Chapter 1Bleeding For A Woman Who Does Not Care

The person Damon Blackwell wanted. That’s who I became after we got back together. A perfectly docile woman.

The perfect opposite of the woman I was. No more late-night suspicion, no more furtive phone-checking, and zero hostility toward the parade of women who had always orbited him.

When I found a ripped, practically empty foil packet of ultra-thin 0.01s wedged in the center console of his G-Wagon, I didn't scream. I didn't even flinch. I just neatly tucked it back into his jacket pocket, not only withholding a single accusation but gently reminding him to monitor the shelf life.

Damon’s hand shot out, clamping around my wrist. His eyes, usually cool and guarded, were edged with red. He dragged the question out of me, raw and accusing: “You’re telling me you aren't angry? Not even a little?”

* * *

Damon restarted the engine. His jaw was set, a muscle ticking near his face. The existence of that flimsy foil packet hovered in the humid air of his luxury SUV like an unspoken judgment.

“That wasn't mine, Ains.”

He offered the explanation after what felt like an hour of silence. If this were a year ago, hearing him offer an explanation—any explanation—I would have burst into tears, flung myself into his arms, and apologized for my doubts. I trust you, I trust you completely.

But now, I was just looking down at the work email on my phone. I didn't even lift my head.

“Mhm. I know.”

My lukewarm indifference completely derailed him. He irritably yanked at the knot of his designer tie, his voice rising in volume.

“You know? You know what?”

“It was Tatum. That damn kid. She was out at some warehouse party in Brooklyn, acting a fool with a bunch of trust-fund delinquents. I had to go fish her out and confiscated her disgusting purse. This must have fallen out of her clutch when she tossed it on the seat.”

He seemed to recall the chaos of the night, a look of fastidious disgust creasing his brow. “Nineteen years old, and she’s running with that crowd. If I don't keep an eye on her, who will?”

I looked up at the barely concealed frustration in his face and felt a sudden, sharp pang of irony.

Damon was a near-pathological germaphobe who detested any kind of noise or mess. In the past, if I’d dared to eat a protein bar in this car and dropped a single crumb, he would scowl, then send the whole vehicle out for a deep interior detailing.

“Ainsley, are you a pig? Can't you even manage to eat a snack without making a mess? It's repulsive.”

He would then punish me with three days of icy silence.

Yet tonight, for Tatum Van Doren—the spoiled, unruly daughter of his father's oldest partner—he had endured the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap liquor to retrieve her from a dive bar. He’d even tolerated her “disgusting” bag being thrown onto the pristine leather seats of his ridiculously priced G-Wagon.

His verbal disgust was just another form of breaking his own rules. Another exception made only for her.

“Tatum is young, Damon. It’s normal for her to be rebellious. You’re her big brother figure; it’s good you look out for her.” I kept my tone calm, even adding a note of approval. “Though those places are risky. Maybe next time, just drive her home safely instead of taking her things.”

Damon stared at me as if I’d just started speaking Farsi.

“Ainsley, are you even listening to me?”

He slammed the shifter into park. His hands wrenched my shoulder, forcing me to meet his furious gaze.

“The man finds something like that in his car—open—and this is your reaction? You used to give me three days of silent treatment for a stray hair on my collar! Are you trying to act the bigger person? Are you punishing me with this passive-aggressive cold shoulder?”

His grip was painfully tight. Beneath the anger, I detected a flicker of something far more fragile: panic.

I almost laughed. I used to fight, and he’d call me a shrew. Now I was calm, and he thought I didn’t care enough. People, I realized, are just gluttons for punishment.

I carefully peeled his fingers off my arm. I reached up and smoothed the lapel of his blazer, which his rough movements had skewed. I offered him a soft, compliant smile.

“Damon, I’m tired. I’m too tired to fight. You said we needed mutual trust to make this work. I’ve changed, just like you asked. Isn't this better?”

He stared at my smile, his eyes searching, desperate to find the crack in my composure.

After a long moment, he dropped his hands, slumped against the seat, and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. In the rising haze of smoke, his expression was utterly unreadable.

“Fine, Ainsley. You’re unbelievable.”