It was a Tuesday in November when Dex’s latest gallery exhibit was rejected by the Whitmore Foundation, a prestigious venue that could have launched his career into the stratosphere. He had been so confident about the submission, spending weeks perfecting his artist statement and selecting just the right pieces to showcase his “evolving vision.” The rejection letter was polite but devastating—standard language about the competitive nature of their exhibitions, empty encouragement about future submissions, the kind of professional courtesy that felt like a slap wrapped in silk.
I found him that evening sitting at our kitchen table, the letter crumpled beside his laptop, an empty whiskey bottle standing like a monument to his disappointment. We had been married for two months by then, living in a small but charming apartment in Brooklyn. I had resigned from my marketing job after the wedding, trusting Dex when he said his career—especially with the Whitmore Foundation—was about to take off and that I wouldn’t need to work.
He wanted me to be a housewife, to have a baby, to be there for every milestone—so that our child would have the care and presence he had never received growing up, instead of the cold, distant upbringing he knew all too well.
Now all our expenses were covered by him, and my savings had become part of our joint account, under his management. My independence, once measured by my own paycheck, was gone, folded neatly into the financial world he controlled.
“They don’t understand real talent,” he said when I walked through the door, his words already slurred with alcohol. “It’s all politics. All about who you know, not what you can create.”
I set down my purse and approached him carefully, the way you might approach a wounded animal. “I’m sorry, baby. I know how much this meant to you.”
“Do you?” He looked up at me then, and something in his eyes was different. Harder. “Do you really know what it’s like to pour your soul into something and have it rejected by people who wouldn’t recognize genius if it punched them in the face?”
The edge in his voice made me pause. I’ve seen Dex disappointed before—when galleries passed on his work, when clients chose other artists for commissions—but this felt different. More personal. More volatile.
“Of course I understand,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “Rejection is hard in any field. But this doesn’t mean anything about your talent. Maybe we could look into other galleries, other opportunities?—”
“Other galleries.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Right. Because you’re the expert on the art world now.”
The comment stung, but I tried to push past it. “I’m not an expert. I just wanted to help.”
“Help?” Dex stood up, swaying slightly as he reached for the whiskey bottle and discovered it was empty. “You want to help? Stop pretending you understand what I’m going through. Stop acting like your little marketing job gives you insight into real creativity.”
My cheeks burned with embarrassment and rising anger. “If you hadn’t made me resign, I could’ve helped with our expenses. You wouldn’t have felt so pressured. My marketing job could’ve paid for this apartment, your supplies, the groceries in our refrigerator?—”
That was when his hand connected with my cheek.
The slap was sharp and sudden, echoing through our small kitchen like a gunshot. I stumbled backward, more from shock than force, my hand flying to my face as the skin immediately started to burn.
For a moment, we both froze. Dex stared at me with wide eyes, his expression shifting from anger to something that might have been horror. I stood there with my hand pressed to my cheek, trying to process what had just happened.
“Willa,” he whispered. His voice was completely different—broken, desperate. “Oh God, Willa, I’m so sorry.”
I wanted to run. Every instinct screamed at me to grab my purse, walk out the door, and never come back. But I also saw the devastation on his face, the way his hands started shaking as the alcohol and adrenaline wore off.
“I didn’t mean to,” he continued, taking a step toward me before stopping himself. “I would never—You know I’m not that kind of person.”
And the terrible thing was, I believed him. Or thought I did. The Dex who courted me for four months, who brought me flowers, listened to my problems, and made me feel valued—that man would never have raised his hand to me. Thisfelt like an aberration, a moment of weakness brought on by disappointment and too much alcohol.
“You hurt me,” I said, my voice barely audible.
“I know. I know, and I hate myself for it.” Tears streamed down his face. “I was so stressed about money, about my career. Everything was falling apart, and I took it out on you because you were the only good thing in my life. The only thing I couldn’t afford to lose. And I couldn’t let my goddamn parents be right—about me being a failure, about art being a childish dream.”
He reached for me then, slowly, as if afraid I might bolt. When I didn’t pull away, he gathered me into his arms and held me while he cried against my hair.
“I’ll never do it again,” he whispered. “I swear on my grandmother’s grave, I will never hurt you again. Please don’t leave me. Please, Willa. I couldn’t lose you, too.”
I stood there in his arms, my cheek still stinging, trying to decide what to do. The rational part of my brain knew this was a red flag: men who hit their partners once usually hit again. But the louder part of me—the part that had been lonely for so long, that had finally found someone who chose me first—wanted to believe him.
Because if I left, what then? I would go back to my empty apartment, my empty life, my endless cycle of wondering what was wrong with me that Kieran Cross had been able to walk away so easily. At least with Dex, I mattered enough to fight for. At least with Dex, I was worth wanting.
“It can’t happen again,” I said into his shoulder. “Ever.”
“It won’t. I promise you.”
For three weeks, he kept that promise.
He was the perfect guy again—attentive, apologetic, constantly bringing me small gifts and tokens of affection. He cut back on his drinking, started going to the gym to work offhis stress, and even began seeing a therapist who specialized in anger management.
