Update: I am not currently updating this story but have a full plan for future chapters and aim to start updating again by the end of 2018. Thank you to those of you that have favourited, followed and reviewed so far and I hope you'll all stick around to see where this story goes.

Rated M, because there will be sexually explicit content in later chapters.

The blaring sounds of my alarm rip me from my peaceful slumber, causing my brain to vibrate in my skull. With a loud groan, I clumsily shift across the mattress on my front and reach my right hand out for my phone before hitting the snooze button, not once opening my eyes. My bedroom is still cloaked in darkness and there's no way I'm getting out of bed before sunrise. Just as I settle back down, my phone explodes again and this time I prop myself up on my hands and grab my phone to see the screen flashing with a reminder, "Client at 8am get your ass out of bed!" I turn over onto my back and flop my head down onto the pillows, more groans escaping me as I realise that no matter how warm, cosy and compelling my bed is, I have to leave it. I steal 5 or so more minutes in bed, with my phone in my hand. I open up Todoist and Calendly - the two apps I'm completely reliant on for managing and organising every aspect of my life, not just work - to double check my appointments, in the hope that I've made a mistake and don't actually have a client at 8am. Unfortunately, both apps confirm that I have an appointment with Mr. Wood at 8am, forcing me to finally give in and climb out of bed.

Part of my job is working at all hours of the day and night, never having a routine and it's one of the reasons I've always loved it, but I certainly don't enjoy these rare early morning get-ups. I'm a night-owl and always have been. That's why it's so difficult for me to drag myself out of bed on those early mornings, because I've likely had a maximum of three hours sleep. Today it's four, so that's an improvement.

With sleep being so precious to me, I only allocate half an hour to get myself ready when I do have to be up early. Today that's just about enough time to wash, brush my teeth, pull my hair up into a pony tail, get changed into some presentable clothes and whip around my small one bedroom apartment with the vacuum, whilst gulping down a few mugs of black coffee and scoffing slices of burnt toast in between.

Just as I'm throwing the final few boxes of empty take-out into the trash, I hear the buzzer. With a quick spray of the air freshner sitting on the kitchen counter, I dash for the intercom.

"Miss. Swan? I'm Robin, Robin Wood. We have an appointment," a male voice calls.

"Yes, Mr. Wood. I'll just buzz you up, it's apartment 20, third along on the second floor."

I try to be as specific as possible to ensure he doesn't get lost and my instructions must've been clear because it's less than a minute before I hear a heavy rap on the door. No matter how many clients I meet, I always find it exciting, because each client and each case is unique and teaches me something new about myself, about life. Who's going to be standing at the other side of that door this time? What is he going to ask of me? Where will this case lead me to? The beginning is always the most thrilling part for me because of the endless questions and possibilities.

"Mr. Woods, I'm Emma Swan. Please, come in," I say extending my hand out to the man standing before me.

There's a hint of uncertainty in his blue eyes, but he confidently and firmly shakes my hand and steps over the threshold. I gesture towards the couch, inviting him to sit and his brow furrows slightly as though he was expecting some grand office with an oak desk, tall bookcases, bay window and leather couch.

He sits and I perch myself in the arm chair across from him, taking the time to get a better look at him. Many skills are required in this job and although I posses all of them - the one exception being keen organisation, which I'm constantly trying to improve in - the one I'm strongest in is reading and analysing people.

His posture is self-assured, with his back up straight and his legs spread, but his flitting eyes reveal the hint of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. He pulls his black leather coat around himself, an unconscious way of trying to protect himself. When his eyes fall back to me he breathes in deeply and his expression hardens, his attempt at trying to prevent me from reading him. Not that it ever works, he, just like all of my other clients is completely transparent.

"Can I get you a drink?" I ask.

"Some water."

This exchange reveals even more about him. He's insecure, but doesn't want to convey that by being too afraid to accept my offer of a drink, so he's almost demanding it as a way of showing me that he's strong, decisive and unafraid. He's not being very convincing so far.

These snap judgement I make of my clients are nearly always right, but it's not required of me. I do it for fun and because I can, but ultimately all that is important in these initial meetings is for me to collect all the information necessary to begin the case and receive the fees upfront.

Placing the glass of water he asked for on the coffee table in front of him, I say, "So, Mr. Wood, you were rather vague in the email you sent, so what brings you here today?"

He clears his throat and squares his shoulders.

"My wife. We've been married for three years now and..."

I sigh inwardly. So this isn't going to be one of the exciting cases. Just another person suspecting their spouse of being unfaithful. How utterly dull. Nonetheless, I listen intently to what he has to say and jot down notes. I'm in no position to turn down work, no matter how ordinary and underwhelming the case may seem.

Once he begins to reveal his reasons for being here, his seems to forget all about the mask he had been attempting to wear earlier and I see that he is nothing more than another lonely, broken man trapped in a miserable life and loveless marriage.

Over the years I've notice that the line between private investigator and therapist often seem to become blurred and it does now, as I'm forced to sit and listen to a man I've known all of 5 minutes confide in me about his wife's endless work commitments that she just can't get out of, out of state weekend conferences and late nights at the office. I'm running on empty and I can practically hear my bed calling my name, and for a while I humour him and nod along sympathetically, but I soon run out of patience.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wood, but I'm a PI not a therapist." It comes out a lot more harshly than I intended and for a moment I could swear that I see his bottom lip tremble. "What I meant to say is, I have other appointments that I need to attend." The most important of which is the one with my bed.

"Oh, of course. I understand, I'm sorry. It's embarrassing for me to be admitting any of this to anyone, let alone a stranger, but I didn't know what else to do. I love my wife and I don't want to lose her, but I need to know the truth."

That is the driving force behind every single one of my clients: the pursuit of the truth. The problem is, when I find it and hand it to them on a plate, most aren't able to accept it.

"And that is exactly what my job is - to find the truth, and if you decide to hire me, I can guarantee that I will find it for you, Mr. Wood. I understand that due to the fact that I'm not part of one of the more well-known and trusted companies, that you may have some doubts and questions. So I have here some written recommendations from previous clients and-"

"Miss. Swan, that won't be necessary. I've seen your website and I you came recommended to me from a close personal friend. I know what you can do and that is why I came to you. I want answers and I want them fast, but I also need there to be...discreetness."

I frown slightly at that. What does he mean by discreetness? Being a PI requires the highest level of confidentiality and privacy that exists and discreetness is an absolute given.

"It's my wife, you see. She's...well she's a know figure here in New York."

Now I'm really intrigued.

He reaches down and unzips the black laptop case that sits beside him on the carpet and fishes out a brown A4 envelope. The envelope is full and bulging and when I unseal it the first thing I see is an A3 photograph. I slide it out and take it into my hands. The woman on the photograph is dressed impeccably in a black pencil skirt and white shirt and I can't seem to stop my eyes from wandering across her, examining every inch of her. Her dark bob, blood red lips and intensely rich eyes are immediately familiar to me, although I can't quite place where I've seen them before. Where have I seen them before?

As though on cue, Mr. Wood answers my question. "This is my wife, Regina Mills. Mayor of New York."