Twist of Intuition (Twilight: Emmett Cullen/OC)

Chapter 1

I do not own the Twilight saga or anything associated with it and I do not claim to! I only own my OC character :)

July 1883 Romania

I sighed for the fifth time that day staring at a spot on the wall across from me as I minded the front of the tailor shop for my father, who at the moment was in the back where he should be finishing the coat he has worked on for the past 3 weeks for one of our customers Mr. Popescue. He was are most frequent costumer, he was an older gentleman who had worked as a banker for his entire life moving up the chain until he now owned the only bank of our cozy little town. It wasnt like we were complaining though, more suits meant more money for us.

I shouldn't even be here; I had just turned eighteen this past June and now it was the end of July. Well over the age that I was eligible to be married. When I turned fifteen I had many suitors that I had liked well enough and quite possibly could have grown to love. A few of them had asked my father for my hand in marriage but he always refused saying that they weren't good enough for me. My plan was to go to the city and apprentice as a seamstress. I could always do that here under my father as I had done all my life but I wanted something more. He wouldn't let me leave saying I was needed here, which in a part was true.

If my mother was still alive she would have been able to convince him to let me go, at least that's what I thought. The reason he hasn't let me marry or leave is the resemblance I have to my mother, or so I've guessed at. She died giving birth to me so I never knew her, keeping me here with him it was like he was trying to get me to replace her, something I could never do. He never remarried saying his heart still belonged to her, I never doubted him on this because he talked about her every spare amount of time he had. He spoke of her so often that it felt like she was still here some times.

It might be a silly and childish fantasy, something you would only read about in story books; but I wanted someone to love me as fiercely as he loved my mother. The way he spoke of her, even now I could feel the truth and love in his words and in his eyes. He described her as being the most beautiful women he had ever seen, I didn't have any pictures of her so I could only take his word for it. He said that her most prominent traits were that she was adventurous, caring and fearless. I didn't understand why he thought we were so alike. I liked to think I was a caring person but other than that I was nothing like her, at least I didn't think I was. Maybe I was just in denial about it, it grows tiring being compared to someone you never knew or will know and trying to live up to the bar that person set. And the bar father held for my mother was one I could never hope to reach.

I had an uncanny awareness of my surroundings that had always just been there, which is why I could never trust people as easily as most. I couldn't describe the feeling but I usually got an underlining sense of danger that told me to stay clear from some people. Others like the town doctor gave me no such feeling, most likely because he didn't wish harm but the opposite. Apparently mother was clumsy, something that I was most certainly not. I can't recall a time where I had dripped or bumped into something. I did all that I am asked and tried being the perfect daughter, I was in no way fearless or adventurous. The only things that we had in common for looks was my hair color which I had inherited from her, a dark auburn color which to me seemed quite dull and lifeless hanging down to my waist and framing my heart-shaped face, but I loved it nonetheless. Height wise I inherited that from her also, my father a good 6ft tall and me, well I'm stuck at 5'3". Everything else about me like my brown eyes and fair skin was from my father, mother having an olive complexion and green eyes.

I was drawn out of my thoughts when the door chimed signaling a costumer. I looked up from my spot on the wall out the window seeing the sun had gone down and it was dark out the only light being the oil lamps hanging on the street. I brought my gaze to the costumer and when I saw him I took an involuntary step back. The man roughly five feet in front of me was tall around 6ft with short brown hair combed to perfection; but the most startling was not even his marble like pale skin that I quickly dismissed. It was his eyes; they were a deep burgundy color almost black. Brushing it off as my over active imagination that had just made itself known I asked the man what I could do for him with a surprisingly steady voice.