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Chapter One

CALLIE

The front door slams and my heart skips, throat tightening. Breathe, Callie. It’s okay. But every step Theo takes in my direction, every stomp, sends my pulse into overdrive. He’s mad. Again. I do my best to finish putting on my eyeshadow, but it’s hard with trembling hands.

I hear his breath moments before he storms into the bathroom.

“You’re still fucking getting ready?”

Exhaling to steady my fluttering heart, I set the brush down and pick up the mascara. “I’m almost done. Are we leaving early?” I ask instead of telling him that he told me I still have thirty minutes. Arguing with him only escalates the situation, and I’m too tired from three late bartending shifts to deal with his adult sized temper tantrums.

“Jesus, Callie! It’s like you don’t even care about me. Tonight is my big show, and you’re already making it about you.”

Maybe I don’t. The thought rushes through my head, and I frown at it. Things have been bad between me and Theo lately. I met him at an artist collective years ago. We fell madly in love—only now I realize it was never actually love; it was simply a fever dream of lust and my burning desire to make it in New York City. Theo fit in. He’s the quintessential artist. Terrible with money, constantly taking loans from his family. He’s chaotic. Messy. Brilliant.

Or I used to think so.

He surges forward and swipes the mascara from my hand and chucks it into the shower.

And right now, he’s a complete asshole. “Theo, what the hell?” There’s only so long I can play peacekeeper before the old Callie rears her head. I’ve already given up so much of myself in an effort to please him, but no matter how hard I try, he’s never happy.

I’m starting to wonder if it was ever worth it.

“Are you trying to embarrass me?” he demands, looming over me.

I used to love the fact that he was over six feet tall. Now I feel cornered with him blocking the only escape. My heart thrashes in my chest, the shaking in my hands traveling through my body. “What do you mean?”

He jabs his hand in my direction. “You look like a slut.”

My mouth parts slightly. The dress I’m wearing covers all of my cleavage and hits above the knee. It’s the most conservative thing I own. “Do you want me to change?”

“Yes, Callie.” He spits my name. “I want you to fucking change so you don’t make me look stupid.”

The only one who looks stupid is you. My scowl deepens at the thought, and as soon as it does, Theo grabs my arm, squeezing hard enough to shock the air from my lungs. We’ve had some pretty heated arguments lately. He’s thrown things at me. Punched the wall. Degraded me. This though? This is new.

“What I need is for you to stop acting like such a bitch and for once in our relationship support me.” He drags me closer.

I resist, tugging to break his grip, but the pads of his fingers dig in. “Theo! You’re hurting me!”

“I’m barely touching you,” he counters, face inches from mine now, hold on me unbreakable. “Wipe that fucking look off your face.”

Shame burns through me as I do as I’m told, softening my features and smiling. “Better?”

Sneering, he shoves me away from him. I stumble slightly but catch myself. If I’d been in heels, it would be a different story.

“You have ten minutes.” He crosses his arms and stares at me.

My throat burns, and I blink back tears, hating myself. With a sniff, I slip past him, holding my arm as I head to the closet. I have no idea how I got here. When I ran from my hometown, I swore I’d make a name for myself in NYC, and when Theo expressed interest, I was so desperate to make my dreams come true, I ignored the warning signs.

He was always a little controlling, but I wrote it off as a quirk.

The floor creaks behind me, and I stiffen, glancing over my shoulder.

Theo is watching me. His eyes narrow, daring me to question him.

His violence isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always bruise. Sometimes the worst part of his abuse is found in the moments of quiet where the threat of his anger hangs in the air between us. A single look that makes me regret ever speaking or smiling. One grin at the wrong person, one wrong word, will set him off for weeks.

Just get through the night.