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The wrong kind of love

BluePearl_207
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Chapter 1 - CHAPTER 1 -NEW HELL

I hate my life.

I know dramatic. But you try living in my shoes and see how long you last.

This isn't the first time I've thought about just… ending it all. I don't mean in the "tragic poetic Tumblr post" kind of way. I mean it in the "I wonder if I disappeared, would anyone even notice?" kind of way.

But then I think of Mom. And just like that, the thought fizzles into guilt.

She's chaotic. Emotional. Over the top. And she loves with this big, messy, relentless kind of energy that makes it almost impossible to walk away.

She's everything.

Which is exactly why I can't leave her alone in this messed up world.

Especially not now.

---

Ever since my dad ghosted us when I was seven no note, no goodbye, just poof Mom's been running the show solo. And she's been doing it with nothing but sheer force of will, caffeine, and whatever survival instinct single moms are born with.

She gave up her dreams. Her savings. Her sleep.

All for me.

I owe her more than I could ever repay.

But sometimes God, sometimes I wish she wouldn't try so hard.

Because her version of "trying" usually involves terrible life choices. Like mismatched furniture. Banana-flavored protein pancakes. And now... marrying him.

Mr. Morgan.

Tall. Smug. Perfectly pressed suits. Teeth so white it looks like his gums are scared of them.

Mom says he's kind. Stable. "A good man."

What she doesn't say is that his son is the human embodiment of a virus.

Tyler Morgan.

Captain of the soccer team. Obnoxiously charming. Somehow both a teacher's pet and a hallway menace.

And the guy who's made my life a living hell since freshman year.

He doesn't throw punches he's not that dumb.

No, Tyler destroys you slowly. With weaponized whispers. Backhanded compliments. Those sharp green eyes that make you feel like you're being dissected under a microscope.

He knows exactly how to break people and look innocent while doing it.

And now?

I have to live with him. In the same house. Eat at the same table. Breathe the same air.

This isn't a home.

This is a hostage situation.

Yeah.

I hate my life.

"He'll come around," Mom says cheerfully, fluffing her dark curls in the hallway mirror. She's glowing. Wedding-day glow. Midlife-crisis glow. Some kind of glow that makes me want to throw up.

"Tyler's just a little shy," she adds.

Shy?

Right. And I'm a golden retriever.

"Mom," I say, trying not to sound like I'm begging, "you don't know him like I do."

She gives me that look. The one that says, "Don't ruin this for me."

So I shut up.

Because I love her.

Even when she's completely delusional.

The car ride to our new "home" is silent, except for the soft jazz Mr. Morgan has playing on low volume. It feels like we're being driven to our own funeral in a Lexus.

Mom hums along. Mr. Morgan checks his side mirrors like he's driving the president.

I sit in the back, clutching my backpack like it's a parachute.

Then we pull up to the house.

And there he is.

Tyler Morgan.

Leaning against the front porch like he's modeling for some gritty teen drama reboot. Hood up. Hands in his pockets. Rain-damp curls. That same smirk.

Of course he's already here.

Because of course he wouldn't ride with us. Why would the king sit in the same carriage as the peasants?

His eyes meet mine, and I feel it this flicker of something in my chest. Not attraction. More like a warning siren. A sense that something very bad is about to begin.

His smirk widens.

Like he knows exactly how much I hate this.

And he plans to enjoy every second of it.

"Welcome home," he says, voice smooth and sarcastic. It almost sounds genuine until I see the flicker of amusement in his eyes. Cold. Calculating.

I hesitate at the bottom step.

He steps forward.

And then leans in, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Cinnamon and cedarwood and trouble.

He lowers his voice so only I can hear.

"Try not to cry in the shower tonight."

His breath grazes my ear.

"The walls are thin."

I blink.

What the actual hell?

My stomach tightens. I take a step back, nearly tripping on the welcome mat.

He chuckles and moves aside to let us in, holding the door like he's suddenly polite. I brush past him, refusing to meet his eyes.

But I can feel them on me.

That same smirk burning into the back of my neck.

The inside of the house is… clean. Too clean.

Minimalist furniture. Neutral tones. Nothing out of place.

It looks like a real estate ad. Not a home.

Mom claps her hands together like a game show host. "Isn't this lovely?"

Lovely.

Right.

Nothing says "family bonding" like living with your worst nightmare.

Later that night, I unpack in the room they gave me Tyler's old room.

He's moved into the bigger one now. Of course. The one with the en suite bathroom and huge windows and zero emotional damage attached.

Mine still smells faintly like him.

I hate that I noticed.

The walls are covered in sports trophies, soccer medals, and framed photos of Tyler grinning like he has nothing to lose. Maybe he doesn't.

I sit on the bed his bed and bury my face in my hands.

How the hell am I supposed to survive this?

I