Isabella Cullen

19th April, 2014

When your husband has an affair, and is caught fucking a twenty year old, you are supposed to grieve the loss of your marriage. The wives are made out to be bereaved victims – victims of their husbands wandering eye. People look upon the wives with sympathy. That poor woman, they would say as she stands beside her husbands – her eyes void of the life they once held and her face stuck with a neutral expression. The wife was always the victim. And the mistress? Well, the mistress is a whore. Even if that mistress is a twenty year old; a child in everything but legality.

As soon as the news broke, Molly had snatched the remote from my hands and my advisors had swarmed my room. Pruning and preening, 'oh Mrs. Cullen you know what the media is like', they attempted to distract me from what I had just seen. They had all assumed that this affair was news to me – as if I didn't my own husband enough to know what he was doing when he wasn't with me.

Did they really think I had no idea? Did they really think I didn't know why he no longer slept in my bed?

The girl he was fucking was called Angela. She was a sweet little thing – long legs, dark hair, big eyes. There was an innocence about her that I once had, but as soon as I married Edward Cullen that innocence became null and voice. Angela Webber was the unsuspecting girl who had caught my husbands eye, and like all the others before her, she had fallen for his green eyes and velvet voice.

But I knew I had to play the role of the grieving wife; the wife that insisted that CNN must be wrong (like that was hard). I retreated to the bathroom for privacy, to which they all gave me sympathetic looks. While they assumed I was weeping for the loss of my marriage, I was really on my phone playing Angry Birds and ignoring the messages that were constantly being sent.

I exited the bathroom, red eyed and red cheeked in the hope that it would be convincing enough. I had always been a good actress; good enough that I had been married for as long as I had. Molly had gaped at me, her own eyes shining with unshed tears and I prayed to God that she didn't begin to sob while she was doing my hair. I couldn't be bothered to pretend that I appreciated her sympathy because I really didn't. It worked well in my favor, yes, but it was tiresome.

My hair and makeup took longer than usual, mainly because Molly was trying to distract me by talking about her husband and his regular fuck ups. As if Frank's drinking problem had anything to do with my husband having an affair with a white house employee. She dressed me in a grey dress with a complimenting coat. It was boring, mild and everything that a First Lady should wear. It was a politically correct dress for a politically correct woman.

The cameras followed my every step as I was led onto the runway, Paul flanking me and Sam leading the way. The sound of each picture being snapped reverberated through my ears as I came closer to the plane that was awaiting me. I wondered what they would say – what the headline would be in the morning. They would use these pictures of course, so I had to appear somber. Keep the sunglasses on, don't smile. Act like the wife who just found out her husband was fucking a twenty year old. Act like the woman your husband thought you were. Weak. Oblivious. Subservient.

"Mrs. Cullen," The Governor said, shaking my hand. "We appreciate you visiting our city. I hope you have a safe flight home, and between you and I, I hope you don't pay much attention to the media in the following few days."

I smiled softly. "I will definitely be avoiding the TV."

He gave me a sympathetic smile that said he pitied my existence. He thought I needed the squeeze of a hand, and reassuring words from a man I rarely knew. He thought I wanted to discuss who rode my husbands dick, as if he has any right to know my feelings on the subject. For all he knew, I was a grieving wife to a man who had betrayed our marital bed. But he was a man, wasn't he? Men feel entitled to the thoughts of others.

He said another few words, but they were too politically conscious to pay attention to. Being the wife of a politician meant that I lived in a world where bullshit was spoken as if it were a language. Men were revered as Gods, and as Gods, they lied. They made empty promises, and formed relationships based on manipulated truths. I knew more than anyone to ignore what they were saying. Men that think they're Gods are not to be trusted.

I continued on the line, my heart halting as my eyes took in the next recipient. Dressed in the same black suit I had torn off him the previous night; wearing the same crisp white collared shirt that I had smeared with my lipstick. If I moved the breast of his jacket, I would see the mark of my lips embedded in the cotton.

"Senator Black," I acknowledged, outstretching my hand. I swallowed, almost nervously, as his large hand – the same hands that had held me only hours ago – wrapped around mine.

My eyes met his, only to find a somber note hidden in their caramel depths. I was taken aback, not only by his firm grasp but by the fact that his usual grin was gone from his face. He was somber, and stoic, just like a politician should be. He, for just a moment, seemed like all the others, rather than my Jacob.

That was when I realized he, like the rest of the world, had only just learnt of my husband's affair. He was analyzing my features, from my grim stoniness to my glassy eyes. He was trying to work out what I was thinking beneath my performance. He was trying to determine if I knew, or if I was truly as distraught as I seemed. I wanted to reach out, and assure him that it didn't affect me, but I wasn't his Bells here. I was Isabella Cullen, the First Lady of the United States. I wasn't the girl he loved here.

That girl was left in the hotel room, and the boy she was with was left there too.

Or so I hoped.

