“Tell me you don’t love me.” He cupped my cheek. His palm was warm, but it wasn’t electric. Not like Axel’s touch.
“Mathew.” I pressed my hand on top of his, looking into his eyes. “I will always care about you. But you need to understand that?—”
His lips crashed into mine.
I gasped from the shock and tried to pull back. But his grip was unyielding. He wasn’t being mean, but he was desperate. I could feel it in the strength of his kiss, the way his fingers threaded through my hair like he was trying to keep me locked in this moment.
I pressed both hands against his shoulders and pushed back.
“I love you, Dakota. I’m not letting you go.”
Something about the way he’d said it sent warning bells clanging in my head. “I’m not a collectible, Mathew.”
“You’re my wife. You just don’t know it yet.”
And there it was. Some people would probably hear those words and find them romantic. Hell, maybe I would have a few months ago. But hearing the authority in his voice, seeingthat possessive look in his eyes? I didn’t find anything romantic about it at all.
In fact, seemingly mundane moments were replaying in my mind like a highlight reel I definitely didn’t want to watch. How, when I’d get ready for dinner with him, he had strong opinions about which dress I wore. What color eye shadow. At the time, I thought it was adorable, having a boyfriend who wanted to help me get ready.
He liked our outfits to be coordinated. Always.
And that time we went grocery shopping when I was in jeans and flip-flops and he ran into an old work buddy, he seemed … annoyed. Had made a comment about me not wearing makeup. In public. To get groceries.
“You know what your problem is?” he said, his tone shifting to something colder. “You’ve forgotten what made you special. The perfectly polished Dakota. That’s who I fell in love with. This person”—he gestured toward me, now wearing jeans and a T-shirt—“isn’t the real you. You’re confused.”
How did I not see this before? Mathew started dating me when my social media persona had taken off. The one who always looked perfect online. He liked the curated me. The fake me.
While Axel liked the real me. Messy hair, no-makeup me.
“I don’t think you like who I actually am,” I said slowly, the realization hitting me like a bus I should have seen coming. “I think you only liked it when I looked perfect.”
“Who doesn’t like perfection? You’re beautiful with your makeup on and your hair done. Why wouldn’t you want to show that off?”
“But that’s just for the camera, Mathew. When the lights go down, I’m just an ordinary person. You know that.”
A look crossed his face. Something cold. Dismissive. “I was giving you a compliment.”
“You’re saying that the best part about me is the version of myself that I put online.”
He didn’t deny it.
Which felt like someone had just ripped the ground out from under me. All those times I’d felt insecure about not being perfect enough, about whether people would still love me if they saw the real me? Mathew had just confirmed my worst nightmare. For him, I wasn’t enough just as I was. I was only lovable when I was performing. When I looked like I belonged in a magazine instead of, you know, real life.
I felt sick to my stomach. Couldn’t breathe. Needed to run until my muscles screamed for relief.
“That isn’t me, Mathew. That’s just a persona.”
“Of course it’s you.”
“What, you want me to be some kind of trophy wife?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Having a beautiful wife on my arm that I enjoy showing off should flatter you.”
“Should it?” The words felt like someone had taken sandpaper to my heart. “I’m not an accessory, Mathew. I’m a human being. I’m smart and hardworking and college-educated. I help my family. I built a business from nothing. My hair and makeup don’t define who I am.”
“You defined yourself that way.”
His words were like a slap that left me reeling.
