Hello there, me here. Me, obviously being the author. This is a little thing I've been working on, and will see to completion - no matter how long it will take me.

Reading all the wondrous stories on Wattpad has seriously inspired me, and I wanted to bring one of my own stories to life.

This may all be fictional, but I've brought my own culture and life into this in little chunks.

I'm a hopeless romantic, who has never truly fallen in love - so be patient with me, please. I simply love the idea of falling in love, and that love for love itself gave me the courage to do this. In the three weeks I've been writing this, I've become obsessed with my characters, as I daydream about the story to come.

Here are my "fake real people", and I hope that if anyone finds this, you follow along and show a little love to this project of mine :)

All my love, and then some more,

JustAnotherDarling

***************************

I wake up trapped.

My eyes shoot open and I look down to see what is keeping my waist ensnared and... I calm down. It's just an arm - Tom's arm. Relax, Diamond, I chide myself, There's no need to get so worried all of a sudden. I lift his hand slightly off my body and shuffle so that my body faces his.

I gaze upon the man in front of me: inky waves of hair cascade over closed eyes that I know to be a startling forest green, and his skin is a pale, near-transparent white, which contrasts with his flat, but plentifully plump, pink lips. With every breath he takes, I watch as Tom's lengthy eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, and then, with each exhale, a soft snore escapes his barely parted lips.

Tom's beautiful. There's no other way to say it. Hell, if I wasn't as comfortable in my own skin as I am, I'm positive I'd be intimidated by this man's effortless, borderline effeminate beauty.

I nudge my head into Tom's chest. He's warm and a faint hint of his sharp scented cologne clings to the shirt he's wearing. I snuggle in closer to him.

"Good morning, babe," Tom rumbles above me, the deep baritone of his voice emphasized by the slumber he's still trying to escape.

My forehead crinkles with my frown as his morning breath infiltrates my nose. Twenty-five years old and the man still can't properly clean his tongue when he brushes his teeth. It makes me doubt, sometimes, whether I can really call him a man, honestly. I know for a fact that even my prepubescent nephews have better dental hygiene than the male I face now.

But he's my poor-dental-hygiene male. And I love him.

I look up into Tom's eyes and smile as my left hand traces the side of his face, "Good morning, Tom." I kiss his cheek.

Tom grabs a hold of the hand on his face and kisses my palm, "I remember what today is, do you?"

He leans forward and kisses my forehead, then, the bridge of my nose. His head turns to the side, and my eyes flutter shut. I can feel the barest caress of his eyelashes against my cheek, before he kisses it too. His lips trace down my face, and mine part in anticipation. Just as he's about to join our lips though, I move my head back.

Tom pouts and I grin up at him, "I know what today is, Tom." I reach down and free my waist from his hold, slide out of bed, and stand up.

"There's no way I could ever forget how awkward you looked the first time you asked me out," I laugh.

Tom calls out my name as I walk toward our connecting bathroom, but I ignore his unspoken plea for me to join him back in bed. Grabbing a scrunchie from one of the bathroom drawers, I tie my hair up into a lazy bun, then pick up my toothbrush.

"Diamond," Tom tries again. "It's our five year anniversary. You can't just leave me in bed here alone."

I stop bringing the toothbrush closer to my mouth, and instead, opt to wave it in front of the mirror, making eye contact with Tom. "Actually, I can. Don't pretend like you didn't come home at five this morning." To ensure the toothpaste hasn't fallen off, I quickly glance down at my toothbrush before frowning at my boyfriend, "Besides, I told you - today's an important day at work. I'm sorry, but I can't take the day off."

I finally stuff my toothbrush in my mouth and start brushing my teeth. I check the digital clock we have in the corner of the bathroom. Crap, I'm going to be late if I don't hurry up.

Looking back in the mirror, I can see Tom opening his mouth to protest again, so I turn around and sit on the bathroom counter.

"You're leaving me for work. Work," Tom huffs. He's sitting up in our bed, head against the headboard.

"It's Friday, Tom, and you have to go in again tonight anyways. We'll still have the whole weekend to enjoy ourselves, I promise."

