Stephenie Meyer is the owner of Twilight
I just own some crazy ideas for her characters
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I swirl the scotch in my glass and turn my head towards the staircase just outside my library. I can't hear the tell tale rapid fire of the ridiculous heels I'm sure I paid a small fortune for. Nor can I hear the grumble of the whirlpool jets. I check the clock, 1:30 she certainly must be passed out by now. The way she came in, stinking of liquor, cigarettes and god only knows who she could not have been far from total incoherency. Not that she ever really is. I'll give her another half hour at least. It's not worth the risk.
I start the cleanup of my paperwork. Piles here and there, to review and already reviewed. One pile filled with problems and inconsistencies, yet another to throw into my briefcase and take back to the office. Takeovers are never easy or pleasant but the volume of paperwork on this one is sure to be the death of me. I could always just pass it off to the underlings. I would certainly not be the first to do so. But I just don't trust them. Not that any of them would be stupid enough to purposely cross me. The perfect mix of fear and respect I have built through the years is insurance enough of that. No, they are all too eager to please the boss that cannot be pleased, strive to meet his lofty expectations. And therein lays the reasoning for my distrust. It is still all a game to them, the money, the prestige the accolades. They are invested emotionally in one way or another. Selfishly of course, a bleeding heart has never remained on my payroll long. They remain consumed by the glory of the business and not the business itself. And that leads to mistakes, oversights and more work on my part in the end anyway. Trust is irresponsible, a weakness and thoroughly overrated.
No, it really is better this way. This is why I have earned my reputation. Cold, calculating, a machine, all distinctions I hold with pride. I worked hard for them. Spent my life consumed in my work. I am meticulous, dedicated and unstoppable. There is a good reason I was top of my class, rose quickly through the ranks until I was overthrowing the men that helped build me. I am the best. I always have been. I have an unparallel sixth sense of the intentions of my adversaries that has served me well. I'll be damned if I let something as trivial as trust in the underlings be my downfall.
I turn back to my laptop and check my inbox one last time tonight. Nothing so important it can't wait for the morning. I just don't have it in me to answer any more unnecessary questions tonight. The wait can be their penance for stupidity. I am just about to close my window when a new message pops up, another question on the Petersen file. At almost two in the morning? I add the underling's name to my palm. That will be one to watch. I can transfer him to my current team. Maybe I'll bring him on the next trip to Tacoma. Every employer wants a dedicated employee, but I am aware enough to recognize the same characteristics of myself when I see them. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Yes, he will be one to watch. Congratulations on your promotion Mr…….Mehta. Hopefully you are not dedicated enough to get yourself fired.
I switch off the laptop and toss it in the bag with my documents for tomorrow. I throw back the last of my scotch and slowly start up the stairs to my room. I take careful consideration to keep quiet by her door.
I start undoing my cufflinks before I reach the door, which is why I don't notice it had been left ajar until I was too late. I am overcome with annoyance when I see her red blond hair spilled out on my pillows. What the hell is she doing here? One of the cardinal rules: leave me and my things alone. Jesus, do I have to put up signs? I know she isn't that stupid. She is dressed in some ridiculous excuse for lingerie. Her breasts, that I also paid for are practically hanging out of it. I stifle a chuckle, like I would touch that even with someone else's dick.
I look over and see a wrapped box on my nightstand. Lord, what have I bought myself now? She knows how unnecessary this is. She knows it is only she that can be bought or have we not established that well enough? I wonder what she could possibly be after now. I snag the box off the nightstand and head to my bathroom, careful as always to not wake her.
Under the too bright lights of my bathroom, I open the medicine cabinet and pull out my Ambien. Hmm….one or two? Two am now, want to be in the office by six thirty. Meeting with Jensen and Schmidt at seven and with those two idiots I'm sure to need the allotted two hours to get through to them. Better make it just one. I don't want to be sluggish when trying to cram information into them.
I swallow my pill and pick up the box, unwrapping it as quietly as I can. It is a watch. April 24th I suppose. Breguet, she has done well this year. I remove last year's model from my wrist and leave it on the countertop for the maid. Surprisingly, most of all to me, Irina is one of the few people I can actually stand. A Russian immigrant, she is astonishingly well read and we have spent many an hour discussing the sad state of Tolstoy post translation. I'm not sure what exactly it is she does with the cast offs I leave to her. I suppose her husband must have a fondness for watches. A genuine collection not caused by an incredibly uncreative wife. I wonder what I got her this year. I'll have to email the brunette admin tomorrow. I hope she had sent something appropriate; I would really hate to have to fire her. She is punctual, professional and a lesbian so at least I never have to be concerned with an inappropriate relationship. Those admins are one of the banes of my existence.
I shower quickly and go to strap on my new watch before heading out to dress. I notice for the first time the inscription on the back. It is so small it is hard to make out.
Time and love
Are all we have
One never knows
when either will run out
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I don't love her. I never have and she knows it. So time is running out? Shall I keep my eye out for a hit man? Lord, that woman gets crazier by the day.
I sneak back through my room and head for our joint dressing room. I spare her one more glance. In the moonlight, her face relaxed and peaceful I can almost see the ghost of the girl I married. No, I never really loved her but she never loved me either. She loved the money, the prestige, the attractive man on her arm bringing her to all the places she wanted to be. And I needed a home life or at least the illusions of one. I needed a pretty girl on my arm to introduce to colleagues and throw formal dinners and holiday parties. We are a well matched pair in that sense. Ours is a marriage of nothing more than a compilation of shallow wants and needs. Well needs except for sex of course, not anymore. I don't share and she apparently does so that was the end of that. Not for her trying though. I think back to that lingerie. No thanks.
But in all the ways that matter, to me at least, she is the perfect wife. Even in spite of the breaking and entering. She leaves me alone for the most part. She occupies herself with her pool boys and my money. And, she knows exactly when to flash her very expensive perfect smile and drag someone else's wife off the sitting room. Best of all, she never wanted children. Thank god the two of us had never been cruel enough to bring anyone else into this. I'll have to make sure she did get a worthy gift at least.
I detour through the dressing room grabbing my suit for tomorrow and head for the largest guest bedroom at the end of the hall. I haven't been in this wing in quite awhile and am pleased to find Irina has everything perfectly arranged. I head for the bed. I can feel the Ambien making my eyelids droop and for the first time notice the collection of photographs on the far wall. I grimace as I take them in. I had told Irina to get rid of them after the wife had gone through the scrapbooking phase and placed them in my room.
One in particular holds my attention more than the others. I haven't seen this one in, oh lord, ten years at least. The three of us wear big, stupid grins on our faces. Our arms are thrown around each other as we lean on my car. The emotions on our faces… I have to think, try hard to remember. Without my permission, my feet carry me across the room to the wall. I pull down the one photograph and head back to the bed. I see …happiness obviously, camaraderie, and…hope? Is this what hope looks like?
I can't help but shake my head at that wasted hope. I curl onto my side with the picture and am holding it to me like I would have held them. I am struggling against the Ambien now. I feel my eyes close in spite of me. As I drift off to my dreamless, medicated sleep I feel the vague ghosts of tears down my cheeks.
The first tears I remember crying since I had left.