Disclaimer: I don't own the Twilight Saga.

~Chapter Two~


I fucking hated waking. Slumber was such a peaceful place to stay in forever. But the heavenly vision of my wife greeting me as soon as I open my eyes always took my breath away, and every single morning, though knowing where she was the other night, fully aware of what she was doing behind my back, I still felt blessed that she always decided to come back for me to awake to her graceful presence.

Her angelic face still deep in sleep roused the memory of when I first met her. She was still as mesmerizing as she was back then, if not even more so. It's like her beauty increased by the minute. Never have I seen any kind of distorted picture with her looking like a mess. Always picture-perfect, always camera-ready, she was by far, in truth and reality, blessed with so much beauty that God must have punished her to live on Earth.

She didn't belong here. She deserved to be in heaven with the other angels lounging around up there in their cloud-filled playground. Even there, I bet she had no competition to her natural allure. She had sinned for being so exquisite. And now she was here. Lying next to me.

She was my fallen angel.

Trying to be gentle as possible to not wake her, I lightly brought up my palm to caress her cheek, blushing pink against her fragile porcelain skin. Tracing the curve of the puffy softness with my thumb, then trailing it along her lower lip, I sighed.

Why couldn't my angel just stay with me?

As a strand of blonde locks fell across the back of my hand, I whisked it back up; not wanting to lose sight of what was the most majestic radiance I was lucky to be bequeathed with.

I could lay here all day, just watch her until I see her fluttering eyelids open, meet the blue-violet hue of her eyes that was such a rare feature to all her glory, then be grateful as she'd bestow on me the loveliest smile I had ever beheld in my entire life. I'd end up showering her with kisses, taking in her presence and just drowning in it, silently thanking God for making her fall into my arms.

This was how so lost I was with her. My life was all about her. All I wanted was her. To have her with me. To make her happy for the rest of her life, until death do us part…

Remembering our vows that she now so unmistakably broke, something snapped within me and with an abrupt rush, I sat up. Terrified that I had awakened the sleeping beauty, I looked to my right. Through relieved to find her still asleep, everything suddenly came back to me. The past months, her behavior, the lies and deceit… and him.

Amidst the turmoil of mixed feelings, anger rose up, and with it, I left our chamber. Being in the same room with her was like suffocating from the harsh cruelty of her beauty.


Forcing my heavy eyes open, I was greeted with the breathtaking view of falling snowflakes, the first day for snow to fall on this November morning. Stretching underneath the thick, soft blanket surrounding me in pure fluff, a smile crossed my face. It felt like today was going to be a good day.

Turning to face my husband, my smile instantly faded upon finding his side already vacant. The past few days, Emmett's been distancing himself from me. That's how I figured he already found out about my adulterous behavior.

Sighing in defeat, I made my way to my bath and a few minutes later, as I sat in front of my vanity mirror and proceeded to smear make-up on my self-inflicted wound last night to conceal the ugly cut on my forearm, Emmett's voice coming from the doorway startled me, my body jumping, my hands clutching so tightly onto the edge of the table.

"You're awake."

Quickly trying to hide the half-concealed mark on my arm, I turned around to face him, a perfect smile plastered on my face.

"Yes, good morning, darling. I thought you'd wait for me last night," I replied, trying to sound as normal as possible, desperate to hide the surprise I felt at the sound of his voice, terrified by the possibility that he could hear my heart pounding erratically against my chest.

"The headache got the best out of me, I guess," my husband then responded.

"That's too bad. We could've had a little fun last night," was all I could think of saying.

A sudden cool temperature chilled our boudoir as I watched in the mirror's reflection how my husband crossed the threshold of our room, striding his way towards where I sat, his eyes never leaving mine. Soon enough, he was behind me, his fingers entangling in the damp waves of my hair, his fingers curling around them, and for a moment, I was unsure, but he might've pulled on my strands a little, for I felt my head tilt back a bit.

Seeing his body bend down, his head leaning forward, I could feel his cheek grazing mine, his face lowering, nuzzling in the crook of my neck, and the sharp inhale he took surprised me. Grateful that I had already taken my bath, erasing the trace of Edward's scent lingering upon my skin, I relaxed.

"Perhaps we can have some fun right now… What do you think, babe?"

My husband's whispered words rang through my ears, his hands lightly grazing against the bare skin on my neck, pushing my bathrobe off my shoulders, sliding it down my arms, until the half of the robe gathered on my waist, hanging loose, dangling off the edge of my seat.

