The Wrong Play: A Football Romance (The Wrong Player Series Book 2)
The Wrong Play: Prologue

NINETEEN YEARS OLD

The moment he left me, I felt it.

The hollow ache.

The sickening weight pressing down on my chest like something inside me had caved in. I barely remembered the drive home; I barely noticed when my feet carried me through the front door of my parents’ empty house. The silence was deafening, stretching through the space like a reminder of just how alone I was.

I dropped my bag by the stairs, numb, my head spinning with the words Brandon had said before walking away.

It’s not you, Riley. I just need to figure some things out.

I don’t want to hurt you.

I think we should see other people.

We need time apart to figure out who we both really are.

And the last one.

You need someone who understands you.

Lies. Each and every one of them. The type of pretty words a guy says when he doesn’t have the guts to tell you the truth—he wants someone else.

I sniffed, my throat thick, my vision blurring. I didn’t want to cry over him.

But it wasn’t just him. It was everything. The way my parents were always gone, too distracted by their own lives to notice me. Always off on business trips or charity galas, smiling for cameras, pretending they had a perfect family waiting at home. But they didn’t. I was home. And they weren’t.

Because who could even want me?

Brandon had been right to leave. He’d figured it out before I did—that I was too much and not enough all at the same time. Too needy, too desperate, too pathetic. I clung too hard to things that didn’t belong to me, to people who were already halfway out the door.

Maybe there was something broken inside me, something unlovable. Something that was constantly chasing after something that didn’t want to be caught.

Maybe it was the way my body was always working against me. The exhaustion, the pain that never really went away, the days where even getting out of bed felt like a battle. My chronic exhaustion had been a shadow over my life for as long as I could remember—one that I’d stopped talking about, because what was the point? No one wanted to hear about it. No one wanted to deal with the baggage that came with me. Certainly no one wanted to empathize with the fact that I was having to take a gap year between high school and starting my life…because my body wouldn’t cooperate.

I was always alone.

Always.

I wasn’t in love with Brandon. After he’d graduated high school, we’d hung out until I graduated a year later. He was nice. He included me. He filled the spots of loneliness.

Or at least he had.

Even if I wasn’t in love with him, this broken connection hurt. It made the loneliness I’d always felt come back…full force.

I walked into the kitchen, heading straight for the fridge, ready to drown myself in whatever I could replace on the shelves. But I froze.

Because tonight…it turned out I actually wasn’t alone.

He sat at the kitchen table like he belonged there, fingers lazily flipping through one of my father’s leather-bound books. A half-full glass of scotch sat beside him, and I knew if I got closer, its scent would mix with his. The faintest trace of his cologne—warm cedarwood and something deeper, something that always lingered long after he’d left.

“Riley, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, lifting his eyes from the book. His voice was smooth and unhurried—like honey laced with something sharp, something dangerous. It was the kind of voice that wrapped around you like silk. Or at least it had always felt that way for me.

Professor Callum Westwood.

My father’s best friend.

His gaze ran over me, slow and knowing, like he could see everything. The pain. The vulnerability. The pathetic, broken girl standing in front of him with her heart in pieces.

I swallowed, gripping the counter behind me. “What are you doing here?”

He smirked, setting the book down. “Your father asked me to check on the house while they were away.”

Of course he had. My father trusted him implicitly. So did my mother.

And I did too.

I pretended not to notice his wording—the insinuation that my parents had asked him to check on the house…but not on me. But I felt it. Another reminder that there was no one who cared.

For years, Callum had been a fixture in my life—family dinners, weekend barbecues, holidays. He was brilliant, charming…respected.

And dangerous.

At least in my head.

He was handsome in a way that made women stop in their tracks. His dark-brown hair had just the right amount of silver at the temples, adding to his air of sophistication. His chiseled, angular jaw always carried the shadow of a five o’clock stubble, and his piercing blue eyes held an intensity that made it impossible to look away. He looked every bit the polished professor, the kind of man who exuded effortless charm.

The community adored him—respected him. His tailored suits, composed demeanor, and knowing smiles only added to his allure, painting the perfect picture of a man who carried himself with quiet dignity.

I had always been aware of him in a way I shouldn’t have been. There had been times—quick glances, fleeting moments—where I’d felt something. Something dark and consuming. Something that sent a thrill down my spine and left me ashamed of myself.

