My Ex's Father My Obsession

Crumble & Bake

Caitlyn Clarke's pov

Let me go," I whisper, but my voice cracks halfway. "Or else..."

I don’t even know what I’m threatening him with.

The words spill out in this pathetic, breathy stammer that makes me want to smack myself.

Tick.

A fracture appears. Not on my skin, but inside. A clean split through the fortress I’ve spent years building.

Tick.

And he feels it.

Of course he does.

The bastard smiles—slow and smug—like he owns the panic laced beneath my ribcage. Like my fear belongs to him now.

I hate that he can read me.

Worse, I hate that he enjoys it.

Then he reluctantly lets me go.

And I bolt.

Full sprint. No pause. No backward glance.

My heart slams against my chest like it’s trying to break free. The world becomes a blur of noise and color, my soles slapping pavement, lungs threatening collapse.

I round the corner to my street, nearly trip over the curb, and slam through my front door with more force than necessary. I double over, clutching my knees as the air thins, my vision edges white.

Not now.

You’re trained for this.

I collapse to the floor, one palm flattening to the hardwood. It’s cold. Real. Anchoring. The chaos inside me claw at the edges of control, and I shut my eyes, refusing to let it win.

Box breathing. In for four. Hold. Out for four. Again. Again.

Tears prick behind my lids, but I refuse them. My breathing is ragged, sharp—but I guide it back, inch by inch, like dragging myself up a cliff with bloodied hands.

You’ve counseled people through worse. You don’t get to fall apart.

When the air finally stops burning, I push myself upright, barely able to look at the mirror as I strip off my soaked clothes. My body is still trembling, humming with adrenaline and shame.

I stumble into the bathroom, twist the tap to scalding, and step under the spray.

The water hits like needles.

I scrub until my skin is red. Hard, angry motions. Palms scraping over shoulders, collarbone, down to my thighs.

Like I can erase the goosebumps that bloomed when he whispered those filthy words in my ear.

“Did you touch yourself while thinking of me, little Babochka?”

The memory alone makes my stomach twist. My fingernails dig into my skin until I hiss.

Tears leak out, uninvited. Hot. Furious.

I hate myself for letting him under my skin—for letting my body respond.

For melting when I should’ve clawed my way out.

“I’m such an i***t,” I whisper to no one.

For a moment, I imagine sinking beneath the water. Letting it fill my lungs. Letting it take me somewhere—anywhere—he can’t reach me.

But I don’t.

Because I’m a goddamn professional.

Because if I let him undo me now, he wins.

I slam the tap off, grab the nearest towel, and yank it around myself like armor. My breath is calmer. Controlled. But my soul feels like it’s been scraped raw.

I tug on a T-shirt and shorts, not caring that they don’t match, towel-drying my hair with jerky, irritated movements as I step into the hallway.

“Oh hey, you’re alive," Mia calls from the kitchen, her voice syrupy with mischief.

She’s barefoot, wearing her party dress from last night—crumpled and riding dangerously high—and a devilish grin that tells me she hasn’t slept. In one hand: heels. In the other: a box of Crumble & Bake cookies.

My favorite.

My heart skips. "Don’t tell me you bought those."

She smirks. "Nope. Some delivery guy just dropped them off. Said it was from Vlad. For me. But—" she tosses the box toward me "—I figured they were meant for you."