"Such beauty…"

Alarmed at the tone of his voice, my body stiffened. There was a distinct amount of hatred injected in his speech as he uttered those two little words.

Hesitant but bravely meeting the gaze of my husband in our reflection, I realized that even he didn't know what exactly I was feeling, and a part of me died at the fact that I couldn't open up myself to my own husband, tell him that I felt incomplete, tell him how empty I still felt, that something was lacking in my life, that I couldn't figure out what was missing.

"The most beautiful woman in the world… and she's all mine…"

Another sharp tug on the strings ensnaring my heart caused my body to shudder. The guilt was gradually killing me.

"Aren't you?"

The question forced my face to become stoic. This wasn't the time to show him how I felt.

"Aren't you, sweetheart?" he repeated, his eyes glued to mine through the mirror's reflection.

As much as I wanted to look away, I couldn't. He still had that power over me.

"Yes, I am."

The lie was so blatant, and we both knew it.


Fingers tracing across the feminine lines of her collarbones, hands gently sloping down the curve of her breasts, until finally, palms cupping them gently, a light squeeze forcing them to take shape into my hands, molding them into such a perfect circular shape, her nipples already tautening with the slight caress of my fingers across the tightened buds.

Easing Rosalie into a sexual state was anything but difficult. She was a sex machine. Just the slightest provocation on her skin or any form of naughty verbal usage easily excited her. This was one of the things I loved about her.

The strawberry scent of her lotion after her honey-scented bath always gave her the impeccable scent of delectable delectation. Added to the vanilla perfume on her neck, with the floral fragrance of her hair, Rosalie was astoundingly a consuming mix of everything feminine. It always amazed me how she kept up all these little details intact. But after being raised the way she was, maybe now, it was all just second nature, and not at all a big hassle.

A light gasp touched Rosalie's lips, and I realized her breasts were utterly confined in my palms, my nails already digging into her soft skin. There was something about the expression on her face that triggered something within me. The light bending curve of her brows in confusion, her eyes slightly wider, her lips just an inch apart, and the more I pressed her breasts together, the more those sounds leaving her lips – a combination of pleasant surprise and confused pain – urged me on further.

Our sexual life wasn't at all the tame kind. Hard and rough, was what we both preferred. But never did I inflict pain on my wife, like my hands were doing on their own right now. Continuing the unforgiving claiming of her breasts, entrapping them in their rightful place, I watched Rosalie's mouth gape open in a silent cry of pain, and the sight of it made me drop my hands.

Feeling ashamed of myself for making my wife feel that kind of pain, I knew I should leave, but all I was aware of was the beating of my own heart, racing inexplicably, and the rush of adrenaline coursed through my veins, my anger somewhat resurfacing, until my hands dug down on her shoulders, spinning her body around until I found myself kneeling on the floor, forcing her legs apart with my hands, the heels of her feet resting upon my shoulders.

The heady scent of her aromatic flower was intoxicating, a definite signal that she was more than ready to be taken, accompanied by the sweet, tangy flow of her liquid honey spilling all over my finger pressing up against her entrance. Without further ado, plunging in two digits, I filled her. Watching my wife's head tilt back, her hands clutching the edges of the vanity table, her body tensing, her inner walls clasping my fingers, all I could think of was what a lying bitch she was.

It was absurd that during what was supposedly an intimate time between a married couple was nothing more to me but a way to remind myself that she was fucking someone else behind my back.

How did Edward do it last night? Was he using his fingers this way too? Did he fuck her from every position possible? Did he know what her favorite position was? Did he ever eat her out?

These disgusting thoughts encroached into my brain, infecting my mind like a disease as I lowered my mouth onto her nether lips, the petals beautifully parted, the pink flesh of her slit earning itself a quick lick of my tongue, grazing upward until a sharp suck upon the tiny ball caused my wife's body to shudder in delight.

Adding a third finger inside her, I knew Rosalie would find her climax soon. The moans filling the room reminded me of her talent, the exact reason as to why she became a concert diva. As harmonious as wind chimes, as high-pitched as a ringing bell, as smooth flowing as milk and honey, her voice alone had the ability to bring me to my now hardened state.

'She's fucking someone else.'

The thought revolted me, and in one swift push against the poisonous Medusa luring me into her haven of lust-filled temptations, I wiped my mouth quickly, my feet running away, far away as possible from the pain only she could bring me.

Feeling too rude to leave without a word, I choked out, "I'm sorry, I just remembered I have a meeting this morning with the all the head chefs at nine. It's eight forty-five, I'll be late. I'll try to make it up to you tonight, or maybe tomorrow, if you're busy tonight."