And now…he was here, and I was a mess, and he was looking at me like he knew exactly what I was feeling right now.

“Something wrong?” he asked, tilting his head.

I forced a weak laugh, blinking fast. “Just tired.”

He hummed, pushing back from the table, standing with the easy grace of a man who never rushed for anything.

“You’ve been crying.”

I stiffened. “I⁠—”

“Boy troubles?”

I swallowed, humiliated.

“You’ve been dating some boy from school the last few months, right?”

I blinked at him, surprised that he would know that when I was sure that my own parents didn’t.

“Yes,” I whispered. “But…he broke it off.” The words came out filled with pain. Deep pain. Something I shouldn’t be showing anyone.

He took a slow step toward me, his voice lower, softer. “Did he hurt you?”

Yes.

No.

I didn’t know how to answer that.

Because there were a million ways to hurt someone.

There was the ripping away of something you thought was real.

There was the silence that followed, the emptiness where something warm used to be.

There was the quiet, brutal way someone could make you feel like you were never enough.

My silence must have been all the answer he needed, because Callum exhaled through his nose, a slow, controlled breath. His eyes darkened, his fingers flexing at his sides.

“He’s a fool,” he said.

The words made my stomach twist.

Because…it almost sounded like he meant them.

But that was probably me imagining it. Wishful thinking of the highest order.

He took another step toward me, closing the space between us until I could feel the warmth of his body.

The feel of his closeness was steady…something to anchor myself to.

And I had been drifting for so, so long.

“He didn’t deserve you,” he continued, his voice smooth and coaxing.

His fingers skimmed my hand, a whisper of touch—barely there, yet somehow devastating.

A shiver rolled through me.

It wasn’t supposed to feel good. Alarms were blaring loudly in my head, in fact.

But it did.

Callum’s hand moved higher, his fingers tracing over my pulse, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of my veins. “You need someone who can take care of you,” he murmured, his voice dangerous in the way a blade glinted just before it struck.

My breath hitched as his grip tightened, just barely. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make me hyperaware of how easily he could.

“Someone who knows what you need.” His tone was rich, laced with something dark, something final, as if he were the only one who truly understood. The only one who ever could.

I swallowed hard, my head spinning.

This wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t.

He was just comforting me.

He was just here.

And Callum had always known how to say the right thing, how to make people believe in him.

His fingers slid up my forearm, his touch deceptively gentle. “I can take care of you, Riley,” he whispered, his voice slipping through my ribs like smoke, curling into something cold and inescapable.

My breath hitched.

Because no one else ever had.

His fingers skated up my jaw, tilting my chin up. His touch was light. Too light. Like he was giving me a choice. Like he was waiting for me to close the space between us.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” he whispered.

My throat tightened.

Because I was.

I was pretending to be fine.

I was pretending I wasn’t hurt.

I was pretending I didn’t need someone to put their hands on me just to feel something other than this hollow ache.

And Callum? He knew.

The warmth of his hand spread through me, pulling me in like a slow, steady tide. I couldn’t think. I could only feel.

His thumb pressed against the base of my throat. A slow, lingering pause.

Like he was waiting. Like he was seeing if I’d stop him.

And I didn’t.

Because maybe I wanted to be wanted. Maybe I wanted to feel something, anything other than this ache.

Brandon had wanted me for awhile, but anyone would get tired of their girlfriend always needing to cancel plans because of their chronic exhaustion…or not being fun enough. And then he’d stopped wanting me.

And now Callum was here.

And maybe…maybe he wanted me.

His face dipped lower, his lips just a breath away. “I could make you forget him.”

The words coated my skin, sinking deep. The air thickened. I was breathless. Lost.

My pulse thrummed against my skin, erratic, frantic, like it didn’t know whether to flee or surrender.

“You’re beautiful,” Callum murmured, his eyes never leaving mine. Dark and unreadable, but steady—like he was completely confident in what he was doing.

“You always have been.”

Heat flushed down my spine, a foreign, disorienting sensation taking root in my chest.

No one had ever looked at me like this.

Like I was something to be devoured. Like I was something worth wanting.

My breath hitched as he lifted a hand, his knuckles grazing the side of my face, slow and deliberate. The touch was still light—so light that I felt it everywhere.

