AUTHOR'S NOTE

June 6th, 2017
It's been a while since I started writing this story and I haven't been writing much lately. Whether you are re-reading this story, or reading it for the first time, I want you all to know if you don't know/can't tell by the end of the story, that the story you are about to read came from a me that did not recognize this relationship as toxic and abusive and downright unhealthy. It came from a 12/13 year-old me. A me that was in a bad place. None of those facts excuse this relationship. I should never have romanticized it in the first place. It is awful the way that Jace treats Clary. The way that Clary can treat Jace. When I started writing this, they were only supposed to be fighting, going through a rough spot. In trying to amp up the angst, the drama, I lost sight of that and it turned into something ugly that people DID point out to me: they told me it was abusive, toxic, all around bad. I didn't understand why, really. I ignored it.

I know better now.

So be warned, this story glamuorizes abusive relationships, and I plan to change that - edit it this - when I get the time.

It sounds corny, trust me, I know. But I fell in love with my worst enemy, my most hated villain. The boy who had made countless - countless - redhead jokes, snickering as I walked past him in the hall. It's not like I could just ignore him, either, because he was everywhere, and was all anyone was ever talking about.

The boy that was gold. Utterly, purely gold. His hair, his eyes, - his eyes - his skin. He oozed confidence from every orifices on his body, and why shouldn't he? Every girl besides myself would have been willing to kiss the ground he walked on if he did something as simple as flash them a plastered smile. He was so fake - so plastic that the light shining down on him almost blinded me, something more than a few people mistook for some sort of perfection, I suppose. It wasn't hard to brand him as perfect; he looked like the next version of the Ken doll, just waiting to be packaged.

He was far from the perfect label that was stamped on his forehead.

Most people didn't notice the way his golden eyes were hard and cold, the way he would instantly harden at the mention of family. But I did, and something about it always bothered me no matter how hard I tried to shut him out.

The house felt cold when I entered it. Not just cold-cold from the weather, cold like lacking affection and warmth of feeling. You wouldn't believe that it was my home, would you? Especially not with everything immaculately clean and neat.

"Jace?" I call out.

No answer came from the evidently empty house. I still don't know why I expected him to be here - he never seemed to be. I looked down wistfully at my ring finger. The gold caught what little light was left to shine through the uncovered windows, the diamond casting a strange pattern across the blank wall. I was suddenly - not to mention weirdly - longing for high school, when I couldn't go anywhere without being surounded with his presence, whether he was there or not.

I sighed, placing my keys on the bench. They made a jingling sound, the only noise in the utterly bleak silence. Would there ever not be silence surounding me?

I could remember the first time he was gone for so long, I had thought he left me, that he was never coming back. I had cried out all of my tears that night. He came back a few days later though, promising me never to leave for that long again. Yeah, sure. Another broken promise. Another promise I had craved so desperately to be real, to be - solid. They never would be, and I knew it, I was just grabbing at a thining thread, sure to break away and leave me drowning in everything.

The only thing keeping me from leaving is as simple as three words: I love him.

Shrugging off my jacket, I make my way to our bedroom. It's where all my paints that aren't at the studio stay. The paint brushes are worn, the paint that once adorned the wooden handle gone or going. The small calluses on my hands could tell anyone how much I love my work. I stand at the bottom of the staircase, staring scrutinizingly at the blank, white wall that looks so...hopelessly boring. He hates it when I get paint on the floor, not to mention the wall, but he isn't here, so what will he say?

Using some black paint, I begin to paint the outline of a man's silhouette. The brush glides smoothly cross the drywall, and all I can think about how angry Jace will be with me. The thought causes a small smirk to creep up on my face. Really, it's the only way he'll say anything to me when he is here. And, I may or may not like to get on his nerves.

The next thing I know, the New York skyline is being painted behind the man. It probably came from the spectacular view out of our window. You can just see the last of the sun sinking below the horizon, you have to get just the right angle, though, looking through the spaces in between certain buildings to see it.

I'm so focused on the brush gliding across the satisyingly smooth drywall that I didn't hear the door open, or his footsteps until I feel his eyes on me. It's a strange feeling - having someone else in the house, considering I've been alone in it so long.

I turn around, eyes widening in surprise. He's staring at me, the last of the New York sun catching his golden eyes somehow. He always has that sort of luck, where the universe works in his favour to make him look more attractive than he already does. It's unfair in every possible way, and I couldn't care less at the moment.

My painting forgotten, I run into his arms, dropping my paint-coated brush on the floor somewhere in between. His strong arms wrapping around me. It feels as if its an automatic response, as he squeezes me tightly, afraid that I'll slip away from him. "You're back," I breathe.

"Of course I am."

I don't even have to think when he crashes his lips to mine. It's like muscle memory. I tangle my hands in his golden curls, his hands easily find my waist and I'm pulled even closer to him.

