three

BELLA

Sitting in my small office, I stared at the couple in front of me, trying my best to keep my face neutral. The wife, a stylish woman with sharp cheekbones and an even sharper tongue, was leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed. Her husband, red-faced and visibly uncomfortable, was leaning forward, his fingers laced tightly together.

"I just think watching him fuck my friend would be good for our marriage," the wife said casually, as if suggesting they start a new workout routine.

I blinked. What?

"Excuse me?" the husband sputtered, his voice an octave higher than usual.

I managed to keep my expression calm, though internally, I was reeling.

What is wrong with people? I thought, the question echoing in my head for the millionth time since I started this job.

"Well, it's not like I'm asking him to sleep with someone random," the wife continued, her tone defensive. "It's Cheryl. She's my best friend. "

"Oh, that makes it better," the husband snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Let's take a step back," I said, holding up my hands in an attempt to diffuse the tension. "I want to make sure I'm understanding you correctly. You believe this will… help your marriage?"

"Yes," the wife said firmly. "It'll spice things up. Besides, it's not like it's cheating. I'd be right there. Watching."

The husband turned to me, his eyes wide and desperate. "That's cheating, right? Tell her it's cheating."

I fought the urge to bury my face in my hands. This wasn't exactly covered in any of my textbooks. Still, I drew a deep breath and leaned forward slightly, focusing on the wife.

"Why do you feel that watching your husband with someone else would improve your relationship?" I asked, keeping my voice calm and measured.

"Because," she said, her chin lifting, "maybe he'll learn a thing or two."

Oof. I barely hid my wince, the comment landing like a grenade in the room. I saw the husband's shoulders stiffen, his jaw tightening as he stared at her.

"Learn a thing or two?" he repeated, his voice low and tense. "So now I'm not good enough in bed?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," the wife said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm just saying there's always room for improvement. Maybe I'm just a little tired of faking it."

"Okay," I interjected quickly, sensing things were about to spiral. "Let's unpack all of that, Linda. You mentioned spicing things up. Do you feel there's a lack of intimacy or excitement in your marriage?"

She hesitated, glancing at her husband. "Maybe. I don't know. It's not like things are bad. They're just… predictable. Missionary is only fun so many times."

The husband sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't think predictable was a bad thing. I thought it meant we were comfortable."

There it was.

The crack in the foundation.

This was why I chose this career. Despite the chaos, the absurdity, and the occasional feeling that I was in way over my head, I drew strength from these moments—moments where the fractures in a relationship became visible, and I could start to piece them back together. I could fix them piece by piece, before they lost all hope.

It wasn't just about helping people. Repairing relationships gave me power.

Literally.

The stronger the love I helped foster, the stronger I became. If I don't do things to keep the surge of my power humming, it fades and I become just like the rest of 'em.

It was why I'd decided to pursue marriage therapy in the first place. College had been a blur of hard work and sleepless nights, but it had been worth it to get to this point.

Of course, there wasn't exactly a manual for what I am.

I'm Cupid—or at least the current iteration of Cupid.

My powers were passed down to me when I was born, and one day, when I die, they'll pass on to someone else. One day they just thrummed to life in high school as if they'd been waiting inside me. Although, I was always drawn to love. I'd get swept up in Disney films and Romeo and Juliet retellings.

It's not exactly smooth sailing.

There's no guidebook, no "Cupid for Dummies." Just me, figuring it out as I go.

And this couple? What a learning curve.

"I think we need to focus on communication," I said, addressing them both. "You're clearly not on the same page when it comes to your needs and expectations in this marriage. And while I don't want to dismiss your idea outright," I added, glancing at the wife, "I do think it's important to explore why you're drawn to it. What is it about voyeurism that appeals to you?"

She shrugged, leaning back in her chair. "It's exciting. It's different." She hesitated before adding, "And maybe if he saw how someone else does things, he'd—"

"Stop," the husband interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. "Just stop."

I reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "I understand how hurtful that must have sounded," I said gently. "But this is a safe space. Let's try to focus on understanding each other instead of assigning blame."

