Hi everyone, final post of Part 1! I'll be back with Part 2, but not until I finish it, so I won't be on here for awhile. Thanks for reading (: xoxox

I decide to email Edward the next day. I've been sitting in my office staring at my computer all morning, unable to concentrate for more than ten minutes without thinking about him.

Hi Edward, I begin, and then sit blankly looking at my screen, not sure what to write. Finally I finish simply, Would you like to meet? Bella

His response only takes a couple of minutes. My email bings and when I look at my inbox my heart skips about three beats.

Tonight. Will you come over? I can pick you up from work.

My heart races in anticipation. The barrier of self-control that I've built up has been getting more frayed and threadbare every day. Now that I've decided to see him the gates are flooding, leaving an insatiable need. Even if it's only for one night I can barely wait, I'm already fantasizing about his skin pressed against me, his lips brushing - no cross that - crushing mine.

I have to drop something off first, I'll come over after.

I wait, knowing he'll write back.

As you wish. xxx Edward

I take a cab to Edward's since it feels safer than the subway and it's already getting dark. The closer I get to his apartment the more nervous I am, the butterflies, anticipation and anxiety all muddled together in my stomach. I can't sit still and I fidget with the hem of my dress, rolling the soft fabric back and forth between my fingers. It seems like an eternity later that I arrive at Edward's building.

Standing in the doorway, it feels like the first time I saw him across the bar from me. Even though we've been so intimate since then he's just as mysterious and even sexier than that first night. He's in slim faded jeans and a thin grey shirt that clings to every muscle. Slightly dishevelled hair and bare feet make him look uncharacteristically casual and surreally hot. During the time we spent together I got accustomed to how beautiful Edward is, seeing him right now the reality is hitting me full force and I'm overwhelmed by the way his eyes are travelling over me.

"A week felt like a very long time," Edward says, "I've missed you."

I step toward him and am instantly caught in his embrace, his hands twine in my hair and he's crushing my lips just like I've been fantasizing all afternoon. I'm lost at sea, dizzy and breathless. He picks me up and I wrap my legs around his waist, glued to him, desperately wanting to be closer. He slides me onto the entrance table and I feel something move, then a loud shattering crash. I open my eyes to see shards of a blown glass vase scattered all over the floor.

He pushes me back against the wall, kissing my neck until I'm tingling. Fisting his hair in my hands, I pull him back to my lips, our tongues tangling together in a desperate battle only I want to be a prisoner of war, captured, consumed, fucked anyway he'll have me. I fumble with the button of his jeans as he runs his hands up my thighs and under my dress. He's slick under my hand, I feel a surge of power as I grasp him, he groans as I slide up and down his shaft, sweeping my thumb over and around his tip. I wriggle closer to the edge of the table needing him inside me, I rub up against him and in another moment he's brushed the thin lace aside and slides into me. I wrap my arms around his neck clutching him tight, moaning in pleasure every time he enters me until I shudder.

Edward kisses me once, twice, then scoops me off the table, gingerly stepping around the shards of glass. Once we're clear, he deposits me so that I'm standing before him. "How was the Hamptons?"

I shrug. "You know, anniversary party."

"And you went for the whole weekend. That's quite a party."

It dawns on me with slow satisfaction that he's jealous. It pleases me so much that I wonder if I'm a nice person at all. "It was. They have lots of friends and like nothing better than a big celebration."

"You stayed in a hotel then, since there were so many guests?"

"Oh no, I have my own room. Right next to Jacob's."

"Cozy." I can practically see the heat rising from Edward's tense and coiled body, his reaction is gratifying. After his soul-crushing lack of honesty I feel entitled to a bit of requital. "Anything I should know about?"

"We did the usual - bonfires on the beach, Spin the Bottle, late night talks. Anything juvenilely entertaining really."

"I'm confused, you played Spin the Bottle at the anniversary party?"

"Just those of us who kept drinking. That was later, at the bonfire on the beach."

"So you kissed Jacob during this game."

"And Emma too. Both were nice, but I think Jacob had far superior skills." Edward continues to stand still, looking down at me. I add anger to the list of his possible emotions, but I stare unflinchingly back at him, refusing to be the first to look away.

"It's a very good thing I trust you."

"Yes, well, it's too bad I can't trust you."

