Bleeding 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?”

1 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.” 2 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. 3 The six months that followed were a grueling, savage withdrawal. I couldn’t sleep. When I closed my eyes, all I saw was the fading red of his taillights on the interstate and the searing, bright pain of that slap. That night’s high fever, compounded by the time I spent in the cold, had taken its toll. My right ear’s nerve was permanently damaged. The doctor’s words were a blur of regret. I had permanent hearing loss and constant, high-pitched tinnitus. It was Damon’s most profound souvenir. The world to my right was now silent, filled only with the ceaseless screaming in my ear, a permanent reminder of the despair of that night. During my weakest moments, I became a pathetic voyeur, creating a fake account to stalk Tatum Van Doren’s social media. Damon had blocked me, so I used her feed to hunt for glimpses of him. She posted pictures of the Michelin-starred meals he took her to, the limited-edition bags he bought her, and even a picture of her wearing his oversized cashmere sweater, bare-legged, curled up in his library chair playing XBox. Her captions were always the same, a veiled boast disguised as a complaint: “Ugh, big brother made me come here. So annoying.” Then there was the post celebrating our breakup: “Universal celebration! Big brother finally dumped the psycho ex who wouldn’t quit. Some people have zero self-awareness. What does five years matter? The seat you occupied was never meant for you, and it’s finally been cleared for the main character.” “Go look in the mirror, sweetie. You never stood a chance.” The ultimate insult: Damon Blackwell had liked the post. The stinging words burned my eyes. I was crying before I realized it. The precious, careful affection I had begged for over five years was now her casual, everyday boast. On countless sleepless nights, with the tinnitus roaring in my head, I would curl up on the bathroom floor, deleting and rewriting text messages to him through my tears. Damon, I’m in so much pain. Damon, I can’t hear. Please come back. Before, if I so much as grimaced, he would be instantly alarmed. He’d pause his video conferences, rub his hands together until they were scalding, and burrow under the covers to warm my perpetually cold stomach. He’d scowl and call me fragile, but he wouldn’t sleep all night, pausing every few minutes to kiss my forehead and ask if I was okay. I genuinely believed, then, that he loved me more than anyone. But I always chickened out. When the sky lightened, I’d feel silly and weak, deleting every plea. I lived in a six-month state of zombie-like fog. I’d confuse day and night, robotically waking up, going to the office, and going back to bed. I’d squeeze face wash onto my toothbrush, wear two mismatched slippers to take out the trash, and stare at a stain on the ceiling for hours. I rotted in that chaos for half a year, and the Ainsley who loved him was finally, truly dead. Then, a month ago, Damon came back. Drunk, he smashed open my front door, clung to me, and repeated my name over and over. He buried his head in my neck, his lips right against my right ear, whispering a torrent of apologies and admissions. I heard nothing. The irony was crushing: he thought he was making a profound, romantic declaration, but I was a silent spectator watching him perform. When he finished, he pulled his head back and saw my blank expression. He raised his voice, and the sound—that familiar, imperious, take-charge tone—finally pierced my left ear. “Ainsley, have you had enough? I’m here. I’m giving you the out. I’ve extended the olive branch. Come home, be good, and I’ll pretend the last six months never happened.” We got back together. He unilaterally announced that our relationship could resume. I didn’t object. This time, I was the dream girl he’d always wanted: the docile, reasonable, dignified girlfriend. Whatever he said, as long as his head was turned towards my right ear, I would simply nod and agree. I didn’t want him to know I was permanently damaged. 4 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.”