No Way Out

I jolt awake, head pounding like someone took a hammer to it. The air reeks of bleach and something fake—air freshener, maybe—failing to cover up something worse. My eyes blink open, squinting against the dim light.

The room is dull. Beige walls, a cheap wooden desk, a TV bolted to the wall. A hotel. My breath catches. How the hell did I end up here?

I dig through my memory. The pub. Drinking. And that guy—the one who kept watching me. Tall, lean, built like someone who knows how to handle himself. Sharp features. Eyes that pinned me down all night.

A noise snaps me back. The door swings open. And there he is—standing in the doorway in nothing but boxer shorts.

I go rigid.

Our eyes lock. He tilts his head, amused. I shift under the blanket, and cold dread grips my chest. I’m naked. Completely.

My pulse kicks into overdrive.

“What the—” My voice cracks as I bolt upright, yanking the blanket around me. “Where are my clothes?”

He lifts an eyebrow, then nods toward the bathroom. No words, just that lazy gesture.

I don’t wait. I lurch off the bed, the blanket clutched desperately around my waist, and stumble toward the bathroom. My clothes dangle from the rack, still damp, clinging to my fingers as I grab them. My hands tremble—buttoning my shirt feels like threading a needle in the dark. None of this is right. I don’t remember undressing. Don’t remember how I got here.

Dressed, I step back into the room, breath shallow. Fear gnaws at the edges of my thoughts. I pat my pockets, find my phone, my wallet—everything still there. A tiny relief, but not enough.

He’s still standing there, arms crossed, watching. Waiting.

I swallow hard. Enough of this. Without a word, I shove past him, shoulder knocking against solid muscle. I storm out, pulse hammering, the encounter pressing on my chest like a weight I can’t shake.

I don’t stop moving until I’m out of the hotel, gulping down the fresh morning air like it might clear my head.

About forty-five minutes—that’s how long I estimate the walk home will take. Just enough time for the night to replay in my mind.

But can I really clear my head when the gnawing suspicion lingers—that someone took advantage of my drunkenness? That I was used?

The hotel looms behind me, an ugly monument to whatever the hell last night was. I pull my jacket tighter around myself and start walking. The city stirs to life around me, but the knot in my stomach refuses to ease.

It hadn’t been just any night. I’d ended up at the pub for a reason—Zane.

Fucking Zane.

I’d suspected it for months—the guarded way he kept his phone close, the way his demeanor shifted around certain people, the growing distance between us. But suspicion became certainty when I caught him in the dimly lit back corner of the university gymnasium, lips locked with another guy. And yet, he had the audacity to look shocked, as if I were the one who had done something wrong.

He’d tried to explain. There was always an explanation.

But I stopped listening.

I called Jace and Lea, my voice still shaking, barely keeping it together. They were ready with suggestions—drinks, distraction, anything to keep me from spiraling. The pub they picked was some hole-in-the-wall they swore by. A place meant for drowning heartbreak in cheap liquor and loud music.

That part I remember.

The drinks. The buzz in my veins, numbing the ache. The bass vibrating through my chest. Jace and Lea beside me, feeding me shot after shot.

And then—

I slow my pace.

And then what?

There’s a gap, a hole where my memories should be. I remember laughing, swaying on my feet, Jace nudging me toward the bar for another round. Then a face—sharp angles, dark eyes in an isolated corner of the room. The guy who had been watching me all night.

And then—

Nothing.

A shiver runs down my spine.

I pull out my phone, fingers unsteady—and immediately notice the string of missed calls from my dad. My stomach clenches, but right now, that’s the least of my worries.

I tap out a message to Jace.

Me: What happened last night? When did we leave?

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then nothing.

I curse under my breath.

Picking up my pace, I finally see my house up ahead. My stomach twists. If I don’t get some kind of answer soon, I’m not sure I’ll be able to shake this feeling—the sense that something is very, very wrong.

Then I notice it.

A moving van in the driveway, back doors wide open, boxes stacked near the entrance. My stomach drops.

Shit.

Dad had mentioned it—Isabella moving in with her son. I barely gave it a thought. What does the guy even look like? Right now, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the sharp sting of reality settling in. My parents’ separation is still raw, and the idea of another woman stepping into Mom’s place feels like a betrayal. And after the night I’ve had, seeing it all unfold in front of me just drives the knife in deeper.

I barely have time to steel myself before the front door swings open. Dad steps out, expression already hardening when his eyes land on me.

“Where the hell have you been?” His sharp tone cuts straight through the haze in my mind.

I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “Out.”

“Out?” He scoffs, stepping forward. “You were gone since yesterday morning. You don’t answer my calls, and you just waltz back like it’s nothing?”

My jaw tightens, the weight of the night pressing on me like a phantom bruise. I don’t have the energy for this. “Didn’t realize I had a curfew.”

His nostrils flare. “It’s called common damn courtesy. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

My fists curl at my sides, but before I can snap back, a new voice cuts in.

“Chris, maybe let him breathe first?”

Isabella.

She steps out of the house, her tone gentle, practiced. She’s pretty in the kind of way that feels curated—soft curls, warm smile, the sort of person who knows exactly how to disarm a room.

She turns to me, eyes laced with something like sympathy. “Rough night?”

I stiffen. Her concern feels like a performance, a carefully placed chess move. I force a nod, not trusting myself to speak.

Dad exhales sharply but says nothing. Isabella’s presence has soothed the fire in him—for now.

And then the moment shatters.

A figure steps through the doorway, arms wrapped around a moving box, obscuring his face.

“Mom, where do you want this?”

The voice is unmistakable. Low. Familiar in a way that turns my blood to ice.

The box lowers.

Dark eyes. Sharp angles.

My entire body locks up.

No. No. No.

It’s him.

The guy from the hotel. The guy who had been standing in the doorway in nothing but boxers.

I take a step back like I’ve been struck. My stomach lurches. My skin burns, cold and hot all at once.

Isabella smiles, oblivious to the way I’ve just stopped breathing.

“Oliver, I present to you Jude, Ethan’s son,” she says warmly. Then she turns to me. “And Jude, this is Oliver—my son.”

I barely hear her over the pounding in my ears.

I’m going to be living under the same roof as the guy who—

My breath comes short, chest tightening. Oliver’s expression shifts, a flicker of something unreadable passin

g over his face. Recognition.

I don’t move. Can’t move.

Because whatever last night was, whoever Oliver is—

He’s not supposed to be here.