He wasn’t rushing. He was waiting. Waiting for me to let him in.

“Riley,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic hum.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t do anything but stand there, trapped between the past I wanted to outrun and the man standing in front of me, offering something else.

But…this was wrong, right?

And he was old enough to be my dad.

I’d thought he was handsome, sure. But Callum had always been a fixture in our house, always there, a shadow in the background of my life. Reliable. Present. Not…this.

Not a man who looked at me like he saw something worth wanting.

I swallowed hard as I stared back at him.

I could still walk away.

But his eyes, dark and knowing, held me in place.

And I…I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.

Callum leaned in, brushing his lips against my temple, lingering. His breath was warm against my skin, each exhale coiling through me, filling all the empty spaces.

“Come upstairs.”

A whisper. A promise.

I tensed.

I shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t.

“I don’t⁠—”

Callum’s fingers moved down my arm, a slow, steady glide before he took my wrist gently in his grasp.

His thumb pressed against my pulse point again, like he already knew what my body wanted, even if my mind didn’t.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want, Riley.”

His voice was smooth. Reassuring. A lullaby of certainty.

“Just let me take care of you.”

Take care of me. Like I was something fragile. Like I was something worth handling carefully.

Like I was someone who deserved it.

It was all I had ever wanted.

My chest ached with the need to be seen. To be chosen. To be wanted.

I let out a slow, unsteady breath, and I nodded.

Callum’s lips curled in satisfaction, and he didn’t say anything else.

He didn’t push. He just turned, still holding my wrist, and started walking.

And I let him lead me upstairs.

Inside my room, the air was heavy and charged. I stood in front of him, my breathing uneven, shallow, his presence swallowing up the space around me.

Callum’s hands brushed the hem of my shirt, slow, unhurried, his fingertips skimming the fabric in a way that felt deliberate.

Waiting for me to stop him.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

He slid beneath the fabric, his fingers featherlight as they traced along the bare skin of my stomach, moving higher, along my ribs. I shuddered, heat licking up my spine, my skin flaring to life beneath his touch.

His hands were warm, steady. Assured. Like he had all the time in the world to do this, to unwrap me piece by piece.

A shaky breath left me. This was happening.

I wasn’t sure what I had expected. Maybe for him to be rougher. Hungrier.

Instead, he was methodical and patient, like I was something to be unwrapped slowly. Like he was memorizing every little reaction, every hitched breath, every moment of hesitation.

“I’ve never done this before,” I whispered, my hands curling into fists.

The words felt fragile, like something I should have kept to myself.

Something dark flashed behind his eyes, and he tilted his head like he was studying a rare replace.

“That’s okay.”

The way he said it…it sounded like he already knew. Like it was something he had suspected. Planned for.

A strange sort of sickness rolled through me. Something…off.

Callum tilted my chin up with a finger, his gaze locking onto mine with that effortless confidence of his.

And suddenly, the moment felt too big. Too charged. Too irreversible.

“I’ll take care of you, Riley,” he murmured, his fingers ghosting over my jaw.

I swallowed hard. He sounded so sure, and I wanted that certainty.

Desperately.

Because for the first time in weeks…in years, someone was looking at me like I mattered. Like I was worth the effort. Like I was worth something.

So, when his lips brushed against mine—soft, coaxing, deliberate—I didn’t pull away. I let him kiss me.

And I kissed him back.

Pain.

It was the first thing I registered. A deep, throbbing ache between my thighs. A slow, dull pulse that radiated through my limbs like an echo of the night before.

I sucked in a sharp breath, blinking up at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented. My sheets were tangled around my legs, the weight of the heavy comforter pressing down on my overheated skin. The air was thick, stifling, carrying the lingering scent of his cologne.

Callum.

The name sent a shock through my system, a cold rush of nausea tightening my throat.

The memories came back in pieces—his hands on me, his voice low and coaxing, the way he had looked at me as if I belonged to him. As if I was something to consume.

I turned my head, my gaze darting to the other side of the bed. Empty.

A cold, hollow feeling settled in my chest.

I pushed myself up, wincing as another pang of pain lanced between my legs. A slow, sinking dread crept over me as I felt the dampness beneath me, as I saw the dark stain on the crisp white sheets.