We both already knew her nights were spent in someone else's arms.


Too stunned to move, too confused to react, I stayed rooted to my spot.

What just happened? Is this my punishment? To be left aching for release?

Horrified at the realization, I suddenly felt disgraced. Pulling my robe around my body, my hand enclosing my quivering lips, my head bent in embarrassment to fall for his proof that he could still bring me to this state of arousal, still having the control over me and my body, though my nights were spent in another man's arms.

My tears of shame spilled from the corner of my eyes almost instantly.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…'

The iterating mantra stuck in my mind for hours as I was glued to my spot in front of my vanity mirror, where in the reflection, the pulsing organ inside my chest continued to beat despite the strings around it sinking further through the meat, the strings soaking up the blood red color of my sin.


Rushing to the garage, grabbing my car keys then driving off with no destination, all I knew was that I needed to get out of there. Clutching the steering wheel so tight, driving through the snow-covered streets, the restricting feeling in my chest, a certain invisible force crushing the uneven beating inside of me, gathered and fought through my will, the pain forming behind my eyes.

With all the strength I had, I forced them down. Forced those fucking pathetic drops of tears back. They were nothing but a disgrace to my pride.

How the fuck can I keep living under the same roof as that cheating slut? How can I just keep my calm during dinners, parties, or whatever nonsense she had to attend when all I can think of now is her body under those disgusting men who she spent a few hours with each and every night?

Slamming my hand against the edge of the wheel, then accidentally slamming it one more time against the horn, the blasted sound erupting forced me out of my thoughts. With my eyes ahead, I drove. And drove. For miles, for hours.

I couldn't go back home. That house back there was no longer a home to me. She no longer was someone I could call my wife.

This was too much. This had to end.


"Edward, can you come? Please, come over. I have no one else to turn to."

Through the receiver, I could hear Bella's voice in the background fade away into the distance. I assumed Edward was moving away from his wife as he answered.

"What's wrong, my lovely rose?"

With the gentleness in his voice, I instantly felt the need to cry subside, the ache in my heart slowly receding.

"Please come. I just need to see you. Please," I begged through the phone, desperate to find comfort in his arms.

"Rose, love, I can't leave my wife right now. She's about to perform onstage. I'll pass by as soon as I can, all right?"

The tears were returning. "I'll be waiting. Please, hurry."

"Hang in there, love."

Seconds turned to minutes, minutes turned to hours. A bright snowy morning turned to an overcast afternoon, snow falling steadily from the sky. Nightfall descended upon the city, the city's lights sparkling far away in the distance.

Hiding myself under my blanket all day long, I waited. Waited patiently for my lover to arrive.


Hurrying to open the main door, the sight of Edward smiling down on me naturally eased and calmed my erratic little heart.

Hands found each other, fingers entwined; bodies clung to one another, stumbling feet tripping due to hazy mind. Clothes shredded in a hurry, discarded on the floor, surroundings getting blurry, eagerly awaiting what's in store. Tumbling onto the bed, the heat of Edward's skin sinking into mine, only one thought was going through my head, his kisses tasted of Italy's sweet, fine wine.

Legs entangling, pulling close, two entities struggling, desperate to get their daily dose. Needing more friction, he lines up to me, with only vowels in my diction, he, without a doubt, hears me agree. Tentatively entering, immediately seeking for more, forcefully penetrating, both of us wanting and willing to be sore.

Words weren't necessary.

All we needed was each other, finding that shared pain that we could never disclose to our own respective partner.


The image of Rosalie's face crossed my mind. And out of nowhere, I was reminded back on how intriguing that new facial expression seemed to me. Was she pleased by the pain my hands caused her? Was that how Edward was fucking her? Fucking her while inflicting physical pain on her? Was that what made her go back to Edward every single fucking night? Did she like being handled like a mere sex object, used any way the guy wants? Was that how she wanted to be treated?

Trying to control another surge of anger swelling up within me, I was fed up with the ability to feel anything, knowing that only one thing can make me stop thinking of anything. Taking a sharp turn to the right, I was determined to drown myself tonight in the bottomless pit of a bottle containing the strongest alcoholic concoction ever made.


Empty. The void inside me grew each time I spent my nights with another man. And though I gained nothing from it, it was something I couldn't stop.

Feeling my lover's chest heave, I watched on as Edward's sleeping figure beside me stirred, slowly awakening to the unfamiliar surroundings that greeted him. This was the first time Edward has ever stepped into this mansion. He may have been bringing me home after our nights spent together, but he never went as far as entering.

