Again: Chapter 1

Characters belong to SM and any films, songs, recognizable places, etc. belong to their respective owners.

(This whole story is told from Bella's POV, unless otherwise indicated.)

Chapter 1

Chicago, October 2012

"What are you doing here?" My words are icy daggers meant to penetrate every part of his heart
not already hardened. When he doesn't answer, I fold my arms over my chest and step out from
behind Alice's desk. "Is this some kind of twisted joke?"

A familiar fire comes to life behind his eyes and if it weren't for the hard edge of the desk under
my bum, I'm positive my knees would buckle and I'd be a pile of twisted limbs on the floor.
"Hello, Bella."

Two words … spoken in a gravely voice and accompanied by the softening of his features, and I
know I'm doomed. It's been ten years since I last laid eyes on him. Ten miserable years, most
of which I spent in a loveless marriage, while he went in and out of rehab, doing god only knows
what between those stints. I'd had ten years to heal, yet every one of my wounds still felt fresh.

I'd learned a few things in those ten years; however, and the single most important lesson is
how to love myself. I deserve better than Edward Cullen. I will not give this man the opportunity
to break my heart again. I repeat this mantra in my mind like it's futile, the force will shift, the
earth will quake, and mountains will fall, if I fail to take these words in and act them out.

"What are you doing here?" I repeat. I'm not interested in making small talk. All I want is for
him turn his well-dressed, only-getting-more-delicious-as-he-gets-older, self around and march
right back out the door.

"I'm supposed to meet with Alice," he explains, running a hand through his always-unruly hair.
His other hand goes to his hip, pushing his suit coat back and giving me a preview of the dark
blue dress shirt beneath. I don't miss the way it hugs his torso, or the definition beneath it.
Taking note of my silence, he continues, "She's showing my newest collection. I'm dropping the
pieces off. Bella, I—"

"You're Masen Edward?" I throw my hands up in the air before fisting them in my hair. My heels
click loudly against the floor as I begin to pace. "Perfect. This is just fucking perfect. Did you
know I work here? How did you figure it out?"

"Bell—"

"What are you even doing in Chicago in the first place? What happened to your, 'I'll never leave
Minneapolis if my life depends on it' attitude?"

"I—"

"If you think you can just waltz in here, looking like a movie star and—"

"BELLA!" He shouts this time, not out of anger, but in a way that's meant to capture my
attention. I sink back down onto Alice's chair, thoroughly exhausted though I've only been in for
an hour. Once he realizes I'm going to stay quiet, he speaks again, his tone soft and dulcet. "I
live here now. In Chicago. It's a fresh start of sorts. And this … this is my first showing since …
well, since you." He looks down at his feet and slips his hands into his pockets. "I want to
answer all of your questions, Bella. Perhaps you'll join me for a cup of coffee and we can talk?"

My stomach twists as unshed tears burn behind my eyes. The hope in the voice of the man that
stands before me is endearing, but all I can think about is the boy he used to be; the boy who
captured my heart and kept it in his pocket while giving his own over to a substance that I just
couldn't compete with.

I clear my throat, trying to get some of my composure back. I need him to leave before my
entire day goes to shit. "I can't do that." His eyes fall and I have to resist the urge to step
forward and dance my fingertips across his cheek. "You can bring the pieces in here and I'll
make sure Alice gets them."

"Bella—"

"I have an important buyer coming in at one and I need to pull a few pieces for him to look at."
I pull my laptop toward me and get my game face back in place. Edward says nothing, but I can
feel his eyes on me for another minute before he finally turns and heads out the office door. He
returns moments later, carrying a large canvas bag. Two men follow him, one of whom I
recognize as a popular artist agent, bags in their hands as well. They make two more trips,
lining all the bags and two larger wrapped canvases up against the wall.

Edward is almost all the way out the door when he turns to me once more. I grab my phone and
pretend to dial a number. "Good luck with your showing," I mumble, holding the device up to
my ear and looking down at the top of my desk.

"I'll see you around, Bella."

When I glance up, he's gone. I drop my phone on the desk and lean forward, curling my arms
over my stomach and tucking my chin into my chest. The tears, I've worked so hard to hold
back, begin to fall and, just like that, half of the wall around my heart—the one I've spent the
past ten years constructing—turns to dust.