Blood.

A sob clawed its way up my throat, violent and raw, and I pressed a hand over my mouth, tears spilling hot and fast down my cheeks.

It was real.

I had let this happen.

A wave of self-loathing slammed into me, suffocating, crushing.

What had I done?

I could still hear him—his voice in my ear, his lips at my throat, the quiet certainty in the way he had touched me, like he had always known this was inevitable.

Like I had always been his to take.

And I had let him.

I had gone upstairs with him. I had let him undress me. I had kissed him back. A man old enough to be my father.

The weight in my chest only got heavier as I forced myself to move. I threw on clothes, making sure not to look in the mirror before I scrambled back to the bed.

The sheets—stained, wrinkled, evidence—mocked me as I frantically ripped them off, balling them up in my arms.

The smell of him was still on them. Still in the air. Still in my hair.

I squeezed my eyes shut, my breath hitching, my stomach twisting.

Had I wanted this?

Shame curled around my ribs, digging its claws in deep…making it hard to breathe.

I had wanted to feel something other than loneliness…then rejection.

And now?

Now, I felt ruined.

I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and moved.

Down the hall, my steps were uneven, my legs weak, still trembling with the aftermath. I knew the housekeepers would take care of it, they wouldn’t even tell my parents what they had seen, but I couldn’t let them. I needed to scrub it away myself, to erase the proof…to pretend it had never happened.

I shoved the sheets into the washer, fumbling to pour in bleach with shaky hands before slamming the door shut and pressing start. The hum of the machine filled the empty laundry room, drowning out the thoughts screaming inside my head.

I turned to leave, only to freeze.

Voices.

Low, steady, familiar.

I swallowed hard, pulse pounding as I stepped out of the laundry room and followed the sound, my bare feet silent against the hardwood.

The moment I reached the kitchen doorway, my stomach dropped.

There he was.

Sitting at the breakfast table with my parents, sipping coffee, like nothing had happened.

He laughed at something my father said, casual and at ease, his posture relaxed as if he hadn’t taken everything from me just hours before.

And my parents—they were completely clueless.

Neither of them even looked up when I walked in.

It was at least a few minutes of hovering before my mother finally glanced away from Callum and noticed I was standing in the doorway. Her lips pressed together like she’d just caught sight of something distasteful. “Riley, for fuck’s sake, fix yourself before coming to breakfast. We have company.”

I flinched. The smell of fresh coffee and bacon in the room made me want to be sick.

Callum’s eyes flicked to mine, a spark of amusement in their depths, as if he enjoyed this. As if he enjoyed watching me unravel while he sat there, perfectly composed, perfectly untouchable.

“Morning, Riley,” my father said, his voice light, unconcerned. “I didn’t know you were home.”

As if I had anywhere else to be.

I grinned weakly, the smile feeling all wrong on my face considering how I was feeling. Of course he hadn’t known I was home. I was surprised that he had noticed me walking into the room at all.

“You look tired,” my mother said after a minute, even though she was looking at her phone. “Didn’t sleep well?”

I hesitated, my hands curling into fists at my sides. Callum still had that smirk on his face, the one that told me he was replaceing this all very amusing.

No, actually, I didn’t sleep well at all because your husband’s best friend took my virginity last night, and now I feel like I might crawl out of my skin.

I swallowed down the words and slid into my seat instead, since I knew that was what they’d expect with company over. “I’m fine,” I muttered.

Callum was directly across from me, still the picture of composed elegance as he stirred sugar into his coffee. Completely normal. Like I wasn’t barely holding myself together. Like my entire world hadn’t shifted overnight.

My hands clenched tighter in my lap as Eleanor, one of our housekeepers, set down a plate filled to the brim with eggs, pancakes, and sausage.

I stared at the plate, trying to stop myself from throwing up all over it.

“Not hungry?” Callum’s voice was smooth, warm, dripping with the same familial concern that he usually had when he’d spoken to me in the past.

My mother barely spared me a glance before shaking her head in exasperation, like it had been years of her having to put up with me instead of mere minutes. “Eat your breakfast, Riley. The last thing we need is one of your episodes.”

My fingers tightened obediently around my fork, my skin hot and clammy. I picked at my food, pushing eggs around my plate without taking a bite. Callum eyed me for a second with his sharp blue eyes as he lifted his coffee to his lips.

