Betrayal by Frank P. Whyte

Betrayal comes in many forms,
But relies on underlying intimacy
To insure a lethal wound.
It is an emotional ambush,
Carefully designed,
Flawlessly executed,
Producing an evil sound
In the orchestra of life...

Emotional Ambush by Mombailey

Part One: Forget It (Music by Breaking Benjamin)

"Stop it! Stop trying to make excuses! I don't want this…this…bullshit. I don't want to fight anymore. Please. Just leave me alone, okay?" My head hurt and I truly didn't want to speak to him anymore. It was always the same thing; ignore me, fight with me, have sex with me. Never fix the problem. Just lie to me and fuck me. Well, I was done with being the victim.

His coppery head fell forward to his chin in defeat, knowing I'd had enough for the evening and he wouldn't be getting me into bed for the usual guilt-filled make-up sex that made me feel second-hand all over again. I promised him till death do us part, but with every word he spoke, I felt that time getting closer. His death at my hands, to be more specific.

God, he was beautiful. For eighteen years I've sat back and watched as time played with his amazing face, pulling a little here and dimpling a touch there. The grouping of white hairs at his temple distinguished him, added to his sexual appeal, whereas mine just made me look older. I was no longer young, care-free Bella Swan; I had become old, paranoid Isabella Cullen. I was a mother and a wife, respectively, and I was worn-out from the latter role.

"I'm sorry, Bella. I just…" I cut him off, not wanting to hear another one of his fabricated excuses. What happened to the perfect man I married? Why did he allow the volumes of lies to run from his mouth like vomit? The son-of-a-bitch didn't even know the real truth any longer.

"I said to stop it, okay. I don't want to do this again, not tonight." Exhaustion evident in my tone, I continued messing with the socks in the laundry basket on the kitchen counter, trying to concentrate long enough to match two together. Just two fucking socks, how hard can that be? I gave up and threw the basket off the counter to the floor, landing with a hard crack.

"Please, love, let me explain. I wasn't watching the time, I thought it was earlier. I'm sorry." His eyes burned with emotion as his hands opened to me, as if in surrender, but it was too late. Nothing made me angrier than his "after-the-fact" bullshit, and if he tried to touch me, he would be missing a nut. I knew he meant it, that he was sorry, but for what? Was he sorry he was late, or was he sorry he was caught, yet again?

"Jesus, Edward, you've got to be kidding me. First of all, stop calling me love because you don't mean it and I don't want to hear it. Second, why can't you pull your head out of your ass long enough to check your watch? Unless, that is, you have it other places you don't want to tell me about." I continued to stare him down, looking for a response with some balls behind it. I didn't get one. I was tired of fighting this war, especially when the battles were always one-sided. He didn't even care enough to hide the lipstick smears any more.

I had nothing else to say to him. He stood stone still as he watched me leave the room, his eyes transfixed on the back of my head, hoping I would turn around and run to him. He wanted to make believe everything was okay and I'd forgiven him for the thousandth time.

Tonight would not be that night.

Stopping as I entered the foyer, I slipped on my jacket and grabbed the keys from the rack. It would be a complete turnabout. For once, he would be left on a moment's notice to care for our young daughter, without regard to what inconvenience it would cause him. I was going to be the user this evening.

Our radiant Renesmee was the product of a once passionate and committed marriage, yet she was the sole survivor. My beautiful baby girl was oblivious to our troubles, and because I made my vow to stay, she would be kept in the dark in regards to her playboy father for as long as possible.

Mother fucker kissed us both with the same lips he used on his whore. Many nights I had to fight the nausea as I watched him kiss our daughter goodnight on her forehead. It was all I could do to not follow him in with sanitizer; I was afraid Ness would contract some venereal disease from his rotten, pussy-laced lips.

I hated that bitch with everything in me, and if I ever got my hands on her…

I glanced in the mirror above the entryway table, and saw an older, scared Bella, clinging to the last shred of her marriage and her sanity. My fingertips reached up to touch the tired reflection in the glass. I no longer knew the woman staring back at me. She looked disheveled and lonely. That bastard turned me into one of those women who sacrifice everything for their husband, only to get dumped on in the end.

I could feel his hand come to rest on my shoulder as I stood before myself, detesting what I saw. I had to go, run away to anywhere but here. Did I want him in the house when I got back? No, I don't think I did. But for the life of me I couldn't ask him to go, not with Renesmee still so young. As sick as it seemed, I still loved him. And I hated him for it.

"Fuck you, Edward." The words hung in the air as I slapped him away and barged out the door, slamming it behind me. Unlocking the Volvo, I slipped behind the driver's seat and brought his precious baby to life. My heavy foot stomped on the accelerator, and I flew from the driveway to the exiting road. My lord, he probably shit down his leg when he heard her screech into the night.

I smiled at the internal vision of him smeared in his own shit like a fucking baby. That's what he had become since he started messing with her, a big, fucking, whiny-assed, baby.

My mind wandered back to when life had been emotionally easier, before appointments and instructions; a time when life was simpler and money was not readily available. A quiet and elemental peace had filled our life together. No late nights, no apologies. We were young and in love, and nothing could separate us. We'd made that promise to each other.

Damn liar.

All those years I worked so he could finish school, so he could live his dream. Leaving Ness in day care for countless hours as my feet ached from double shifts. What was it for? He was the Grand Maestro of the Seattle Philharmonic, and it was still never enough. I hated the Edward that put other things before Ness and me, and the symphony was one of those things.

Victoria and her fucking cello were another. I would never trust him again, and there would never be another late night that I wouldn't suspect he was lying to me. He knew it and didn't care enough to do anything to reassure me. He had been with that red-headed, cello-toting cunt who played his body like a song for far too long, and his denials were getting pathetic. The innocence between us was gone.

I watched them one day, when they were unsuspecting. How he guided her through the parking lot with his hand on the small of her back, laughing and smiling like she was his whole world. He kissed her knuckles as he helped her from the car when they pulled up to the café, and wrapped his arm around her waist as they followed the waitress to their outdoor table. He wasn't even trying to hide his infidelity, the prick. That was the day I decided I would never cry over Edward Cullen again.

My mind swirled around the memories of a younger, passionate couple, of times when making love was not only a physical connection, but also a psychological need. Our bodies would melt into each other, and I would survive on the breath he exhaled. He was my life and my soul. Now, we didn't even share a bedroom, much less a bed. I was more uncomfortable having him in the house than out of it.

A/N: This is a short story I will be posting as quickly as possible. I know those of you who are Edwardians are not liking Doucheward, but please remember that all is not always as it seems…

Thanks to btvsna and ysar for their Beta'ing and reading super powers. I wear the cape and they own the cod pieces. Love you two goobers!