He nodded reluctantly, and I turned back to the wife. "Do you think there are ways to introduce excitement into your relationship that don't involve bringing someone else into it?"

She frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I don't know. Maybe."

And so, we began to talk. About communication. About trust. About what they needed from each other. Bit by bit, I could feel the tension in the room start to ease, the sharp edges of their words softening as they listened—really listened—to each other.

It wasn't perfect. It wasn't a magical fix. But it was a start.

By the time they left, I felt a familiar warmth blooming in my chest, a quiet reminder of what I was capable of.

Even when love seemed impossible, there was always a way to make it work.

The session had been exhausting. By the time the couple left, I was drained, but the lingering warmth in my chest reminded me why I did this. Seeing even the smallest glimmer of progress, of connection, was enough to keep me going.

Still, I couldn't stop thinking about the woman's comment.

I shook my head, muttering under my breath. "People will try anything but communication."

I glanced at the bag of clothes sitting on my desk.

Edward Cullen's button-down and joggers, neatly folded and ready to be returned.

The memory of our run-in earlier that week made me smirk. It had been a disaster from the start—coffee spilled all over me, his cold, dismissive attitude in his office, and the way he'd somehow made me feel like I was the inconvenience, despite being the one who'd gotten soaked.

And yet… something about him stuck in my mind. Maybe it was his intensity, or the sharp edge to his words that hinted at something deeper beneath the surface. Whatever it was, I found myself walking toward his office with a strange mix of curiosity and annoyance.

By the time I reached the Summit Airways building, I'd rehearsed a dozen versions of what I'd say to him. Something polite but pointed, a subtle reminder that not everyone was willing to put up with his attitude.

When I stepped off the elevator onto his floor, my attention was immediately drawn to the scene unfolding at the receptionist's desk.

The receptionist—a sharp-looking blonde with a headset perched delicately on her ear—was standing in front of her desk, talking animatedly to the janitor. She reached out, placing a hand lightly on his arm as she laughed at something he said.

My instincts perked up immediately. The spark was there, faint but undeniable, and I couldn't resist nudging it along.

Approaching the desk, I put on my warmest smile and turned to the janitor. "Excuse me," I said, lightly touching his arm. "Can you help me find Mr. Cullen's office?"

He straightened, clearly surprised by the attention, and nodded. "Oh, uh, sure. It's just down the hall and to the left."

"Thank you," I said, giving him a grateful smile. As I turned to leave, I shifted just enough to bump gently into the receptionist, who stumbled slightly but recovered quickly.

"Sorry about that," I said, though my tone was light and casual.

She waved it off, her cheeks faintly pink. "No problem."

As I walked away, I heard the janitor's voice behind me.

"Hey," he said, his tone hesitant but hopeful. "Would you want to grab dinner sometime?"

I couldn't help but grin as I stepped into Edward's office. One nudge was all it took.

The office was sleek and impersonal, much like the man himself.

He was seated at his desk, his focus on the laptop in front of him.

He didn't even glance up when I cleared my throat.

"I believe these belong to you," I said, holding up the bag.

He finally looked up, his eyes flicking to the bag and then to me. "Thanks."

"Oh, you're in a better mood. Fantastic!" I said sarcastically, stepping closer and placing the bag on the corner of his desk. "Feedback: Turns out even Calvin Kleins button up shirts can be scratchy. Not the material type I thought it would be."

His lips twitched, but the smirk didn't quite make it. "I'll pass on the criticism to Calvin when I see him next," he said curtly, already turning his attention back to his screen.

I rolled my eyes. "Well. Thanks for the clothes… even though I only needed them because of your negligence. Always a pleasure."

His eyes flicked back to me, sharp and assessing. For a moment, I thought he might say something, but instead, he nodded slightly and returned to his work.

As I walked out, I couldn't help but wonder why someone with all his power and presence seemed so determined to keep everyone at arm's length.

Well, everyone except me.

Because whether he liked it or not, I had a feeling this wasn't the last time Edward Cullen and I would cross paths.