I swallowed down a mouthful of bile.

Breakfast passed in an uncomfortable blur, with my parents exchanging idle conversation about their next trip while I sat in silence. Callum chimed in occasionally, always perfectly at ease.

I couldn’t help but watch him. How could he be so normal? How could he act like this was just another morning lost in conversation with his best friends?

Like he hadn’t touched me.

Destroyed me.

When I’d cut up my eggs into small enough pieces that it looked like I’d at least eaten a few bites, I pushed back from the table and made a beeline to the hallway—knowing my parents wouldn’t even notice I was gone. I needed to get out of the house, get some air, figure out how I was going to recover from this.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out listlessly, staring at the message from Brandon.

How are you?

Of course he would ask that. Brandon never wanted to feel like the bad guy. He wouldn’t want me to be upset with him. I would have leapt in desperation at this text if he’d sent it last night. I would have tortured myself with how to respond and wondered if I could possibly get him to want me again.

But right now, all I felt was…numb.

Exhausted.

Like something important inside me had been sucked out.

I’d always thought it would be Brandon that I’d give my virginity to. I’d been so close, and then I’d…

A hand suddenly closed around my wrist from the hallway, and I was yanked back into the shadows.

I barely had time to gasp before my back hit the wall.

“Easy, darling.” His voice was low, edged with something dark, something possessive. His body pressed against mine, and I could feel his hard length against my stomach.

I should have shoved him away. I should have screamed.

But I didn’t. I was frozen.

Trapped in his orbit.

Callum’s lips brushed against my jaw, his breath hot against my skin. “You look so pretty when you blush.” His fingers moved down my side, stopping just above my hip, pressing in slightly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay this morning, but I know you understand.”

A tremor ran through me. “Callum⁠—”

He hummed, nipping at the edge of my jaw. “I can’t wait to be inside you again.”

My stomach clenched, that sick feeling once again roiling inside me. I squeezed my eyes shut, my hands coming up to push him away, but he caught them, trapping them against the wall.

His hips rolled into mine, slow, purposeful. My breath hitched, humiliation scorching through me.

“Was it torture to sit across from me like that?” he murmured. “I could barely function having you so close and not being able to touch you.”

I shook my head, my throat thick. “Callum⁠—”

He cut me off with a kiss.

Deep. Overwhelming. Taking.

My heart slammed against my ribs, panic and shame warring inside me. My fingers twitched against his shirt.

Footsteps.

They were distant, but growing louder, coming from the other end of the hallway. Stark relief rattled through my bones.

In an instant, Callum pushed away from me, taking a quiet step back, smoothing his shirt like nothing had happened, his expression unreadable as my father stepped into the hallway.

“There you are.” My father didn’t even glance at me, addressing Callum instead. “Ready to head to the club?”

“Of course.” Callum’s voice was light, easy. His posture was relaxed, his hands tucked into his pockets.

He was so much better at pretending than I was. The fact that he could just head to the country club for a round of golf after all that had happened was inconceivable to me.

“I was just discussing Riley’s college applications. She’s considering a few out of state options, but I think I can convince her that Chapel Hill’s her best bet.”

I sucked in a breath, my pulse hammering. Chapel Hill. Where he was a professor.

My father nodded approvingly, even though I knew he really didn’t care. “That’s good,” he said absently as he pulled up an email on his phone. “I know Claire would love to have her nearby.”

Callum turned his head just slightly, his eyes catching mine. And in them, I saw it.

The warning.

The power.

The control.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe as my father patted Callum on the shoulder, completely oblivious.

Completely blind.

I was born with something broken inside of me. That was the only explanation I had for what came after.

All I knew was that I never said no.

Once I had given in, there didn’t seem to be a way to take it back.

At first, it was under the pretense of helping me with my college applications. My father had been thrilled when Callum volunteered, saying it was an incredible opportunity to have help from someone so respected in academia.

It also meant that my father didn’t have to spend any of his precious time helping me. Win, win for him.

I couldn’t come up with a fast enough excuse to say no. And even if I had, I knew it wouldn’t have mattered.

So, I sat at his desk, pretending to focus on school applications while his presence loomed behind me, always too close, always just barely brushing against me. A hand on my shoulder. A soft breath against my neck when he leaned down to point something out on my laptop. The way his voice dipped low when he praised me, whispering how sexy I was…how special I was.