He sighs, defeated. He's been working the night-shift at the hospital this month, and I can see how it's worn him down. Thankfully though, tonight's his last night-shift for a while, so we'll have more time to spend together in the upcoming weeks.

Tom ruffles his hair and pouts. He's so soft sometimes, it makes my heart melt. "At least it's the last night you have to spend at the hospital. Enjoy being with the guys, I'm going to keep you to myself for so long now that you're gonna get sick of me."

Tom watches unabashedly as I now peel off the lace slip and silk shorts I was sleeping in. Ears pink, he says, "Never. I'd never get sick of you."

I walk into our closet and drop my underwear into the hamper before wrapping my body in a towel. Approaching the bed again, I walk around to Tom's side and finally give him a kiss, "I love you."

His hand wraps around my neck, pulling me in closer. "I love you," he mumbles against my lips. "Don't go."

I grip my towel tighter and kiss him again, softly, slowly. My hand runs through his hair one last time, and I relish in its softness, before straightening. "I'm going to be out late tonight. I'll see you tomorrow morning, love," I call out, going into the shower.

***************************

By the time I get downstairs, it's 8:40. I don't care much for breakfast, so I just pick up an apple, wash it, and make my way to the front door - grabbing my purse and keys on the way.

The loud crunch of the apple as I bite into it startles the birds in the tree beside me. For a couple seconds, all I can hear is the loud chirping of agitated birds. I get in my car and check the backseat to make sure the folders I need are there, before starting the engine.

As I grip the wheel, my brain pulses behind my forehead, and I groan. Coffee. I want coffee so badly. Pulling out of the driveway, I quickly calculate whether I have time to go in the opposite direction to get some good coffee and then go to work. The Board of Directors meeting starts at ten, it's a good half hour drive to work from home, and I'll need some time to organize myself once I get to work. A frustrated whine escapes my lips - I don't have enough time to get the coffee my brain craves and make it to work on time. I guess it's icky office coffee-machine coffee for me this morning.

I take another bite of my apple, heading in the direction of work.

***************************

Forty minutes of driving through morning traffic later, my heels clatter across the marble flooring of the building associated with the small publishing company my dad started roughly 30 years ago. Hopefully, if all goes well, I'll be in charge of this place by the end of today.

Front-desk-receptionist Michelle says hello as I walk by. "Miss Diademe, Mr. Bhatia is waiting for you in your office."

"Thank you, Michelle. Please let him know I'm on my way up right now."

Just as I click the button underneath the number 5, a man walks into the elevator beside me. I scoot to the back corner of the small room and watch as his hands hurriedly try to finish tying his tie around his neck. He turns to nod in greeting, but when his eyes meet mine, he visibly pales and shifts to the opposite corner of the elevator. His attempt at a smile comes off looking more like a wince.

Ah, so he knows who I am.

I study the man whose back is now to me, and follow the mop of curly brown hair atop his head to down broad shoulders and bulky arms, which feed into fidgeting fingers. He looks powerful, but his hands give away his nervousness. I almost giggle at the fact that it is my presence that has unnerved this man.

With a soft ding the elevator doors slide open, and I swiftly walk out, holding my folders close to my chest. Five feet out, I spare a glance over my shoulder to see the man walk out of the elevator: brown curls, fidgety fingers, and... a lopsided tie.

I wonder when he's gonna notice that.

***************************

When I walk into my office, there's a slightly pudgy man sitting in my desk chair. There's a black turban on his head, and he's sporting a generous, neatly-trimmed black beard which is speckled with white and gray here and there.

"Papa!"

"Diamond. Mera pyaara baacha," Papa looks up at me with one of the brightest smiles I've ever seen. [my dear child] He has crinkles near the corners of his eyes, which become deeper creases when he smiles, and a dimple on the right side of his mouth, that I used to poke as a child.

I put down the folders and papers in my hands and drag a chair beside him, "You ready for the meeting, Papa? Less than an hour now."