Edward hesitates for barely a second before wrapping my stiff form in his arms, it's the most impulsive gesture he's made, he's holding me tightly like he's not sure what to do.

"Will you come with me?" he asks and I nod.

We walk up the stairs, making the same trip to the roof that we took on our first date. Before I'd known that this was where he lives, before I'd known anything about him, before the small details I had thought I'd learned were washed away. This time I'm not frightened about what he has in store for me, physically I feel safe, with my palm engulfed in his warm hand, the light pressure of his firm clasp reassuring. My heart is another matter, it's only taken a few short weeks for Edward to find his way inside. So I guess I am still scared, scared of having to stitch my heart up again.

The rooftop is sparkling with a million strung lights, they're climbing up the trees and covering the bushes that are dark shadows in the moonlight. In the middle of this twinkling forest is a four-poster bed wrapped in a thin mesh curtain, the translucent sheets of fabric gathered at the corners. A breeze catches the edges, and the light illuminating the gauze makes it shimmer a soft blue, ghostlike in the dark night. Whisking us away to a dreamland of Edward's own creation. The magical beauty of it is exactly something I would guess of Edward, somewhere high up, under the stars. I smile to myself, maybe I do know him a little.

"I'm going to take this off," he says, fingering the hem of my sleeveless dress. "No one can come up here, it's just the two of us."

I nod mutely and he unzips the back slowly so I can feel the slight tug all the way down, he slips it off and lays me out on the bed. I gaze up at him under the soft glow of the twinkling lights that have lit up the New York night with a million impossibly bright stars. To be in bed, hundreds of feet up in the air, it really feels like we're in the middle of the sky, in the middle of the milky way. With my hair fanning out around my head I feel like a sacrificial offering to the gods.

"You have a huge thing for stars," I say softly.

"I have a huge thing for you. And I enjoy the stars because they make me feel like the world is full of infinite possibility. All the things we know and don't know and are still searching for, that's how you make me feel."

He joins me on the bed, his golden body stretched out beside me. "This is how you make me feel. Like I'm on the top of a building in the middle of the brightest, most spectacular version of my life."

The mood has suddenly turned serious, it's a thick blanket settling around us. Lying here in bed undressed, simply looking at each other, feels frighteningly intimate. I tentatively raise my hand and explore his chest, completely fascinated by how perfect his body is. I look up to his face, his head is propped up, resting on the palm of his hand, and his eyes are fixed on me. He doesn't even seem to notice my trailing fingers. I have no idea what he's thinking about as he stares unwaveringly at my face, and my hand falters and drops to the bed under his gaze.

"Why did you stop?"

"I didn't realize you were enjoying it," I stammer.

Edward wraps his hand around the nape of my neck, drawing me toward him. "Never mistake how much I want you," he murmurs into my ear. Looking at me intently, he says, "Did you receive the flowers?"

"You didn't leave a card so I didn't know if they were from you."

"You're still upset. When you came over I wasn't sure."

"Did you think after a week or two I would just forget what happened? Everything you've ever told me could be a lie." I let the words out forcefully, sick of tiptoeing around Edward.

"Do you need a different kind of apology?"

"Not if it's just because you think it will fix the situation. I want your honesty."

"Do you?"

"Of course," I whisper, "I don't want some figment of the imagination. Right now I don't know who you are at all."

He takes a strand of my hair and plays with it, slowly wrapping it round his finger. "I bring the opposite of good. You'll regret me and the consequences."

I wait, barely breathing, for a revelation about himself, something real, something that lets me in on what's going on behind that cool, controlled exterior. Finally I say, "I don't believe in anything as black and white as good or bad. We are who we are and it's usually a lot more complicated than that."

Edward reaches out and runs his thumb back and forth along my bottom lip. "I'm sorry that I hurt you." He looks so serious and sincere that I want to believe what he says. It would be so much easier than the seemingly impossible job of restraining myself in order to exercise necessary caution. "I want you to be happy."

"Then why did you lie to me?"

"Just my name." Edward looks unflinchingly at me. "I wanted to tell you, but by the time it came up I knew where you worked and where you'd been to school. I thought you were friends with Carter. The situation between the two of us is very bad, and he can be persuasive in his defamation of my character."

"That's what you're going with? That if I knew who you were, someone might talk me out of seeing you?"

"When that person knows as much personal information as Carter does, they can twist things and make them appear real."

