Chapter 4Bleeding For A Woman Who Does Not Care

Life after the reconciliation was surprisingly peaceful. But it was different.

Damon started coming home.

Before, he used to use work and business dinners as an excuse to disappear for weeks. Now, he was at the apartment every night he didn't have an absolutely unavoidable engagement.

He even started proactively reporting his schedule.

“Dinner with the Board, not the CEO, at The Waverly.”

“Tatum is threatening to run away again. I have to check on her. I’ll be back soon.”

“That actress was just a formality our partner sent over to say hi. I didn't touch her.”

My only response to every message was a single, noncommittal word:

“Okay.”

I stopped calling him every five minutes. I stopped questioning him about his late nights. I stopped having a breakdown every time I smelled another woman’s perfume on his jacket.

I simply went to work, cooked, cleaned, and took care of him. I was a flawless, emotionless domestic robot.

But I could sense his mounting anxiety.

He started getting rougher during sex, forcing me to shout his name, forcing me to say, “I love you.” Afterward, he would clutch me so tightly it felt like he was afraid I would vanish.

This pathetic dance of codependency used to be my specialty. Now it was his.

How the tables had turned.

Friday evening, Damon said he wanted to take me to a charity auction.

“There’s a pink diamond necklace I want to bid on. It would look incredible on you.” He draped an arm around my waist, his voice laced with uncharacteristic eagerness.

I didn’t say no.

The ballroom was a sea of glittering gowns and high-level socialites. Damon kept his hand firmly on my back, ensuring everyone knew I was his woman.

Until Tatum arrived.

The girl was an absolute mess of rebellious chic, dressed in a punk leather mini-skirt and a sheer black top. She stood out jarringly among the evening wear. She saw Damon, her eyes immediately welling up, and she ran across the room and flung herself into his arms.

“Damon! My dad is trying to ship me off to boarding school! You have to save me!”

In front of everyone, Damon instinctively released my hand to catch the staggering girl.

Wearing four-inch stilettos, I lost my balance. I stumbled backward, right into a towering glass champagne flute display.

Crash!

The shattering glass was deafening. Shards sliced through my ankle. My white silk dress instantly began to wick up the blood, leaving a horrifying, deep red stain. I was completely ruined.

The onlookers were having a field day, watching the drama unfold: the Blackwell heir caught between the loyal fiancée and the chaotic little sister.

The old Ainsley would have been shrieking, demanding to know why he let go of me, rushing to tear Tatum’s hair out.

But the new me simply bent down calmly, pressed a cocktail napkin to the gushing wound, and told the terrified waiter, “It’s fine. It wasn’t your fault.”

I was slick with cold sweat, my face pale. I was holding onto the edge of the table, using every ounce of willpower not to collapse.

Damon turned, saw the blood, and a flash of genuine panic crossed his eyes. He started toward me.

But before he could take a step, Tatum locked her arms around his waist.

“Damon, I’m scared! There’s so much blood! I’m going to faint! My stomach hurts!” she shrieked, dry-heaving dramatically, looking far more distressed than the one who was actually bleeding.

Damon froze. His gaze flickered between my bleeding ankle and the hysterical girl in his arms.

It was the classic choice.

He chose Tatum when we broke up. He chose Tatum now that we were back together.

It was never, ever me.

“Ains, that’s just a scratch. You need to call an Uber to the nearest emergency room. Tatum’s anxiety is turning into an ulcer attack. It could be serious. I have to take her first.” His words came out fast, a rush of decision, and he couldn't meet my eyes.

I just stared at him, then nodded quietly. “Okay. Go on. Don’t worry about me.”

No tears. No fights. No questions.

Damon looked utterly bewildered, clearly thrown by how easily I’d let him off the hook. But he didn’t have time to process it. He tossed out a clipped: “Text me when you’ve been stitched up,” and carried Tatum out the door, never looking back.

I was left alone, bleeding, standing in a pile of broken glass, a joke under the weight of the socialites’ stares.

The wound was agonizing, but a strange, liberating rush of clarity swept through me. It felt like a heavy stone had finally been lifted from my chest. I wasn't just relieved; I wanted to laugh.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number.

“Hello. I’ve made up my mind.”