I've never had a great relationship with my younger sister, Isabella. She's only been here once, and fortunately for me, I wasn't around when she was, while I've been in Edward's manor, her home after she got married to him eleven months ago, a dozen times, but that was no surprise because nearly all gala events were held at the Masen Estate, often hosted by Edward's great-grandfather who passed away two years ago. After Edward got married to my younger sister last year, to keep the memory of the former head of the Masen family alive, he kept on the tradition of holding the galas his great-grandfather loved hosting for his fellow socialites.

The Masens were the wealthiest folks in the city. They were one of the families who were known for "old money" since their riches was built long ago. Edward's late great-grandfather owned plenty of the lands that were bought out by rich men back in the day.

Edward himself wasn't one to grace social gatherings with his presence, so it was no surprise that not many, including myself, met him personally before he married Isabella. Every socialite though, of course, has heard of him, for his name, and sometimes his image, would be printed in the papers.

My relationship with Bella was so unpleasant, to the point that I deliberately offered to sing for two whole weeks in Hawaii for all the weddings held there, for half the price I was usually booked for, making sure that those two weeks clashed with their weekend wedding celebration.

I was that desperate to avoid being present in one of those days where I'd have to put a fake smile upon my face and congratulate that sister of mine with half-meant remarks and wishes for her happiness with her new husband.

The first time I met Edward was four months after their December wedding, in April, a few days after my second wedding anniversary with my husband. It took less than a week for Edward and me to find ourselves wrapped around each other.

"Your room speaks so much about you."

Edward's comment took me by surprise.

"You think so?" I asked, nonchalant.

He nodded in response.

"Very elegant. Just like you," he explained as he lifted his hand and brushed away a stray strand falling across my cheek.

Silence fell upon us and for a still minute, his green eyes bore into my blue ones.

"You should get going. Your wife will wonder where you are," I then broke the peace.

At that, a light chuckle erupted from his chest.

"You really never refer to her as 'sister,' do you?" he then remarked as the look on my face evidently inquired an explanation as to what made him laugh.

"I don't. And I doubt I ever will. She's brought so much shame to our family," I told him matter-of-factly.

It wasn't in Edward's nature to intervene in my broken relationship with Bella, and so, he said nothing. I watched as he picked up his clothes, watched him get dressed then led him to the main door, his lips planting a kiss on my neck, almost making me want him inside me again.

This was how our affair worked.

When one needed the other, we always made ourselves available, knowing that in each other, we could lose our selves, lose our minds, lose our worries, our thoughts, for the few hours we spent together, making every day a little more bearable and livable.


Fumbling through my pockets to find the goddamn key to the door, then stumbling my way inside, fingers toying with certain switches for the damn light, my mind drowsy as hell, I forced my body to stay still in one spot, my hand hitting the wall to stop the world from keeping on spinning.

Deciding that the lights were a terrible idea to the sensitivity of my eyes, I found my hands tapping on the wall, trying to find those damn switches once again, but the iridescent shine of gold rays crossing my vision stopped me dead in my tracks.

There, beside the vase of red, blue and lavender roses were three rings that I could recognize anywhere, anytime.

The first was Rosalie's gold wedding ring, a perfect match to the one I was wearing on my left ring finger. Second was her engagement ring, the garnet stone shining with the help of the golden light from the chandelier splaying across it. Third was the matching wedding band that was around Isabella Marie Masen's left ring finger.

Sobriety replaced drunkenness, and out of every emotion drowned in alcohol, fury spat out of me.

Snatching the rings from the table, then stomping off to our room, confusion settled in as I found our bed empty. Seconds passed until my feet propelled me to my wife's room. Thundering knocking came from my fists, and without waiting for permission to enter, my body barged into the room, and I found my wife, waking up, her hands pulling the blanket to cover her nakedness underneath.

Her mouth opened in protest, but before words could leave her lips, I heard my own voice boom loudly, "Don't you at least have the fucking decency to cover up that your lover was here?!"

With that, I tossed the rings aside, hearing them bounce off the walls, and as Rosalie watched the rings scatter on the ground, horror-struck expression crossing her facial features, I wanted nothing more but to bash her head against the floor.


Screaming. I was screaming so loud inside my head. How could Edward and I just forget all about our rings? It was part of the process – to take off the rings that reminded us of the commitment we made to a person who we were cheating on and to put it back on when we were done.

