Chapter 2Bleeding For A Woman Who Does Not Care

Damon Blackwell was a man born to be worshipped.

He was Manhattan’s golden boy, the heir to a dynasty—good-looking, blue-blooded, and frighteningly capable.

I spent five years orbiting Damon like a manic, desperate satellite. Everyone in our social circle knew: Ainsley Hayes was Damon’s self-made liability.

I was his pet.

If Damon snapped his fingers, I’d cancel meetings and drive across three boroughs just to drop off a vintage lighter he might toss in the trash ten minutes later. If another woman came within his orbit, I’d turn into a territorial lioness, screaming and clawing to mark my turf.

Damon hated it. His brow was constantly furrowed with impatience and disgust.

“Ainsley, can’t you be reasonable?”

“I can’t stand this suffocating feeling of being managed all the time. Can’t you have some dignity?”

“If you throw one more childish fit, we’re done.”

Six months ago, we were finally done.

The immediate trigger, of course, was Tatum. The daughter of a family friend, the unofficial little sister, the name that always came up when we fought. Damon insisted he was only looking out for her, big brother style, and I shouldn’t worry.

But that night, Damon left me—burning up with a fever, shivering on the shoulder of the I-95—to bail Tatum out of the precinct after she’d been caught street racing. I walked for two miles in the freezing rain to flag down a cab.

When I eventually found him and hysterically confronted him, Tatum was hiding behind Damon, shivering dramatically. She sniffled, playing the good kid: “Damon, please don’t be mad at Ainsley. It’s my fault for calling you when you were on a date. I’m sorry. Don’t fight over me.”

Damon immediately pulled her into a protective embrace. Over his shoulder, Tatum smirked at me. She mouthed a single, silent word: Jerk.

My sanity crumbled. I lunged at her.

Damon didn't even hesitate. He raised his hand and slapped me, hard, right across the face, in front of the entire police station lobby.

“Ainsley, how could you be so vicious? She's nineteen, she's a kid! I have to look out for her. Can’t you stop acting like a fishwife who only knows how to pick fights?”

It was the first time he’d ever laid a hand on me. My cheek was on fire, but the pain in my chest was blinding.

That slap was the cold shock that finally woke me up.

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth, looking at the man I had loved for five years, suddenly a stranger. There were no more hysterics.

I touched my stinging cheek, looked him in the eye, and said, with a terrifying calm, “Damon, we’re finished.”

He looked surprised for a split second, then sneered, his expression filled with disdain and absolute certainty that I’d crawl back.

“Fine, Ainsley. You’ve got nerve. Walk out, but don’t come crawling back in two days begging. I won’t be so easy to forgive this time.”

He turned his back on me instantly to comfort the “traumatized” Tatum, leaving me with nothing but a definitive, unforgiving exit.