I sit down as he nudges a black thermos my way, "Your Mumma sent chaa with me. For you." [Indian milk tea]

"Aap peelo. I don't even like chai - Mumma just refuses to listen," I shake my head in concern. [you can drink it] [Indian milk tea]

Papa takes a long sip from the thermos and sighs, "Mumma doesn't like your coffee, baacha. She told me to tell you to drink this. Apparently, it'll give you 'good luck'." [child] He reaches for my hand, "Can you believe it? She is sending you good luck. I'm the one who needs good luck!"

"What happened Papa? Is everything okay?" Suddenly, I'm worried. Why does Papa think he needs luck?

"She made me practice last night, you know. For a whole hour," he grumbles.

I'm utterly lost. Practice? For what? Is today's meeting not for what I thought it was? "Practice what?!"

"For today," Papa waves a hand around dramatically. "Your Mumma pulled up a picture of you on her phone, and told me to not smile at it." Both his hands suddenly grasp one of mine, "Can you believe it? She wouldn't let me go until I could go over five minutes of not smiling! I married a crazy woman! Not smile at mera pyaara baacha? Kaise?" [how]

"Oh, Papa." My heart's so full of love at this moment, it's almost painful. I'm so overwhelmed by Papa's love for me, I can feel the sting of tears forming behind my eyes. I lower my eyes to his hands and rub them soothingly - if I look up now, I'll start crying, and I can't afford to become an emotional mess right now. "Mumma's just looking out for you, Papa. It would be wrong if you smiled at me during this meeting - you're supposed to seem firm. For the sake of appearances at least, na?" [right]

But Papa's not done with his story. "And then, you know what your Mumma did? She showed me a picture from when you were five! I was in that picture with you, you were smiling at me with so much love, baacha." Papa's voice cracks, and my eyes shoot up to his. His eyes are glossy when he says, "I couldn't do it, baacha." He pulls my hand over his heart and a tear falls from his left eye. "Mera pyaara baacha. I love you so, so much. How could I ever not smile at you, mera baacha?" [my child] Papa's voice is thick with emotion - he seems to be seriously contemplating the question, and I can see it tearing him apart.

I choke back a sob.

Standing up, I tug Papa out of the chair he's in before hugging him, tight. My arms wrap almost the whole way around his body, and I bury my face into his shirt. I purse my lips, trying my best to not start crying with him. "I love you, Papa. I love you."

We stay like that for a while.

***************************

I'm not sure exactly how much time has passed when, suddenly, there's a loud ringing. I jump, startled, and realize it's just Papa's phone. He smooths my hair and presses a kiss to the top of my head before pulling away and picking up the phone. "Hello. Yes. Yes. No," Papa frowns. "Okay, I'm on my way."

"That was Richard," he tells me. "It would appear that there is another thing we must take care of prior to the meeting. "

"Papa, there's barely half an hour before the meeting, though."

"I know." Papa groans, "They don't think you're ready. They keep trying to postpone this, and it's only because you're a girl. As if anything they say will change my mind - I've known I would hand this over to you 25 years ago!"

It takes all my willpower not to roll my eyes. The board of directors Papa has to consult with is all-male, and as is when there's any male ego encountering ~the new~ - it easily feels threatened. It's as though the presence of estrogen insults their masculinity and authority or something.

I take a deep breath and say, "I'll be fine, I got this. Go see what they want, Papa. I'm just going to take a little bit to compose myself, and I'll meet you up there just before ten."

"Acha, baacha. I'll see you then." [okay child] Papa pats my shoulder one last time before leaving the room.

At last, I sink into my desk chair and begin to sort through the papers and folders on my desk.

***************************

Quarter to ten, I gather up the necessary documents and leave my office. I walk to the elevators, and can't stop myself from looking around, searching for the curly-haired man with a lopsided tie. However, the elevator arrives sooner than my eyes can catch a glimpse of him. I enter the elevator and press the button which will take me to the eighth floor.

I find Papa standing outside the large conference room, black thermos in hand.

"Waiting for me?"

"No, no. I'm finishing my chaa," he lifts the thermos in gesture. "You ready, though, baacha?"

"Of course." I point to the door with my hand in front of me, "After you, Mr. Bhatia."

