Down the Rabbit Hole - Holly Madison

stunned and seething.
How dare he have me followed, I thought. For seven ridiculous years, I remained entirely
faithful to this man. Even if my evening did include some temptations, I had conducted myself like a
good girlfriend. I wouldn’t even kiss Criss when we were alone in a hotel room in a moment I thought
would forever remain private.
I knew Hef well enough to know that in his head, I was already categorized as a “cheater.” I
might as well slap a big scarlet A on my chest, because he would never let me live this down . . .
even though there was nothing to actually live down. I was sure that for the rest of our relationship he
would call upon this incident every time he didn’t get his way and use it as leverage. I could kiss
good-bye any chance of spending another night away from the mansion again.
One of Hef’s favorite stories to call upon during press interviews is how, in his pre-Playboy
days, his first wife, Mildred Williams, cheated on him during their engagement. When his thenfiancée
confessed to being unfaithful, he was devastated, but chose to marry her anyway. Of course
the marriage ended, but I always felt he used this incident as a way to justify his philandering
behavior and to gain sympathy from the public. It was as if he was saying, “Sure, I’m a womanizer,
but my ex-wife made me that way. She did this to me.” In fact, he seemed to have a penchant for
cheaters. After all, he did crave drama. His second wife was rumored to have been unfaithful (with a
member of the mansion staff), and his third wife ran out of their first planned wedding to be with just
one of the several men she had allegedly cheated on Hef with.
It would never change, I thought. Hef would never change. If I stay, this would be my life.
And in that moment I knew I couldn’t stay. I wouldn’t stay. I was finally done.
RETURNING HOME FROM LAS Vegas felt as awkward as you could possibly imagine. I was determined
to make my exit as quickly as possible, but Hef kept putting off having too much of a serious
conversation about it. He pleaded with me to stay, “despite hurting” him, but I just gave him the cold
shoulder. It seemed he felt that if he could somehow stall and put off my leaving as long as possible
that I would just forget about wanting to leave and everything would go back to normal (save for the
giant imaginary albatross he had to hang over my head). He could sense something inside me had
shifted and was waiting for it to shift back. I wouldn’t allow him to manipulate me anymore. I had to
make it clear to Hef that I was leaving.
Over the course of our relationship, I’d only ever initiated a “serious” conversation with Hef
once, maybe twice. The morning after returning home from Las Vegas, I stopped by Mary’s office
before heading out for the day to tell her I needed to talk to Hef as soon as possible. I felt that if I
could get Hef on the phone, I could say what I needed to say without him trying to throw me off
course, pull at my heartstrings, or lay on the guilt, as I was sure he would be successful at doing if we
tried to talk face-to-face.
“Hey, honey,” Mary said, a bit cautiously when she called a few hours later. For months she’d
seen the warning signs and knew what was coming. “Hef’s on the line.”
Before I could say a word, I heard Hef speak weakly into the receiver: “Mary says you have