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Me: I just got home with pizza! :)
Chloe: Good. Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning! XO
Without sending a response, I lock my phone and set it on my kitchen counter. No other texts or calls will come through tonight. Unless they’re from Chloe. I know that for a fact. Because there is only one contact saved in my phone—hers.
I pour myself a glass of water, quickly scarf down three slices of my pizza, and then store the rest in my fridge for later.
My bed is calling to me like a siren. With my mug of water, I swipe my phone from the counter, and in less than five steps, I’m at the edge of my bed, pulling the comforter back and climbing in.
I don’t think the loft was ever intended to be used for a living space, but Chloe had a vision when she saw the place and turned her vision into a reality.
Her brother, Derek, is a surgeon. He works constantly, but he still managed to find time to do the majority of the physical labor while Chloe decorated the small studio apartment with the softest hues in pale and earth tones. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple—she picked every color of the rainbow. And somehow, it still looks put together and simple.
She was also the one who insisted I dye my hair the pale pink it is right now. My natural color is comparable to the brown hues of dark chocolate. And I had never done a color outside of going a little lighter or darker brown, outside of my one slipup. So, going pale pink is something Trey would never expect, so different from my usual routine.
It took much longer than I’d expected to get from my dark brown to this shade of pink. And I vividly remember the anxiety and bone-deep fear that coursed through me as Chloe’s hairdresser dyed my hair. The fear that he had instilled in me if I broke any of his rules.
I’d made the mistake of shaking things up when I was still with him, opting for a red hue in my hair.
I paid the price for that mistake. I learned two lessons that day: Trey Roark didn’t want to love me; he wanted to own me, shape me, and mold me into whatever he desired. And I learned to never make the same mistake twice.
My fingers danced over the doorknob before twisting it, and I walked into the entrance of his home. Nerves coursed through me.
What if he hates it?
I’d decided to add some red highlights and a reddish glaze over my hair. Along with the color shift, I let the hairstylist cut a few more inches off than she normally did. Instead of hitting below my breasts, my new hair stopped right at my collarbone.
“Hey, babe. I have a little surprise to show you,” I sang through the house.
Trey was probably still holed up in his office. He often spent long hours there.
I was right.
Five feet down the hall, the office door opened with a fierce force. An angry Trey strolled through, eyes on his feet. “This day could not get any fucking worse.”
Hoping he liked the change, I cleared my throat, attempting to grab his attention. But when he looked up, my heart cracked, broke. And so did any shred of Trey I’d thought I knew.
He looked at me with disgust, like the mere sight of me caused him physical pain.
When he spoke, his voice was furious, ragged. “What have you done to yourself? I just told you how horrible my day was, and you thought this would make it better? Stupid. I like your hair brown, and you know that. Are you intentionally trying to piss me off?”
I fiddled with the healthy ends of my hair, my heart beginning to race faster and faster with every step he took toward me. “I-I thought a change would b-be fun.”
My breaths were coming in and out in short bursts. Trey wouldn’t physically hurt me. Sure, he’d said things some might find mean, cruel even. He was an emotional guy who always said things he didn’t mean and always made up for it later.
I heard it before I felt it. The smack of flesh on flesh. My cheek caught on fire.
He had slapped me. Hard.
His scowl deepened. I still couldn’t believe he had just hit—
Another smack. My other cheek burned hotter, and a stream of warm liquid ran down my face.
“I don’t like your hair like this. You look like a cheap whore.”
Smack. Burning hotter than the last.
“Why would you try to make my day worse? I liked your hair before. My girlfriend will not look like a slut with this fake red.”