Right before he fucked me on his desk.

He cut me off from everything. From my friends, from school, from anything outside of him.

“You think they care about you?” he’d ask, his voice laced with mock sympathy when I mentioned an invite from friends.

And when I would shake my head, desperate for his approval, he would smile and tuck my hair behind my ear, whispering, “That’s my darling.”

He made me think I wanted it.

Needed it.

He reminded me constantly that no one else would deal with me.

“No man is going to put up with this, Riley,” he murmured one night, his fingers brushing over my wrist where the scar from my IV line still lingered. “No man is going to want a girl who spends half of her time sick in bed, too tired to function. That’s why you’re so lucky to have me. Because I can see past all of that.”

He was everywhere.

In the mornings, he would want an hour by hour outline of my day. If I didn’t answer, he’d call, his voice smooth as he asked if I was ignoring him.

When I was with my parents, he would brush his fingers against mine beneath the table, just barely, just enough to make my stomach clench with something confusing, something sick.

When I started pulling away, feeling the weight of what we were doing, he made me feel unlovable.

A burden that only he could endure.

I had never felt more alone.

I hated myself.

But I couldn’t stop.

Because he had convinced me that I was his. That no one else would ever want me the way he did.

And the worst part?

I believed him.

I knew the moment I woke up that my body wasn’t going to cooperate today.

My limbs felt heavy, my mind ached with the familiar pressure of exhaustion, and my stomach churned like I had swallowed glass. I was used to this, it’s not like it was the first time. My body had betrayed me for years, pulling me into waves of fatigue and pain I couldn’t control.

But today was worse. Today, I felt like a shell of a person, barely able to breathe, let alone move.

I had tried to tell him. Tried to explain that I didn’t have it in me, that I was too sick, that I needed to rest. But Callum never listened when he didn’t want to.

“Shh,” he had whispered against my skin, his weight pressing down on me, suffocating. “Just let me have this.”

I had wanted to fight. I really had. But my body was already shutting down, the way it always did when I pushed too hard. And he didn’t care. He took what he wanted, his hands rough, his voice coaxing, telling me how good I felt, how lucky I was that he still wanted me even like this.

Even when I was weak. Even when I was broken. Even when I was sick.

After, when he was gone, I lay curled in bed, the sheets pulled up to my chin, staring blankly at the ceiling. My limbs ached, my skin raw and bruised. A single tear slipped from the corner of my eye, trailing down my temple and disappearing into the pillow.

I couldn’t do this anymore.

I turned my head toward the nightstand, my heart pounding as my gaze landed on the small pair of silver scissors sitting beside my forgotten notebook. My fingers twitched.

It would be so easy.

Just a few seconds—the pain would be something I could control. Something I could see.

Not this endless, gnawing ache in my chest. Not the exhaustion that lived in my bones. Not the way my skin felt too tight, too bruised, too tainted.

I reached for them, my fingers brushing the cool metal, and something in me settled. A terrible, quiet relief.

This was a choice. This was something that was mine.

I curled my fingers around the handle, bringing them closer, my pulse slowing as I pressed the tip against the delicate skin of my wrist. Just a test. Just to see what it would feel like.

A single harsh breath left my lungs.

Then—movement.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught something in the mirror across the room.

I looked up, and everything inside me stilled.

The girl staring back at me was a stranger.

Pale. Gaunt. Dark circles hollowed out her once-bright eyes, her cheeks sunken, her lips cracked. Her collarbones jutted out sharply, her skin washed out beneath the dim glow of her bedside lamp.

She looked sick. She looked lost. She looked…already gone.

My breath hitched, and my fingers spasmed, the scissors slipping from my grasp and clattering against the floor.

A choked sob ripped out of me, raw and unexpected.

How had I let it get this bad? How had I let him convince me that this was all I was?

I covered my mouth with both hands, my shoulders trembling.

I thought about the girl I used to be. Broken for sure, but one who dreamed about going to college, about escaping this house and this town and this life that had never really been hers. The girl who used to believe she had a future.

And then I thought about him.

How he had taken that from me.

Piece by piece.

How he had carved out every last shred of self-worth I had, replacing it with his voice, his control, his will.

