

It's safe to say Esme Duchateau-Cullen didn't approve of my darling wife in the way my father did. Mom and Vera weren't particularly friendly even before Clive was born, but witnessing the kind of mother Vera was put my wife pretty high up my mother's shit list. Whenever I feel bored and crazy, I put my mother and my wife in the same room and watch them engage.

My mom will try her very best not to sprinkle too many French curses into her dialogue, because she won't ever raise her voice in the presence of her precious grandson. And Vera tries her very best to sneer at everything my mother says. Hell, she'll even roll her eyes at the way Mom looks at her. It's better than going to the Zoo, honestly. And reprimanding Vera afterward is fun, too. She doesn't get why she should respect my fucking mother. She has no respect for anyone, I think. Then we'll fight, she'll try to come onto me wearing lingerie I paid too much money for, and I'll fuck Vera a little too hard for her liking. It's a cycle. But I've gotten bored with it. Vera can't get her way like that, anyway. She never could change my mind using sex. The sex isn't good enough for that. She's too vanilla for that. But Dad said: "She's a wife, Edward, and you're almost thirty. Time to settle down. Those clubs you hang out at won't do you any good in the long haul."

I don't even know how my fucking father found out I was a regular at fetish clubs downtown. But then again, I don't think there's anyone in New York City who doesn't know Carlisle Cullen. He's like a god. He sees, hears, and knows everything. So he conveniently introduced me to his most prestigious partner's eldest daughter, Vera Brown, at the firm's Holiday party. The rest is history.

I feel something odd slash through my venomous thoughts like a ray of light through a thunderous sky. It's something other than the sun beating down on the back of my neck or too-thick cotton sticking to my skin.

Frowning against the sun even through my shades, I adjust my cap on top of my sweaty hair. I'm being watched. But not in a horror-movie type of way. I feel the left corner of my mouth perk up.

A ponytail disappears around the corner as I whip my head around.

A chocolate-strawberry sundae fucking ponytail.

Something flutters inside my stomach. Excitement.

If there's anything I like in life, it's a hunt. One where I'm the hunter, seeking out the prey. But it's been almost a decade since I've let that beast out of its gilded cage. This feels different, though. As if it's the other way around as if a baby deer would dare to creep up on a lion. Something awakens inside me, something I thought had died in its slumber all those years ago. But no, it's not dead. Instincts don't die, after all. No, it growls.

As if I'd let myself be chased.

Speeding up, I take the shortcut through the little gravel pathway, cutting off the sidewalk of the entire street before I round the corner. There I see the little mouse that was so desperate for my attention.

The richest of dark mahogany hair melts into hot pink tips, strapped high on top of her head, ponytail swaying with every breath she takes.

She's sitting on the curb, arms behind her, chest heaving underneath indigo spandex, long legs bent at the knee, encased in biker shorts. Her smile is devious, while the frills of white socks that peek over her sneakers are so overtly sweet, as sweet as the batting of her lashes.

But as she flashes a gorgeously devilish smile at me, her lips glossy and pink, I realize just what she is.

Trouble.

Trouble in the most beautiful packaging I've ever seen.