It's as I think about how he's been gone so long without so much as a word of goodbye that I quickly pull away from him. He's breathing heavy and his pupils are dilated, almost completely engulfed by the black. I can't look at him any longer or I'll feel lonely again, see in his eyes all the time he's left me for work. I hastily turn away, spining in my socks to face the wall once more. Despite the number of people in the world that would kill just to be this close to him, I couldn't bear it.

"How was your trip?" I ask, staring at the half-finished mural.

"Long," he sighs, and I can just picture him running his hands through his hair, messing it even more. I find it strange that he has yet to notice my...project. Normally, we'd have already been in a screaming match about it.

"Why don't you go and get some sleep?" I ask softly, suddenly, I don't want him to see my painting, I don't want to fight with him right now. I myself feel drained from working long hours at the studio, trying to keep my mind occupied. I couldn't tell you how many times I've fallen asleep there in the past two-and-a-half weeks, paint brush in hand - or even on my palette. He yawns, a sure indication he is tired, yet he says,"I'm not tired."

I scoff, rolling my eyes at the wall. "I'm sure you aren't."

He's always been one of those people that are grouchy when they're tired, so it doesn't surprise me when he snaps, suddenly angry with me. "I'm not tired," his voice sharp and piercing. He fixes me with a glare that should have had me lying dead on the floor, skin cold and without the privilleage of a heart beat. Instead, though, I fix him with my own glare, each of us challening the other.

I'm not in the mood for fighting anymore, while I had been not two hours ago. I feel utterly drained, like I could curl up on the hardwood and sleep. "Okay," I sigh. "Do whatever you want." You always do, anyways.

I could tell by the look in his eyes he was thinking hard about what I'd said, that he didn't know how to respond. Instead of replying, he simply turns, grabbing his bags from where they lay on the floor, and taking them upstairs.

I'm up early the next morning, my phone screen flashing brightly in my eyes; 6:34 a.m. I know I won't be able to go back to sleep, so I instead vouch for getting up from where I must have fallen asleep last night: on the floor, purple paint covering half of my left thigh. I can't help but groan at how hard paint is to get out of clothes, knowing that I won't bother with it, anyways.

I know Jace isn't up yet. He doesn't do mornings, not anymore. Especially not when he comes back from a show. There's no need to wake him, I think; I'm only going to the studio.

The large windows give way to the early morning light dawning on New York, where taxi drivers are already proceeding to honk at each other. It's comforting, in a sense, mostly because I've been hearing the same noises all my life, but still. My attention drifts to the large canvas in the centre of the room. It's not even half way done, not by a long shot, but from what is there, I can't help but stare. I can't believe its my work. I never thought I'd be as good at painting as my mom, but here I am. I can't help but thinking about how if she were still living in New York, she would love the studio, the endless supply of paints, every size of brush imaginable.

Shaking the saddening thoughts from my head, I turn on the radio, cranking the volume; no one is here to hear it at seven in the morning, anyways.

I squeeze some fresh paint onto my well-used palette, dipping the fine-tipped brush into the gold colour. It's almost the same colour as Jace's eyes, but not the same. Never the same. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find that exact shade of gold? Well don't bother trying to find out how hard it is, because I'm going to tell you: it's impossible - the colour simply doesn't exist.

I find it very easy to get lost in my own head when I'm doing art. It's just so...peaceful. Just like the night before, I don't hear the footsteps, I don't hear the door opening and closing. "Clary, what are you doing?" Simon asks me, staring wide-eyed at the large canvas in front of me. "Isn't it, like, I don't know - eight in the morning?"

I laughed at him, trying to hide the fear pushing it's way up my throat. Fear of what? Fear that he'll know Jace is back. Simon has never liked Jace, or Jace Simon. The thing is, though, Simon knows me, he picks up on the smallest of details, the slightest shift in my behaviour that tells him something is off. Frankly, it scares me sometimes. "I couldn't sleep," I reply simply, shrugging my shoulders.

"You never get up this early," Simon muses, putting down a brown paper bag that he had been holding in his left hand, his keys to the studio in the other. I can smell the delicious aroma spawning from his brown paper bag and all I can think is food, as my stomach growls. Simon chuckles, opening up the bag, proceeding to pull out a bagel with cream cheese. He's about to give me half, jsut as he always does, whn his body freezes suddenly. "You never get up this early, not unless Jace is back." His eyes narrow accusingly at me.

I shrink under Simon's scrutinizing gaze. "He only got back last night," I defend myself.

Simon opens his mouth to reply, when the door opens again. In comes a tornado of raven hair and heels. She smiles, but it quickly falters when she notices our expressions. "What did I miss? It's only -" she looks down at her phone, "eight-oh-two."

"Jace is home," I offered weakly. Isabelle frowns, looking down at her phone before tapping away furiously. "How did I not know?" She demands. "I'm his publicist, for God's sake!"

