Cruel Intentions: Chapter 1

The thought of going back to my dad’s house after a year and a half feels like some sort of cruel joke, especially after everything that made me leave in the first place.

When my mom finally left him, I really believed things would be different. I thought she would change. I thought I knew who she was.

Turns out, I didn’t know a damn thing.

When we left, I swore I’d never set foot in that town again. Never did I imagine I’d be back on this damn road, heading straight toward the past I fought so hard to leave behind.

But here I am on that fucking road, with all the memories of the boy next door that still continue to haunt me.

He wasn’t just a boy. He was my everything. My first crush-my first kiss-my first sexual experience-my first heartbreak. And now, the weight in my chest is unbearable. Breaking his heart still feels like a fresh wound, one that’s never stopped bleeding.

I can already feel Noah’s resentment hanging over me like a storm cloud, heavy and inescapable.

Mom thinks it’ll be simple—that we’ll hug it out, or some bullshit—but I know better. His anger runs deep. Deeper than I probably deserve. And I can’t blame him. Because I left him.

I tried to explain, tried to make him understand why I had to go. That I needed a fresh start. That I had to get away from my alcoholic, abusive father. I thought going with Mom would fix everything.

Noah warned me it wouldn’t work. He begged me to stay. But I didn’t listen.

What I didn’t realize was Mom wasn’t taking me far—just to a neighboring town. Close enough to remember, but too far to reach him. And I never got the chance to tell him the hardest truth: I wasn’t coming back.

But none of that mattered anyway.

He ignored me—like the girl he once swore eternal love to had vanished without a trace. And it fucking destroyed me.

He wasn’t just some fleeting crush—he was the only person who ever made me feel truly seen, truly loved. His promises burned like fire, fierce and all-consuming, while the rest of the world blurred into nothing.

And now?

Now, I’m walking back into the ashes, and I don’t even know if there’s anything left to save.

To him, I was everything—more precious than any jewel, held so tightly in his arms it felt like nothing and no one could ever break us. Our bond wasn’t just some shallow connection; it was a tapestry woven from our lives, stitched together with every laugh, every tear, every whispered secret beneath the stars.

But time has a way of unraveling even the strongest bonds.

My love for him was boundless, reckless, wild, and it was matched only by the fire in his own heart. It wasn’t just love; it was chaos. A wildfire that devoured us both. And we didn’t care if it burned us to ashes.

And now, as I head back into the wreckage of my former life, the memories cling. Sharp and painful. Clawing at my mind, leaving behind a hollow ache that no amount of time can dull.

Every mile pulls me closer to the ghosts of what we were—closer to the day it all shattered.

That fucking day. The day I got in that car and left him behind.

It’s a bitter reminder of the love we once had and the way it all came crashing down. Because of me.

If only I’d listened.

Noah warned me. He told me things wouldn’t change, but I was too damn stubborn, too desperate to believe in something better. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could finally belong to a real family—my mother and me, together.

But now?

Now, I regret that choice with every fiber of my being. I regret climbing into the sleazy asshole’s car that day, the one who picked us up and smiled like he was doing us a favor. He was just the first in a long, miserable parade of my mom’s boyfriends—men who always came first. Men who looked at me in ways they had no fucking right to.

There were nights when I couldn’t take it—nights I’d pick up my phone and hover over Noah’s number, my chest so heavy with regret it felt like I was suffocating. I wanted to tell him everything. To pour out the love I never stopped feeling. To say I was sorry. To beg him to come get me. But I never did. Because deep down, I knew the truth: I didn’t deserve him anymore.

Sitting in the stifling hellhole that is the backseat of my mother’s latest boyfriend’s car, I feel the resentment boiling inside me—thick, heavy, and toxic, like poison in my veins.

This place they’re dragging me back to—the place she swore I’d never have to see again—looms ahead like a cage.

A cage she expects me to step into and call home.

It’s unbearable. Infuriating. Watching her sit there in the front seat, carefree and oblivious, that hollow smile plastered on her face like nothing’s wrong. Like her choices haven’t shattered my life over and over again. She doesn’t see the wreckage she’s left behind—or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t give a shit.

And then there’s him—the puppet master, sitting smugly next to her in the driver’s seat, pulling the strings of my life without a single thought for the damage he’s causing.

Every word he speaks, every decision he makes, drips with cruelty. And what pisses me off the most is that she just sits there. Silent. Always silent.

Her refusal to stand up for me, to protect me from the wreckage he creates—it hurts.

Her silence isn’t just cowardice; it’s betrayal, a wound so deep and gut-wrenching that it cuts far deeper. Because no matter how much shit he throws my way, it’s her choice to let it happen.