When I walk into the room, I am almost overwhelmed by the near toxic amount of testosterone-induced hostility emanating throughout the room. But I roll my shoulders back and lift my chin up, high. I've prepared for this.

My eyes scan the room and see Papa sitting at the head of the table, in the far back of the room. There are ten other men sitting along the lengths of the table, and I am quick to recognize them all  - they're the important advisors and investors Papa runs this company with. I eye my fiercest opposition: stuck-up Richard is sitting on Papa's immediate left, and Richard's son, Liam, sits on his father's other side.

The room is silent when Papa makes eye contact with me. I can see he's putting all his effort into trying to seem somewhat intimidating. But his expression leaks into a smile before my eyes, and he clears his throat, abruptly holding up a folder in front of his face, hiding everything but his eyes from view.

"Miss Diademe," Papa says. I can hear the smile in his voice, and it comforts me. I've got this. "The floor is yours."

***************************

Richard concludes the meeting at half-past three. My throat is dry and my stomach is grumbling - he didn't let us take a break, the insolent man - but I feel optimistic.

As the men file out of the room, I'm left sitting on the long table, looking at Papa, who's now the only one in the room with me. "You really impressed them. I'm so proud of you, mera baacha."

"I did my best. We'll see what happens on Monday," I bend over and massage my temples. This whole not-eating-lunch thing has given me a headache. "I think I'm going to grab something to eat and then get to work."

"It's Friday, baacha. I'm about to go home to your Mumma, our flight leaves at nine. You should go home too. Don't you have something with that angreji boy today?" [Punjabi slang for white people]

I look up at Papa, "Yeah, our anniversary. But...are you sure?" I'd love to get some food and then go home, but I also don't want to jeopardize my future position by making it appear as though I'm slacking off on my responsibilities.

"I'll talk to Richard. You go home." Papa holds my hands and gets me off the table. "Just take your stuff aur ghar jao." [and go home]

"Thank you, Papa," I hug him tight. "I love you."

He chuckles and pats my head, "I love you too, baacha. Now let go of me, I have to go. Your Mumma definitely has some last-minute packing for me to do at home."

We separate and walk to the elevator together. I have to stop on the fifth floor to get my stuff, so I say one last goodbye to Papa and step out.

As I approach my office, I see Liam leaning against the door, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his gray trousers. He's an attractive enough man, I guess, with a rare blend of fiery red hair and deep blue eyes. My eyes trace his figure, taking in his defined chest which fills out his dress-shirt in a way, I must admit looks quite appealing, and his toned thighs which stretch against the fabric of his pants, before snapping up to meet his gaze. "What are you doing here?"

He tousles his hair and shoots me a blinding smile I'm certain has had many girls fall to their knees before him. "I just wanted to congratulate you. Dad's trying to hide it, but I can see he's moved. Come Monday, I expect to see you with us on the eighth floor."

His voice oozes with arrogance, but somewhere beyond the pride in his smug voice, I hear begrudging respect.

I'm surprised.

And wary. I'm still not aware as to why he came here to tell me this - until this point, I had thought he hated my guts for being a woman who wants to advance, as much as his father does. "Ah. Well, thank you. I appreciate it greatly."

The way he's smiling at me is making me slightly uncomfortable, and all I want to do is grab my purse and leave. "Now, if you'll excuse me, please. I actually need to get into my office so that I can get my things."

"Right, right," he gets out of my way, but still doesn't leave. "Actually, I was wondering if you'd want to grab a late lunch with me?"

I halt in the motion of opening my office door. I'm starving - as I'm sure he is too - but I don't want to 'grab lunch' with him! How do I tell him absolutely not in a way that seems firm enough that he'll leave me alone - hopefully for the rest of my life - but also remains polite?

I hesitate before replying, "While the offer of lunch sounds inviting, I'm about to go home."

"Already?" He's bemused, no doubt judging me for calling it a day so early.

"Tom and I are celebrating our fifth anniversary today. I want to go home and surprise him," I tell Liam truthfully, praying he'll let me go now that I've shared my motives for leaving work so early.