I shrug lamely in response. I want to give her more of an answer, I really do, the only problem is that I don't know. Jace likes to keep his business strictly his business. Apparently that also means his wife doesn't get to know, either.

"That boy," Isabelle mutters somewhat angrily.

"Iz, take it easy," Simon says, gently pulling the phone from her grasp. "I'm sure that if he had ruined his image - in the twelve hours you haven't talked to him - we'd already knw about it. Don't you think?"

Isabelle sighs, sinking down onto the black leather couch by the windows. "I suppose," she rubs her temples. "I can't trust him - you know that as well as I do, Clary," she looks up at me expectantly. All I can do though is stare at her, tears threatening to spill over. I don't know what hurt more: the fact that my friends thought of Jace that way or the fact that on some level, I did too. I knew my friends didn't trust Jace, that they thought so little of him, but they had never out-right admitted it before - not to my face, at least.

Isabelle's dark eyes widen, her eyebrows shooting upwards. "Oh, no - Clary, I didn't mean that - I just - I meant -" she bites her lip, looking back at Simon, her panicked expression is visible to me, I'd bet that she hadn't meant me to see it, or hear what she'd said.

"What Izzy means is, that, well -" Simon started, stopping himself. He looked cornered, like even he - who hadn't said anything about Jace, just rather implied it - didn't know what to do to fix Isabelle's words. You know what they say, loose lips sink ships, though in this case, the ship is Jace and I's relationship, while the loose lips are that of Isabelle and Simon.

He sighs, sinking to the floor, where he'd been crouched in front of me, burying his face in his hands. "Clary, you knew what you were getting into when you married him."

"No," Isabelle interjected sharply, her eyebrows scrunched together in determination. "She didn't. He wasn't this - this person before."

He had been so different when we first got married five years ago. Of course, that was before he was so famous that he couldn't go out without being swarmed by paparazzi and fans. Before he turned into some kind of robot that did whatever his manager told him to.

Isabelle sits down beside me on the stiff leather couch, using her thumb to gently wipe away the tears that had spilled over without my consent. "Please don't cry," Isabelle pleads, her voice barely above a whisper. "You know I didn't mean it - he loves you so much, Clare."

No matter how sincere she sounds, no matter how many times I turn it over in my mind, I can't bring myself to believe her. And it sucks.

"You can get going, if you want," I tell Simon, as I clean my brushes, moving around the bristles to get all the paint out as warm water flows from the faucet.

"No, Iz is working until a little later, anyways."

"Working?" I ask in disbelief, turning to look at him, checking to see if he's joking.

"Yeah, working. She's in a meeting with Jace's management, or something." And Jace. For what he lacks in relationship skills, he more than makes up for in work.

"Oh," I say stupidly. I hadn't known he'd be working late tonight - his meetings always ran late - of course, he never tells me anything. The thought sends a mixture of sadness and anger through me. On one side, I wonder why he wouldn't tell me - his wife - that he was working tonight, on the other side, I'm angry with him. Angry that he's gone most of the time, angry that he never tells me he's going, angry that he never tells me anything.

What kind of happy, healthy relationship functionned like this?

None, that's how many. Absolutley none of them.

I nearly fell asleep at the studio five times. It was then that I decided I'd take Simon up on his offer to drive me home. "Night, Clary," he waves as I stumble sleepily out of the passenger side door. I wave back, rubbing at one of my eyes, yawning loudly.

It took me about four tries to get the door unlocked, each time before I just ended up stabbing the metal of the door. The house was usually silent, eerily so, but I could hear the soft strummings of a guitar though the lights were off. What were we, vampires?

Normally, I would call out into the emptiness of the house, just to find - unsurprisingly - that there was no one else home. Tonight, I don't feel the need to. Instead, I take the stairs two at a time, walking to the end of the hall until I push open our bedroom door. The house was so big, and for only two people. What had Jace ever thought we'd need the space for? He didn't want kids as far as I knew - not that we'd ever talked about it - and relatives hardly, if ever, came to visit, considering most of our relatives lived right here, in New York.

I don't have the energy to change, falling face-first into the soft bed. Kicking off my shoes, I crawl further up the bed, hugging a pillow. Even though I know he isn't there, I reach out for Jace, wanting him to hold me closely as he used to. I can still hear the soft strumming of his guitar until it slowly fades out, and I hear a door closing along with a set of feet shuffling down the hall. I thought that since he knew I was home he'd just walk right past the bedroom, but I don't think he knows I'm here, because the door opens creakily, and he slips inside.

Within a few long beats, I feel the bed sink down beside me. After a few more long, torturous beats of holding my breath, I hear his soft snores. He hadn't even acknowledged me.

Alright! Another new story, I hope you guys liked it and that it was okay? It's the first time I'm doing an entire story in first-person. What do you guys think? Should I keep writing, or...?

I know, I know. They are slightly OOC, but I'm trying to fix that, I just needed to write the first chapter like this. Good? Good.