My eyes wandered back to my husband, whose deathly gaze marked every inch of me, freezing me to my bed, disabling my body to move an inch from where I sat. Before I could take a second look at the rings that long stopped bouncing off the floor, I felt my body being crushed, pinned down with the strength of his on mine.

"You fucking whore, you're a fucking whore."

His words penetrated my whole body, the name that he called me etched onto my skin, marking me as nothing but a slut. His hands wound into my hair, and with a sharp tug, my head fell back, and I forced my mouth shut, cutting off the gasp that found its way past my throat.

"I know what you've been doing behind my back, but disgracing my great-grandmother's home is taking it too far, Rosalie."

The use of my whole name took me by surprise. He never called me that unless he was absolutely raging with anger.

"How did he do it? How the fuck did he fuck you, Rosalie? Tell me, goddamn it! How did Edward fuck you last night?!"

At the mention of my lover's name, I thrashed against my husband, the sturdy form of his body not at all affected with the pathetic little stabs of my fists against his chest. The sheet between our bodies was yanked with one swift pull, and the roughness of his clothes scraped against my bare skin.

Before anything else, his hand slipped between the V of my thighs, and his fingers broke through my entrance with such vehemence that my legs desperately thrashed around his hips, my feet trying their best to kick him out of my way, my hands clinging onto his shoulders, my nails scratching, frantic to get him to feel enough pain to the point that he'd get off of me.

My husband's lips lowered to my chest, and the painful claim of his teeth, unmistakably leaving marks around the tautened peak of my breast evoked a jarring scream leaving my mouth, the surprise and horror to this violent husband of mine wildly running through my thoughts, until his teeth clamped down on my nipple, tugging on it roughly, the excruciating pull forcing my hands on his head, pushing him away from me with all the strength I could muster, only to find the bed under me shake as the entirety of my body slammed down against it, my wrists caught in the tightness of his grips.

The anger in his eyes ablaze with such intensity that was petrifying, I stilled, hoping that if I did, he'd stop this at once.

Yet he didn't.

Dragged from the bed, my body slammed into the wall, his own pressed up so hard against my back, it didn't end.

His fingers painfully pinching down on my nipples, the hardened peaks screaming for mercy, begging, pleading, crying to be freed from the viciousness I was kept under. A hard smack then crossed my bare bottom, and it wasn't like any of our playful spanking in bed. It felt too ferocious, like all his anger could only be lashed out in this manner.

His hands grabbed me, tugged on my hair, pulled on my skin, fingers pinching, squeezing, teeth biting, nails scratching, marking, the pain wasn't even close to its finale.

And that night was only the beginning of what turned out to be his form of punishment for me.

"Emmett, stop it!"

Pushing, forcing itself inside me, I felt myself split in two, the hard virility of his pride as a man penetrating me, parting my inner walls with his incredible thickness, filling me until I was completely invaded, his very tip hitting my very top.

With my hands pinned above my head, my forehead resting helplessly against the wall while my husband took me against my will from behind me, I cried silently, my heart aching at the thought that this relationship was now permanently damaged.

'Was this how our relationship would be from now on?'

Thrown across the room, my back hitting the hard solidity of my desk, I found my hands clinging onto my husband, my consciousness battling the fact that I wanted nothing to do with him with the aching need for release that my body begged for, so as pathetic as it felt, I wanted him to bring me to my state of nirvana.

The sudden empty feeling replaced the sense of loss as he swiftly pulled out, disappointing me for a minute, only to be replaced by painful pleasure as his hand repeatedly slapped against my clit, his fingers so rough as they played with the sensitivity of the bundle of nerves, until he forced his way inside me once more in one unforgiving shove, gradually increasing his tempo, slamming inside me with such hatred that stung my skin, like a poisonous fog that ate away at my flesh.

Finding myself on the floor with a loud thud of my body against it, my husband's hands and actions turned brash, harsher and hurried, even his heartbeat sped up, his uncontrolled anger fuelling his movements, the powerful sinister curses under his breath louder, and only a few seconds later, his body stilled and I received his hate through the liquid he transferred into me.

Not even taking one look at me, he left in silence, leaving in his trail the echo of the door slamming behind him, which made me cringe in fright.


That's what I felt after he left me on the floor, my heart aching and bleeding even more from this punishment of having even my husband treat me with such brutality that made me feel nothing but empty. But I couldn't blame him. It all started with me. If it weren't for my infidelity, I wouldn't be in this humiliating position right now. Still, the shame I felt made me go deeper and further into my grave, where I lay dying, buried alive with all the sin I've committed.


Author's Note: Please do leave a review... I'd really appreciate it…