You need me.

No one else will want you.

No one else will put up with you.

You’re too much work, darling. You should be grateful I’m still here.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

I wasn’t grateful. Not anymore.

I hated him.

And more than that—I hated that I had let him be right for the past year.

I didn’t have to stay here, in this room, in this house…in his grasp.

My heart thundered in my chest as I turned, dragging my aching body toward my desk, my fingers trembling as I opened my laptop.

The screen glowed in the dark, the unfinished college application I had filled out months ago still waiting. The one he didn’t know about.

I had never submitted it.

Because I was afraid. Because I thought I needed him.

But maybe I didn’t.

Maybe, I never had.

The submit button hovered beneath my cursor, taunting me.

I clenched my jaw, wiped my tear-streaked face with the back of my hand, and with one final, shaky breath⁠—

I clicked it.

A confirmation message popped up, stark and certain, and my body sagged, my breath coming in gasps. For the first time in a year, I felt something that wasn’t fear.

It wasn’t even relief.

It was freedom.

And I wasn’t looking back.

I avoided him after that.

I tried to confess everything to my mother…to tell her what had been going on, but when I tried, she’d just sighed, pressing a hand to her temple as if I were the problem, as if my words were some unbearable inconvenience she didn’t want to believe.

After that, I swallowed the words instead of screaming them.

Because that was the moment I realized—no one was going to save me.

No matter how many times he texted, no matter how often my parents told me I was being ungrateful by not letting Callum “help” me, I locked myself in my room. I let his messages go unread. I ignored his calls, his subtle threats, the way he tried to make me feel guilty for pulling away.

You don’t really want this, darling. I know you better than you know yourself.

You think anyone else will want you? You think anyone else will put up with your broken body, your moods, your issues?

I love you. I’m the only one who ever will.

I used to believe that. Maybe some part of me still did, the part he had spent months carefully shaping, molding, breaking down until I was nothing but an extension of his will. Nothing but his dirty secret.

But there was a sliver of something else now, something louder than his voice in my head.

Anger.

It started small. A flicker of heat under my skin every time I saw his name flash across my phone. A tightening in my chest when my mother sighed dramatically over breakfast, lamenting about how poor Callum was so confused by my behavior. That he was only trying to help me, that I was overreacting, that I should be grateful for everything he had done for me.

I kept my mouth shut and pushed my meal around my plate, my stomach churning with barely restrained rage.

Grateful.

They wanted me to be grateful?

Grateful that he had stripped me down, taken every part of me and twisted it into something he could control. Grateful that he had stolen pieces of me I could never get back. That I was nothing more than a possession he thought he owned.

I pressed my fork down against the plate until my knuckles turned white.

I was done.

I spent the next few days locked in my room, ignoring the knocks at my door, ignoring my mother’s passive-aggressive sighs, ignoring the creeping sense of dread every time my phone buzzed.

And the moment the acceptance letter arrived, I didn’t even hesitate.

I stared at the email, my breath shallow, my hands shaking so hard I nearly dropped my phone.

Congratulations, Ms. St. James. We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted⁠—

I didn’t read the rest. I didn’t need to.

I had an out.

A real, tangible way to escape.

I scrambled out of bed, barely feeling my body move as I yanked my suitcase from the closet, throwing in clothes at random. My movements were rushed, frantic, like I thought the email would disappear if I didn’t act fast enough. Like Callum would somehow sense what I was doing and appear in my doorway, that same practiced smile on his face, ready to convince me that I was his and nothing I did would ever change that.

I shuddered.

No.

No more.

I zipped up the suitcase, grabbed my car keys, and slipped out of my room, heart pounding as I moved through the darkened hall. The house was still, silent, the kind of silence that used to make me feel safe.

Now, it only made my skin crawl.

I stepped outside, inhaling the crisp night air, the weight on my chest loosening ever so slightly.

I tossed my bag into the passenger seat, gripping the steering wheel so tight my fingers ached. I stared at the house, at the looming windows, the perfectly trimmed hedges, the home where I had lived my entire life.

I should have felt something. Sadness. Nostalgia. Regret.

But all I felt was the overwhelming need to run.

So I did.

I turned the key, felt the rumble of the engine beneath me, and drove.

I didn’t look back.