"Mrs. Cullen," He said, almost pointedly. He wanted me to hear my last name on his lips – he wanted me to hear how he spat it, how he regarded it with such distain. "I hope you had a pleasant stay in Boston."

"I had a sleepless night," I said, my face free of any hint that my words were anything other than innocent. "But I was honored to be invited to your wife's brilliant event."

"She is a credit to Senator Black," The Governor said, smiling as he slapped Jacob on the shoulder. It had only been a few hours prior that Jacob had informed me, while his hands roamed my naked body, how much he despised the Governor.

"Or maybe Senator Black is a credit to her," I said, my eyes unmoving from Jacobs gaze.

The Governor laughed. "Such a feminist, Ma'am."

Such a misogynist, Governor, I thought, my mind going to the remarks he had made last night as he introduced his wife. If my memory served correct, he had compared his wife to a dog or some sort of trainable animal.

"I must be going, but I hope to see you all at the Correspondents dinner," I said, offering them all a clipped smile before I was led up the stairs. I lied. If I saw that Governor within a month I would shoot myself.

The whole flight was an hour and forty minutes of my advisors trying to soothe the situation. They talked about the media as if it had no shred of truth to it's name; as if journalism wasn't the crux that allowed democracy to work. It seemed so ridiculous, but I let them tell me that what they wanted. They wanted to believe that I was the grieving wife, and I became so the moment they began treating me like I was made of glass.

To them, I was a china doll in a warzone. But they were wrong. They were the china dolls and I the warzone. I was a storm of catastrophic damage. My mother had once told me that everything I touch is inadvertently changed after I do so. She liked to think that I was special – that I was born to her the mistake I was for a reason. My family wasn't religious, like Edwards was, but my mother believed in something. She had tried to convince me that there was something beyond what was here – that we were all here for a reason. I think she liked to tell me that so she could pretend she was something other than a teenage mother whose life amounted to nothing special.

And if there was something beyond us mere mortals, how could that not terrify my mother? Did that not simply mean that there was a high force that was so sadistic in nature that it wrecked sorrow and disease and death onto children? Did that not mean we were all in cage, being pulled by invisible strings like puppets in a play? The thought of God was only one that terrified me, as much as it should have terrified my mother.

"We're nearly there, Ma'am," Sam said, a soft smile on his face. Pity. He was pitying me.

"Great," I said, my voice low as I shrunk into my seat. It was undignified and not very First Lady of me, but I couldn't' find anything within me to act like the woman I was supposed to be.

It was raining in Washington.

The cameras were there to meet me, like swarms of flies. I had hoped, as soon as I saw the rain on the windows of the plane, that they would forgo this chance at photographing the pariah of the white house. I knew it was good for my cause, but I was exhausted; I was tired of pretending to be something other than what I was. And what was I? I didn't know. I don't think I've known in a long time.

I practically ran to the car, trying to avoid slipping in the rain as I ducked and threw myself into the limousine that was awaiting me. After having spent the past five years in Washington, it was still a foreign place to me. I think I had only ever considered two places home, and Washington was neither of those.

The house that I had inhabited for the past two years loomed over me like a scar on the blemishless surface of the earth. I felt my heart begin to pound against the confines of my chest, as if it wanted to be released from the cage it had been kept, as we came closer to the house – a certain anxiousness clawing it's way up my throat as I clung to the hope that I wouldn't have to see the man I married.

It was stupid, really, that I still got nervous over seeing him. His face still made my stomach churn; the way he addressed me still exciting enough to cause butterflies. He still had an affect on me, despite how much I hated it. I wished I was immune to the way he dazzled me, but alas I was as vulnerable to his charms as I was the first day I met him – the innocent girl of only twenty one.

Breathe, Bella, I told myself as my door was opened for me. You're his wife, not a stranger. You shouldn't be nervous.

The red carpet beneath my the heel of my shoe was what made me realize I was home. I knew it would only take a second for my husband to be alerted to my return, and so I bolted – away from the secret service, and away from the man I had married. My feet knew where they were going before I did, and soon enough, I found myself outside the room I occupied more than anything else.

I opened the door, my hand trembling slightly as I pushed it open. The sight of the yellow walls calmed me almost instantaneously, but I was still anxious enough to enter the room. And that was when I heard it.

Her.

"Mommy!"

I turned around, almost too late as my daughter embraced my legs – her tiny arms wrapping themselves around the girth of my legs as she buried her face into the side of my thigh. Her bronze curls contrasted with the grey of my coat, and yet as I turned to see her, I felt my heart lurch. I had convinced myself that I had found happiness with Jacob, but I was wrong. This was what happiness felt like.

"Oh, Beth!" I said as knelt to pick her up – my arms tightening around my daughters tiny four year old body. "How's my little girl, today?"

"Good, Mommy," She said, her voice muffled as she buried her head in the crook of my neck. "I missed you."