I roll onto my back, breaking his gaze because my judgment is impaired when I look at him. Instead I look out at the universe above us, trying to make sense of my own thoughts, to reconcile the feeling of betrayal with my wavering assuredness that he did anything wrong. The stars wink back at me, cold and distant, and uninformative. They'll hang above us long after tonight; whether or not I walk away from this rooftop now, they'll continue to burn brightly.

"You could have done it better, given me some warning about him."

"Don't you think I wish I'd told you?"

"Yes, because you got caught, and now things aren't going the way you want."

"This isn't a game where we see what we can get away with. I was going to tell you, when we were at my house, but you told me about Derrick… it didn't seem like the right time. If I could go back, I'd tell you anyway."

I rest my forehead on his chest for a moment. "I don't know. Not wanting Carter to know isn't a good enough reason. I can't believe that, and there's no future without trust."

"I disappointed you." Edward takes my chin in his hand, lifting my head so that I'm looking into his eyes, "but Bella? I'll win back every piece of you that I lost."

Edward wants me to stay over, but I have to keep some space, away from his intoxicating presence. He's so romantic and the roof was breathtaking, but I'm not ready to forget about what he did. I'm not sure what I need from him to let it go, but it's more than the explanation he's given. I want him the way we were in his English country home, his fortress free from the tangled mess that is my life and our secrets. The path to that perfect place is filled with as much loveliness as his promises, I can feel it close by, hiding behind a secret door.

But first I have to find the missing key. There's something that keeps taunting me just beyond my fingertips; some fact or connection or bit of insight that will get me out of this labyrinth. There are too many warning sirens blaring at me, I need to clear my mind enough to make sense of everything. Or at least organize my thoughts so that I can figure out how to deal with my life, and find out who I can trust.

This city is full of unsavoury streets, people desperate to get ahead, down dark side streets where people scurry by, clutching their bags close, heads down, eyes up, scouring the shadowy surroundings. In swanky boardrooms where the dealings are smoother, the sharp edge of the guillotine swathed in designer names, cool composure, expensive price tags. These are all things I'm used to. My mother drilled me to watch my back, protect myself against pickpockets, never suspecting that cautious, responsible Bella would mix with anyone like Matt. That things would get so twisted that even a restraining order may not be enough. That I would venture into webs of deception, to be pursued by the faceless, the nameless, unsure how close they might be.

I pause to wait for a catering service to pass, a stream of waiters in black and white carrying heavy trays of gourmet canapés into the Met. The broad steps are an invitation and I follow them up into the cool foyer. I need a place to think. I take my time, wandering through the Egyptian wing on my way to the Impressionist gallery. The ancient parchment is crumbling but intact and still bright with paint. I walk slowly down the hallways, between household wares not unlike the ones I've been shopping for the past weeks, only these pots and vases are ancient and cracked and protected by heavy glass. Some of them look so fragile, as if even the slightest gust of air will make the artefacts disappear into nothing.

In my peripheral I notice something I've never paid any attention to before, a simple little chair. A thatched wicker style that you can still find today, perfect for a small table or a classroom of students. It wasn't the chair that was smaller though, but the people - their whole race would have looked like children to us. Their lives were experienced from a different perspective than ours, and I try to imagine what it would have been like: sand crunching underfoot and stinging against skin on the wind, the intense heat, the miraculous cool air surging up from cleverly designed, underground air conditioning. In the carefully maintained environment of the Metropolitan Museum it's hard to imagine a harsh desert environment; easier is the sparkle of light on the Nile, the billowing white robes. I move on to the next object, an empty coffin, its heavy lid propped open to reveal the stone grave of a long-dead pharaoh.

Something clatters behind me, cracking into the silence of the museum and I whirl around. I'm the only one in the huge echoing room, the ceiling soaring high above me, the looming passages between the stone rooms where I'm standing, dim and shaded, and the large rectangular pools of water all around. I'm in the Met, I tell myself firmly, what could happen here? But I haven't seen a security guard in at least ten minutes, I'm in the farthest corner of an enormous building with a hundred places to hide and a hundred places for someone to catch me by surprise.