Liam's neck lights up in a blush as red as his hair, "Oh. I'll leave you then, see you Monday." The change in his demeanor from flirtatious to frantic is almost instantaneous, and I'm left staring at the broad expanse that is his back, as he turns on his heels and stalks away.

What was that? I wonder to myself, walking to the underground parking lot. And who the hell blushes in their neck?!

***************************

An hour later finds me parked outside home nearly delusional with hunger. After the awkward conversation with Liam, I didn't want to risk stopping for food and bumping into him. I had consoled my desire for food by telling myself I'd go home and attack the left-overs from Tom's lunch today.

I had made one stop on my way home, though.

A bottle of Tom's favorite wine is tucked in safely with a seatbelt in the passenger seat beside me. With red wine and white leather seats, I wasn't willing to risk the bottle not making it home in one piece.

Wine bottle in one hand and keys in the other, I open the front door and am met with silence. This means Tom's not downstairs - he must've gone up to bed again. I don't bother taking off my heels as I walk into the house, and drop my keys and purse on the formal dining table. I quickly fish out my phone and bring it in with me.

The kitchen is pristine, but a sweet scent lingers in the air; Tom baked a chocolate cake for the two of us. The thought warms my heart as I reach for two glasses - I'll just take the wine upstairs and join him, food can wait a little while longer. I leave my phone on the island.

I can feel my heart beating hard in my chest as I'm climbing the stairs. Tom doesn't know I came home at this hour, and I wasn't planning on coming home this early either - so I guess this is somewhat of a surprise for the both of us. At the top of the stairs, I can hear muffled thumping.

Is Tom punching something?

I walk towards our room slowly, and the sound only gets clearer. The thumping is now joined by a chorus of grunting and panting. My heart's thundering now, I can feel it beat faster and faster as I watch my hand near the doorknob.

I'm having an out-of-body experience, forced to witness my body move of its own accord. My mind's screaming: stop, stop, STOP! Don't open that door, Diamond, DON'T!

I push the door open.

Tom's lying face down in the middle of our bed, stark naked. Another man lies upon him - just as naked - his pelvis pressed against Tom's ass.

The bed's creaking, both men breathing hard. The man is thrusting erratically into Tom; each thrust coincides with a loud beat of my heart. Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud.

"Don't stop. I'm close, I'm -" Tom shifts his head, and his green eyes finally meet my brown ones. He freezes.

The man above Tom is still moving, he hasn't noticed the sudden tension in the room. But his actions change as fast as a pinwheel spins: his expression falling from one of ecstasy to a look of confusion as he slows down his thrusts, then, his body coming to a complete stop - his face a perfect example of what one could only describe as absolute horror.

I wouldn't know, though. My eyes haven't left Tom's.

At last, my brain regains control over my body, and I open my mouth. And close it. Tom. Oh, Tom. I love you, Tom.

"Eight o'clock tomorrow morning," I hear my business voice coming out of my mouth, cold and hard. "When I come back here, I want all your stuff gone - including you."

The wine bottle is heavy in my right hand. I glance down at it, look back at Tom - who still hasn't moved, both men remain frozen in place - and raise the bottle in front of my chest. I open my hand.

My heart's just like the wine bottle. Falling. Crashing on the floor. The bottle's reduced to the same sharp shards I feel in my chest. Wine flows on the floor. Red reaches the white area rug in the room and seeps in. I gasp in pain - I feel my heart bleeding the same way.

I stumble out of the room and turn around. I can kind of make out Tom calling my name, calling me back? But it doesn't register. My feet fly down the stairs, and into the kitchen. I put down the wine glasses, pick up my phone, and practically run out of the suffocating house. I don't bother closing the door behind me, I really can't handle looking back at all, right now.

Walking away from the building, I feel wetness on my cheeks. But they're not tears, no. No, I'm not crying, I can't be-

I'm crying.

My vision is blurry, I'm not completely sure where my feet are taking me, and my heart is breaking.

I forget I am Diamond, and shatter like glass.

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As someone who constantly forgets to vote because I'm hurrying on to the next chapter, I thought it'd be permissible for me to include a reminder:

Don't forget to vote! :) (if you liked it - of course - no pressure!)