All these eighteen years, and all I’ve ever wanted was to matter to her. To be the fucking center of my mother’s world for once, to feel her attention and devotion without having to fight for the scraps.

But here I am, in the one moment I need her the most, and of course she’s choosing him—choosing some asshole who will move on eventually when he gets bored—over me.

No fucking surprise there.

It stings like a bitch, and I hate how much it fucking hurts to admit that. I can’t wrap my head around why she just won’t let me finish school at home, especially when it’s my last year.

The thought of going back to my old school, knowing Noah will be there and facing him every day… I’m not sure I can do that.

The social media stalking I couldn’t stop myself from doing has been like a slap to the face—a constant reminder that while I’ve been drowning, he’s been thriving.

Noah’s somehow gotten even hotter, like the universe just had to rub it in, and his popularity. It’s off the charts now.

Every photo I see hurts like a bitch—him at parties, surrounded by girls throwing themselves at him, desperate for his attention.

Once, it was me he looked at like I was his entire world, like nothing else mattered.

But those days feel like a lifetime ago now, buried beneath the weight of what’s become of us.

His mom left when he was just seven. She didn’t even give him a second glance before she walked out that front door, never to look back. I can feel the weight of that now, the years of heartbreak he’s already carried, and now I’m just another person who walked out of his life.

I know what’s coming when I see him. The confrontation. The anger. The hurt. And I’m ready for it, even though I’m not sure anything I say will ever make up for what I did.

From the front passenger’s seat my mother lifts her hand, runs it through her dickhead boyfriend’s hair, and then leans in to kiss him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I can feel my stomach churn. If I wasn’t stuck here in the backseat, I’m sure he’d pull the car over so she could straddle him and take his cock for a ride, like that’s just an everyday occurrence.

Nothing about her actions surprises me anymore.

Not after the shit I’ve had to listen to, the noises coming through the paper-thin walls of our shitty apartment.

When she pulls away and settles back into her seat, the asshole glances at me in the rearview mirror with that smirk playing on his lips. It takes everything in me not to punch the seat in front of me. I fucking hate him with every ounce of my being.

I turn my head away in disgust as my mother gives directions and we turn onto our old street.

It’s hard to miss how little has changed since my last visit to my father’s house six months ago. The memories come rushing back — the forced small talk, the uncomfortable silence. My dad slumped in front of the TV, numbing himself with beer, while my mother pretended to have fun with old friends. That day, it felt less like father and daughter and more like strangers coexisting in the same house.

Since I’ve been gone, my mother has dragged me back to visit my father twice.

Each time as awkward as fuck. She never warned him, just dropped me off like it was another errand, leaving him blindsided each time. And now, as we head back, I’m certain my mother wouldn’t have said a single word about me living with him again.

Just thinking about it makes everything feel ten times worse, and I can already feel the nerves crawling under my skin. What the hell am I walking into?

‘There it is,’ my mother says, pointing ahead.

The asshole parks the car right in front of my father’s house, like he owns the damn place.

I glance out the window and notice nothing’s changed—the paint on the siding’s still peeling, the windows cracked, the yard a jungle of overgrown weeds slowly swallowing the house whole.

My gaze shifts to Noah’s house next door, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s inside. Probably not. Not with all the shit he’s been up to lately. I’ve seen enough on social media to know he’s probably out partying, being tagged in endless photos of his latest bullshit antics.

My mother opens the car door and steps out, leaving me alone with the obnoxious dickhead.

He kills the engine, and the silence settles in, thick and suffocating. My throat tightens, the weight of the moment pressing down harder than I ever expected. This isn’t just some temporary mess—it’s a nightmare. She’s dragging me back to a place she once swore was too dangerous for us. But here we are. It’s happening, whether I want it to or not.

I reach for the seatbelt, but before I can undo it, my mother’s voice slices through the silence.

‘Aubrey, come on, get out of the car now. It’s time to go,’ she whines, her voice high-pitched and laced with impatience, like I’m just some annoying chore she can’t wait to be done with.

It’s obvious—she’s just itching to start her new life with the asshole sitting there with that shit eating grin plastered on his face. The one who’s caused nothing but tension between us.

‘Don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out,’ he says, with that smug smile on his face.

Fuck.

I hate this guy.

I can’t stand him.

If I were the type to throw punches, I’d happily shove my fist right into that smug, twisted grin of his.

I snatch my bag from off the back seat and push my mother’s seat forward to get out of the car. I don’t care if I scratch the fucker’s sports car, him and his mid-life crisis can go fuck themselves.

When I slam the door with a hard thud and turn, I know his eyes are burning a hole in my ass as I walk away. A wave of disgust rises in my throat at the thought of it.

Fucking Creep.

Halfway up the front path to the house, I notice my mother’s posture—stiff, uncomfortable, like she’s bracing herself. Her body language screams tension.

