All Chapters of The One I Can't Escape: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

The scent of pine-scrub floor cleaner fills my lungs as I drag the brush along the grout lines. My fingers ache. My knees are bruised from hours on the tiles. My reflection in the polished oven door looks like someone else—someone worn down, scraped hollow, obedient.Perfect.I lean forward, scrubbing harder.And then—I feel him.A presence behind me, warm and close, and before I can turn, his hand slides over mine, stopping the brush mid-stroke.“Are you planning to die doing this?” Oliver murmurs, his voice low, rough with amusement. “Because if so, you’re doing a hell of a job.”I don’t move. I don’t look up.“It’s your call,” I say evenly. “You can either let me or stop me.”His fingers tighten just slightly. “You never ask for help,” he says, mouth closer now—too close. “You just punish yourself until you bleed. It’s such a turn-on, it’s honestly rude.”I almost laugh. Almost.But then his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist—just once—and the air leaves my lungs in a shaky breat

The door swings open with a sharp creak.Isabella steps inside, grocery bags balanced in both hands—but when she sees my mother sitting on the couch, her expression freezes. The bags fall to the floor with a dull thud, apples rolling across the tiles like dropped marbles.Her eyes lock onto my mom. “What are you doing here?”Calmly, my mother stands. “This is still my house,” she replies, chin slightly lifted. “Christopher and I made it 50/50. So technically, I should be asking you what you’re doing here.”I blink, stunned.That was news to me.All this time, I thought Dad got the house after the divorce. I didn’t know they still shared it.But what really gets me—the part that tightens my chest—is how Isabella knew who Mom was. To my knowledge, they had never met. Not once.Yet here they are, facing each other like bitter rivals who’ve done this before.Isabella doesn’t blink. She leaves the door wide open behind her as she steps closer, eyes locked on Mom, not even sparing me a glan

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Zane says, voice too flat to be innocent. He shifts his weight between the crutches under his arms, breathing a little harder from the effort. “I just… wanted to talk to Jude. For five seconds.”Oliver stiffens beside me. “Of course you did.”I step forward, trying to shield the space between them. “Zane, not now.”“No—when, then?” he snaps. “Because I’ve been waiting all day. I thought maybe after what happened earlier, you’d at least reply.”Oliver lets out a short, bitter laugh. “What happened earlier was a mistake.”Zane’s grip tightens on the crutch handles. “Funny. It didn’t feel like one when his lips were on mine.”Oliver surges forward.I react fast, grabbing his arm, holding him back. His body is coiled like a spring, jaw clenched, but he doesn’t move further.“Stop,” I say, voice sharp, heart pounding. “Both of you.”They freeze. Just glaring at each other across the small space between us. I can practically hear the rage humming in the air.“I

Sleep doesn’t come easy.Not after everything.I toss and turn for hours, thoughts clawing at my brain—Zane’s words, Oliver’s silence, my mom’s hand flying across Isabella’s cheek. It all plays in loops, like some cruel highlight reel I can’t shut off.And the dreams?Worse.Zane and Oliver blur together, twisted versions of themselves, arguing in a burning room I can’t escape. One calls me selfish, the other calls me his, and somewhere in the middle, I’m reaching for the door… only it’s gone.I wake up breathless, tangled in sheets, the morning sun already pushing through my window like it owns the place.I groan and reach for my phone, blinking blearily at the screen.29 new notifications.I scroll through them: memes from Cole, a voice note from West, a new playlist from someone I barely talk to, and three event invites I’ll definitely ignore.Then I see it.Lea:Hey. Can we meet? Like—today if you’re free. It’s kind of urgent. Nothing bad, promise.My heart tugs at the word “urgen

I stand frozen, breath caught in my throat, the photo still clutched in my hand as Isabella disappears into the night.A part of me wants to follow her—right now, right this second.But something anchors me in place.The photo.That smile.That girl.And the undeniable fact that Oliver kept it hidden.I lower the picture slowly, glance at his desk, and that’s when I see it—a shoebox, tucked just beneath the edge of the bookshelf, half-buried under an old hoodie.I hesitate only a second before crouching and pulling it out.The lid isn’t taped. Just gently resting on top like someone planned to come back for it soon.I open it.And everything changes.Inside are more photos.Stacks of them.Some printed in color, some in grainy black-and-white, like they were taken from surveillance footage or grainy websites. Most of them show Isabella—at different ages, with different hair colors,. Sometimes smiling, sometimes crying, sometimes unrecognizable under heavy makeup.But it’s her. Over an