Chapter 1: Moving Backwards
The cardboard box in my arms felt like a lead weight, cutting into my palms. It was the last piece of my independence, taped shut and heavy with everything I had spent the last two years building.
I hauled it up the driveway of my childhood home, my chest tight with a bitter, swallowing humiliation.
Two weeks ago, I had my own apartment. I had a life. Then came the frantic, tearful phone call from my mother, shattering it all: “Annabel, I got married. The finances are a mess. I need you to come back to Sheridan.”
Just like that, her impulsive choices became my financial rescue mission.
I pushed the front door open with my shoulder, stepping into the entryway. The house looked the same, but it felt entirely different. The familiar scent of vanilla was gone, replaced by a strange, woodsy cologne that didn’t belong here.
The Wyoming wind howled outside, but inside, my stepfather’s presence already choked the air.
"Annabel! Oh, sweetie, you’re finally here!"
My mother fluttered into the hallway, her hands wringing nervously. She looked overly cheerful, a desperate contrast to the exhaustion weighing down my eyes. Behind her stood William, her new husband, offering a brief, polite nod before his phone rang and he stepped away into the office.
"I'm so sorry about the mess," my mother whispered, trying to smooth down my hair. "We're still rearranging things. The boys are upstairs right now helping move some of the heavy furniture into your old room."
"The boys?" I echoed, my brow furrowing.
"William's son and his friend," she said, giving me a bright, pleading smile. "Go on up. Put that box down before you drop it."
I didn't argue. I just wanted to lock myself away and process the fact that my life had officially moved backward.
I carried the box up the stairs, my sneakers thudding softly against the carpet. Reaching the landing, I noticed the door to my old bedroom was pushed halfway open. Shadows moved against the dim light inside.
I braced myself to meet whatever stranger my mother had married into, stepping through the threshold.
"I can just take the box—"
The words died instantly in my throat.
A man was standing by the window, lifting the heavy oak dresser I had owned since I was ten. He was tall—broader than anyone I remembered walking these halls—wearing a black leather jacket over a plain white tee that stretched tight across his shoulders.
He set the dresser down with a heavy thud and slowly turned around.
My heart stopped dead in my chest.
Sharp, lethal jawline. Dark hair falling carelessly over his forehead. Piercing, intense eyes that had haunted my teenage years.
Anthony.
The track star. The quiet, devastatingly handsome boy from high school who had been my ultimate, agonizing crush. The guy who had never given me a single glance, looking right through me like I was made of glass.
Now, he was standing in the center of my bedroom.
The air left my lungs as his eyes locked onto mine. He didn't blink. He didn't look surprised to see me at all. Instead, his gaze darkened, dropping deliberately down my frame before locking back onto my face with a heavy, predatory intensity.
The room suddenly felt microscopic. The walls were closing in, and as Anthony took a slow, suffocating step toward me, I realized my safe haven was completely gone.