As I get closer, she lifts her head, and our eyes lock. In that brief moment, I see it. The guilt. It’s clear as day on her face. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows this whole situation is fucked up, and it’s that asshole behind the wheel pushing her into it. That much is painfully clear.

‘Please, Mom. Please don’t do this,’ I beg, my voice trembling with desperation.

She swallows hard, her throat tightening, and I can see the internal struggle in her eyes. She wants to say something, I can tell, but nothing comes out.

‘Come on. Hurry the fuck up,’ the asshole yells from the car.

My mother turns her head away, her eyes fixed on the old house, like it’s some kind of sanctuary, like staring at it long enough will make everything somehow fine.

I silently pray, hoping—no, begging—that she’ll snap out of whatever trance she’s in and stand up to that asshole. Tell him there’s no way she can do this; there’s no way she can leave me here.

But as the seconds stretch on and she doesn’t say a word, a cold fear creeps into my chest. A fear that maybe—just maybe—she won’t change her mind at all.

‘It’s only going to be for a year, Aubrey,” she says, as if her words will make it okay. As if a year can be dismissed with a single sentence, like she’s already made up her mind.

She then strides down the front path choked with overgrown weeds.

Anger burns, hot and unforgiving.

How could she do this to me, after everything we’ve been through. How could she just throw me back into this mess like it’s nothing? Where the hell is the mother who was supposed to protect me? The one who promised to always have my back?

Instead, she’s walking away, ready to drag me back into the lion’s den—into the world of that drunken asshole, who’s volatile, alcohol-fueled rage could explode at any moment.

I want to scream.

I want to rip everything apart as I listen to the sound of her heels clicking on the uneven pathway—like she’s already moved on from this whole situation.

I can’t take it anymore.

“What the fuck? Are you seriously leaving me here after everything we’ve gone through? Goes to show how much you fucking care.” I shout as I trail behind, barely able to keep my feet moving.

She won’t change her mind—not with that asshole waiting for her back in the car.

She halts, but only because she has to.

“Aubrey, I do care,” she snaps, spinning around to face me. Her eyes swim with guilt, tangled with something else I can’t quite place—something that’s so far from the love I’m desperate for right now.

If she actually cared, she wouldn’t be dragging me back to this goddamn circus. She wouldn’t be forcing me to wade through every brutal, soul-crushing memory like it’s no big deal. Like it’s just another fucking Tuesday.

“Yeah, your actions speak louder than anything you could say,” I spit, sarcasm dripping from every word like venom. “Picking him—that asshole—over your own flesh and blood. Over your own daughter for Christ sake. That tells me exactly how much you give a shit,” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut.

The anger boiling inside me isn’t something I’m even trying to hide anymore. It’s raw, blistering, and goddamn relentless. I’m done pretending it’s not eating me alive.

She stumbles over her words, trying to defend herself. “You know it’s not like that, Aubrey,” she says, her voice shaking with weak resolve, as if anything she could say would ever make this okay.

“Don’t,” I cut her off, my tone sharp. “Just don’t.”

My patience is gone, burned down to ash, and I’m done wasting breath on her bullshit excuses.

As we reach the front step, my mother knocks on the door, the sound sharp and unforgiving, slicing through the dead silence of the neighborhood.

My chest tightens, that familiar knot of dread twisting tighter, squeezing the air from my lungs. Is he even going to bother answering? Or are we about to find him buried in yet another haze of booze, using it to smother whatever shred of responsibility he has left?

It’s after four. Prime happy hour for him. And let’s be real—I’m not expecting anything else.

The seconds crawl by, each one dragging like nails on a chalkboard.

When the door finally creaks open, there he is—my so-called father, bleary-eyed and unsteady, like he just stumbled out of some booze-soaked fog.

His eyes land on me, surprise flickering across his face for half a second before they dart to my mother. And I see the unspoken question hanging in the air. What the fuck is this about?

When his gaze shifts back to me, it’s empty, cold, no flicker of anything resembling fatherly concern. Just that detached indifference he’s worn like a second skin for all these years. Like he’s a goddamn stranger with the unfortunate title of being my father.

He stands there, silent and unmoving, like a figure sculpted from stone, waiting for my mother to finally speak. To explain why the fuck we’re here.

“I’ve been carrying this shit alone for far too long,” my mother hisses. “Now… It’s your damn turn.”

Before my father has a chance to protest, she turns around and walks away.

She doesn’t glance back. She simply walks away, calm and resolute, as if she’s finally free.

The engine roars to life, as she strides toward the car parked on the street—toward him—the bastard who set this all in motion. It’s like she can’t get to him fast enough, leaving the rest of us to pick up the pieces of her destruction.