"Oh, did you now?" I asked, inhaling the sweetness of her scent. I tightened my hold on her as I closed my eyes, drinking in my daughters presence.

"Yes, Mommy," She said, pulling back as her large green orbs gazed at me in awe. "And so did Will."

"Did he, now?" I breathed, my eyes looking away from my daughters angelic face to see her nanny cradling her brother.

My son.

My breath caught in the back of my throat as I saw him, so beautiful and so healthy. He was nearly eight months now, and as soon as he saw me, his face split into a toothy grin. He began to wave his hands around, and squealed loudly – his voice echoing through the room as he reached for me. I carefully put Elizabeth on the ground as I scooped my son out of the Nanny's arms, holding him to me as I did to Elizabeth only a few moments prior.

My children were the one saving grace in my life, and for that, I will be forever indebted to Edward Cullen for giving them to me. Without my husband, they would cease to exist and thus I would cease to exist. Maybe I would still be Bella Swan, the poor college waitress with absolutely no prospects. Although I may despise the woman I have become, without Isabella Cullen I would never have had Elizabeth or William Cullen. They were worth the mutilation of my being a thousand times over.

I kissed my son's head, his brown hair sticking up in every direction and his identical green eyes gleamed with his happiness. My hand traveled my to my daughters back as I embraced her to, inhaling the scent of happiness that had consumed the room.

"Yes, Ma'am," The Nanny, Lauren, said with a small smile. "Elizabeth was at the window waiting for you to come home and William was difficult all night without his mother."

I smiled, nodding as I looked down at my baby boy. Oh, how much trouble you had been to get, I thought, my stomach lurching as I thought of how difficult my pregnancy had been. He was nearing a year old, and yet the thought of how he was brought into this world was still one that wrecked havoc on my emotions.

"Mommy, why were you gone?" Beth asked, her eyebrows furrowing.

"I was at a fundraiser, Beth," I said as I smoothed her curls. "I told you I was gonna go raise money for peoples hearts, remember?"

She nodded, her thumb slipping into her mouth. "Yeah, and Daddy said that too."

"Your daddy was here?" I asked, my throat tightening as I looked to Lauren.

"Yes, Mommy, he read me a story," Beth said, before pulling on my hand. "C'mon, I'll show you what Lauren and I made."

I smiled, being led into Beth's bedroom as I carried Will in my arms. Whereas Elizabeth was the spitting image of her father, Will was more like me. His brown hair, and dimpled cheeks were the only thing that convinced me, other than my memories, that he was my son. Otherwise they were both all Edward. Their green eyes were the same shade, and shared the same intensity that their fathers had.

Whenever I had envisioned my future as a girl, I envisioned three children with brown hair, and brown eyes. They would look like me, and yet they would have their fathers laugh. My son would be taller than me, but my daughter would be around the same height. They would be everything I had always wanted, and yet nothing I expected. And their father … well I never imagined their father. Maybe I should have.

Elizabeth had only just turned four, and she was more than I could have ever imagined. She was so smart – and I wasn't just saying that because I was her parent, and it was obligatory. Elizabeth was smart and funny and beautiful and whenever I saw her, the pain that I felt would seem so insignificant compared to the brightness of her smile.

I felt a knot form in my throat as I stared at my daughter, who was chatting away. She was oblivious to what her parents had done to each other; my sweet green eyed girl would never truly know how much damage her parents had inflicted. The shame that I would feel if ever my daughter found out that I had had an affair was enough for me to consider ending it, but I couldn't. Not with Jacob.

"Did you have a good night?" I asked as I sat down, gazing at my little girl. I could still remember when they had first placed her in my arms. She was so small; so fragile. Edward had told me I had given him everything.

She nodded frantically as she passed me her drawing. "Yes, Mommy, this is what me and Lauren made. See, here's you, and Daddy and Will."

"It's so good, baby," I said, my voice wrapped in excitement. "I love it."

She grinned, her dimples poking through her chubby cheeks. "So did Daddy."

"I'm sure he did, Bethy-Boo," I murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head before I heard the door opened.

And there he was.

The President of the United States.

My husband.

The TV never did him justice. Nor did photos. His bronze hair was greying slightly, but he hadn't changed since the night in the café. He still wore suits like he wore his ambition, and spoke with the same enigmatic edge. It was funny, but I think America knew my husband more than I ever could. Yes, he had told me every one of his secrets, and I the same to him, but they knew the man who wasn't the enigma. I had married mystery, and America had elected transparence.

He stared at me without the intensity he once had. The passion we had shared disappeared as soon as he was elected into office. I can't remember the last time he had told me he loved me. He was a stranger in my husbands suits. He was everything I had married, and yet nothing I had agreed to.

I didn't know President Cullen.

All I knew was my Edward.

And my Edward had died the moment he was elected into office.

"Bella," He said, his expression almost pained. "You're back."

"Yes," I said, my voice strangled. "I am."

"Can I talk to you?"

"Yes."