I don't want to be here.

I sit back in my chair at the dinner table next to my husband, who hasn't acknowledged me since we sat down. Even then, it was only to pull out my chair, because Edward Cullen, though he may lack a lot of things, never lacks manners. His mother made sure of that.

My dress is too loose. I haven't eaten well lately. This shroud of loneliness that cloaks me has been affecting my appetite, but it hardly matters. I had a few pounds to lose after the small bit I gained after we got married. Happy weight, they called it. It seems almost comical now.

We were happy, though. Back when Edward was still in his 20's, back when I was a small town girl, new to the city of Chicago. Back before this life had corrupted me. Yes, when we first got married, we had been blissfully happy.

I'm only 25. My husband is 35. We've been married for two years, though we've been together for six. Already I feel like a ghost, like a shell of who I was before. I'll simply sit here, and play my role until it's time to leave. Like fucking always.

I grab my wine glass and look at my husband, who is eating and talking with his family. Smiling and joking like he always has. He didn't change with them - only with me.

It was never this bad - this distance, this avoidance. A year ago, it had started to seep into our marriage in small ways. The late nights. His failure to call and alert me to his whereabouts. Snapping at me when I ask questions. And the things that I let slide back then now made me angry. The smell of perfume on his tie. The lipstick haphazardly erased from his cheek. Even then, he had a smile and an excuse. "Babe, you know how these girls get around me. They can't resist. I had to have Em drag them out of the room. They know they can't have me."

No, it had never been this bad. Not until a little over two months ago, when everything became exponentially worse. Some days he wouldn't come home at all. Or he'd lock himself in his study through the night. Our sex, which previously had been plentiful and fiercely passionate, suddenly became sparse and dull. More often than not, I waited for his inevitable retreat before I would finish myself off. And that's when I finally allowed myself to consider the abhorrent thought that had been creeping into my subconscious.

He's cheating on me.

If you had asked me a year ago if I thought Edward would cheat on me, I would have laughed in your face. My husband may be considered the devil by some. He may make a living by doing some highly questionable things. But if there was one thing I would have been able to swear on, it was his loyalty. To his business, his family - to me.

But I couldn't escape these thoughts that now flooded my brain. And I couldn't bring myself to ask. I was trapped - leaving wouldn't be acceptable. Leaving most likely meant death. There's no way that these people would allow me to walk away, not knowing all the things I know. It would only take five minutes of my time to give the FBI their entire case against the people I used to consider a family, and that couldn't ever happen. They'd have to kill me. It was a situation that many women in my position I'm sure felt before.

It hadn't really bothered me, being the wife of a mafioso. Edward was a different man to me then he was to anyone else. Or at least he used to be. To anyone else, he was the man you didn't want to cross. The top of the food chain - if he was sent to deal with you, you most likely wouldn't see the sun rise the next day. And while he may not be the Boss, he was next in line. Il Principe. The Prince of Chicago. They cowered at his feet. To me, he was softer. Loving. Caring. Around me, he didn't have to be hard all the time. He didn't have to be ready to kill every second. He just had to exist.

In past generations, it wasn't uncommon for a mafioso to take a mistress or five. Even Edward's own father was known to keep extra company. Edward had laid next to me in bed, spewing hateful words on his father for having these mistresses, for making his mother suffer. He would tell me he could never do that to someone. When we first met, he would become absolutely livid if I ever doubted his loyalty. He would never, ever, cheat.

I snorted into my wine glass, and then froze, realizing I had done so out loud unintentionally. Edward glanced up at me for a moment, and I'm not sure what he saw, but it caused him to look slightly pained. Could he see the questions in my eyes? Could he see that I suspected? Would he put me out of my misery?

No. He simply looked away. Avoidance.

It wasn't long before he dismissed us from the table, telling everyone we would see them later. And like the submissive little wife that I was, I followed. I hugged a few other wives goodbye, I shook hands. I allowed Edward to slip my coat over my shoulders. And I sat in silence in the car.

"I have to go out of town until Friday," he said as we entered the parking garage of our apartment building. Luxury condos, owned by the Cullen's. The place was a fucking fortress.

"Where to?" I questioned mildly, not even bothering to look at him. We were parking.

"Brasil. I might not have good service. Probably won't be able to call much." Of course not.

"Alright." I agreed, and exited the car.

Once in the house, he retreated into our closet to pack, and I locked myself in the bathroom, emerging myself into a bath. I let the steam and the scented oils calm me, stopping the dormant anger from surfacing. My anger would only fuel his own, and I wasn't in the mood to fight with him. These days, we fight over stupid shit, saying everything except what actually needed to be said.

The next morning I awoke to an empty bed. I stared at his unused pillow for a moment before I found the strength to get up. My whole body ached, a feeling I had become familiar to. When I first met my husband, I was sore and exhausted almost every morning from our nightly activities. Now, my body ached like I had aged a hundred years.

There was a note on my nightstand, that I knew was from Edward. He always left one, even in this strange climate between us. I simultaneously looked forward to these notes, and dreaded them. I looked forward to the familiarity, this thing that he would do back when things were better. Now, I dread his words. Nothing he ever writes is what I want to hear.

Enjoy your week. I'll see you on Friday. - E

I sighed, and left the note where I found it.