“Yeah, actions speak louder than words, Mother!” I shout, my voice cracking with bitterness.

But it doesn’t matter. She won’t hear me. She’s too wrapped up in her shiny new life, with her shiny new boyfriend, to care about me.

My father stumbles past me, his breath ragged, eyes burning with something I can’t place. He moves down the front path, and when he catches up to her, his hand shoots out, grabbing her arm and yanking her to stop.

‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ he spits, his voice sharp and full of venom, making it clear that there’s no way in hell she’s leaving me here.

‘I’ve already made that clear,’ she says. ‘She’s your responsibility now. So grow a pair and raise your daughter. I’ve done my part, and now it’s your turn.’

The brutal truth of how little I matter to her cuts deep. I’ve always known my father didn’t give a shit but hearing it from my mother rips me apart. She might as well have slapped me, because that’s exactly how much it fucking hurts.

I can hear their voices, muffled and sharp, cutting through like a soundtrack to my life. They’re arguing over whose responsibility I am, like I’m some unwanted possession. It’s sickening. To them, I’m nothing but a burden, a piece of trash to toss around between them.

My mother yanks her arm free from my father’s grip, like she can’t stand his touch. She doesn’t even look back, just walks to the car, done with everything—done with me.

My father stands frozen, staring at her as she climbs in, regardless of everything that’s left unsaid.

It doesn’t even matter that the passenger door is still half-open. The asshole just revs the engine and tears down the street. No goodbye. No nothing. Just the deafening scream of the tires, like he can’t wait to get the hell out of here fast enough.

My father stands there, his eyes fixed on the street as if he’s waiting for her to return, as if something will magically change.

But it won’t.

Finally, he turns, his eyes meeting mine and in that moment, there’s an understanding between us—a raw, brutal kind of connection. It’s not the kind that promises things will get better, or that he’s glad I’m here.

No, this is the kind of understanding that makes it clear we’re both trapped. Stuck in the same broken mess, in a house that doesn’t feel like home anymore—just a cage I can’t escape from.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally moves into the house. His steps are slow, deliberate, as if he’s measuring every inch of space between us.

“You know where your room is, right?” His voice is cold, barely rising above the harsh sound of the screen door slamming shut behind him.

I don’t answer at first.

I just stand there, staring at the door, wishing it was different.

My chest tightens, every breath a struggle. I clutch the strap of my bag like it’s the only thing holding me together. This fucking bag—it’s all I have left. Everything I own, everything I am, packed into this small space. My entire life, reduced to a few scraps, a few broken pieces. And it feels like I’m standing on the edge, watching everything slip away.

When I finally take that first step inside, the old floor creaks beneath me, louder than it should, like it’s calling out to me. Like it knows how much I hate being here. Nothing’s changed, not since the last time I was dragged back here months ago. The mess, the dust, the neglect—it all still clings to every corner.

I remind myself it’s only for a year. One fucking year. But the question claws at me, relentless, like a beast trapped inside my chest.

What the hell happens after that? When the year is over, when I’ve somehow dragged myself through this shitshow, where do I go until my scholarship kicks in?

I stop by the door, stalling.

“Do you want something to eat?” he calls out from the kitchen.

“No, I’m fine,” I mutter, my voice flat.

I don’t want anything from him—not food, not some pathetic attempt at comfort, not any of those empty gestures he thinks will fix everything.

‘I’m sure you remember where everything is,’ he mutters, barely looking up as I step into the kitchen. His voice is stiff, like he’s trying to pretend I’m not even here. I catch the flicker of discomfort in his eyes, like I’m just another burden he’s been forced to tolerate.

Without a word, he moves forward, eager to escape this reality. He grabs his half-empty bottle of beer and downs the rest in one angry gulp.

No fucking surprise there.

I stand frozen, not knowing what the hell I’m supposed to do.

He walks past me like I’m invisible, opens the fridge, grabs two more beers, and retreats to the couch. He flicks the TV on and watches some football game, cranking up the volume like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

That’s my cue. Time to get the hell out.

I turn away, each step heavier, than the last. The walls close in, suffocating me with memories of every second I spent trapped here.

When I reach my room, I open the door, and the memories come flooding back. The good ones with Noah—how we grew up together, how he was always there when my parents’ fights forced me out of the house.

He’d come running whenever he heard them shouting, always checking to make sure I was okay. But that’s gone now. There’s no Noah anymore. I’m just… alone. Alone in a place that’s never felt like home.

I drop my bag on the bed, sit on the edge, and suddenly, the tears come. I’ve never been the type to cry, but it’s like the floodgates open and I can’t stop.

I bury my face in my hands, wishing the room would just swallow me whole, and take me away from all of this.