I admonish myself for being jumpy, but then I hear another noise nearby, different from the one before. I strain my ears toward a rustling sound, but the rushing that's filling my head is drowning everything else out. My fear is palpable, I can almost taste it. I wince as my heels click loudly on the tile. Glass meant to protect the objects now gleams threateningly in the darkness, the reflecting lights broken by the shadowy figures of the statues all around me, sharp corners jutting out. I'm almost running as I pass the four black statues, half-king half-god, their masks leering, a contorted mockery of hooked noses and feral human features. The dark water on either side might be an inch or a mile deep.

"Hello?"

My voice is hoarse but it rings out across the room, echoing back from the hard stone and tile. "Hello?" I call again, and then I take off my shoes and run to the nearest exit, through the shadows that stretch almost across the room, past the pyramid and into the stairwell. I almost crash into a tall woman, a security guard, who's about to climb the stairs.

"Can't find the bathroom," I gasp when she looks at me suspiciously.

"It's on your right, toward the Modern Masters exhibit."

A trickle of people is passing by, going in and out of the gift shop and elevator. Down the hall, the huge feature canvas is covered in stripes of dull and gloomy grey. It's the exact opposite of the rich, emotive swirl of the Monet I came to see. That painting is an explosion of colours; lily pads, pinks and blues and greens caked on with bold extravagance. I no longer have any appetite for walking the many empty corridors to get there, though, so I sit on a bench at the end of the hallway, in front of a slightly faded tapestry.

It's a chaotic scene, I can't see what the image is, just a mishmash of whites, blues and reds. But I'm staring at it too closely, picking out individual threads. A series of tapestries runs along the length of the wall, telling a story that I've never seen outside of the books in art history class. It's the Hunt of the Unicorn, a pagan tale in which the mythical creature is trapped by a virgin. In the panel nearest to me, the unicorn is crazed, a wild animal kicking and flailing, hemmed in on all sides by hunters, but in a panel further down the wall it's peaceful, tamed by the girl.

The virginal girl as the symbol of purity and femininity. In the long human history of being nothing more than physical property, where to have sex is to be used goods, this girl was untouched by any man's hand. Purity isn't as easy to trap as that, there are a thousand ways for childlike simplicity to be chipped away, for trust and truth to be worn down until it's meaningless. My first boyfriend, clumsy and sweet, didn't rob me of anything; and having Matt fuck me in the graveyard wasn't the only moment that I lost a piece of my innocence.

When Emma and I talked about a friend behind her back, or the guilty pleasure in fifth grade when I wasn't caught cheating on a test, there have been countless big and small incidents. Since then I've learned how dangerous disloyalty can be, and how unfair. That test was the only time I cheated, because no matter how little the risk or how great the immediate benefit, there was a different kind of cost, my own self trust. Looking into the smug face of the virgin in the tapestry, it strikes me how much I've benefited from those experiences, knowledge filled in the gaps that naiveté left empty. Sometimes it all seems to be a grey area, but our actions are a reflection of our needs and desires, however complicated and subject to human frailty.

I can't take back what I did after Derrick died. If this girl is the symbol of everything that's good, then surely after what I did, I'm tainted and forever unclean. I can be filled with regret, obsessed by how I could have handled everything differently, how I could have been safer and more responsible. I can look back in disgust at my own actions, wake up in terror, afraid of the million other ways I could have been hurt. Angry at how I might still be hurt. It was messy, ugly, destructive, but in that moment it felt necessary; I was broken and I purged myself. Now there are consequences and I don't want to hide anymore, running crazily through the Met, constantly trying to avoid threats, and that message.

The message that's been steadily gnawing at me. There was something strange about Derrick's death, I felt it from the moment I saw him lying on the concrete with his pocket turned inside out. The way that the lights were all off, everything in the house and yard untouched, except the gate swinging loose on its hinges. I nodded numbly, agreeing when the officer told us that there was no indication of foul play, that there were drugs found in his system, that drowning was an unfortunate accident. Instead of questioning anything, I buried my head under the covers and blamed Derrick's actions on our own deficiencies. I'm tired of all the months since, days filled with pretend and half-truths; the pacifications that seemed like a close enough fit to cover up what's lying underneath.

I think I understand what Edward meant by his experience at Vespers, it wasn't just someone else's evening prayer he looked in on, an outsider to their ritual. He touched a deeper thread, a core of his belief that connected the parts of himself that were confused and lost. I can see him in that moment when he stood at the edge of the world, with the universe spread out, infinite before him, connected to it by a pure, bright line reaching out of the dark space he was in. That's what I want, too. To touch that bright line for myself.