1. The Invisible Girl

CHAPTER 1

The Invisible Girl

ILEANA

I’ve always been good at being invisible.

It’s a skill I’ve perfected over years, drilled into me by my father’s daily mantra before school.

Don’t attract attention. Don’t get involved. Focus on your studies. Be a good girl.

I was fourteen when I figured out other parents didn’t say those kinds of things to their kids. But by then, blending into the background was as automatic as breathing, and I’d stopped asking why it mattered so much.

In Silverlake Rapids, where a whispered secret spreads from the grocery store to the school parking lot in minutes, being invisible should be impossible. Yet I’m so good at it, I can walk into any downtown store and still get asked if I'm new—in the town I've lived in my whole life.

It used to bother me when I was younger. I’d see other kids getting invited to birthday parties, social events, family barbecues, and ask my parents why I couldn’t go too. Over time, it hurt less, and eventually it became my normal.

Some days, I imagine myself fading away, blending into nothing—a ghost no one remembers. Would I be one of those missing kids whose yearbook photograph shows up on the news, while classmates struggle to remember if they ever spoke to me.

Those are the thoughts in my head as I weave through the crowded hallways of Silverlake High, dodging elbows and backpacks on the way to my locker. My movements are precise and careful. Step aside when someone approaches. Keep my head angled down, but not so far it looks deliberate. Make my presence small enough for people’s eyes to slide past me without registering my existence. Every motion has been honed through years of practice.

I pause at my locker, dump my books inside, then head toward the cafeteria. The air is thick with the smell of greasy pizza and body odor. I grab my usual—sandwich and orange juice—and make my way to my spot near the fire exit.

It’s perfect. Technically off-limits, which means it’s always empty. Just how I like it. The isolation suits me, lets me observe without being seen. From here, I watch the social hierarchy play out—the football team holding court at their table, rowdy and loud; the cheerleaders preening for attention; the band kids comparing sheet music.

And then there’s the center table …

The students there command attention without trying, occupying the prime real estate in the middle of the cafeteria. Everyone gives them a wide berth. Wren Carlisle sits at the heart of it all, his cafeteria chair more like a throne, eyes scanning the room with bored indifference.

Everyone knows Wren Carlisle. His family practically owns this town, or at least the most expensive part of it. The new east wing of the school bears his family name, and the football team’s equipment comes courtesy of the Carlisle fortune. But it’s not his money that makes people avoid him where possible.

It’s the coldness in his eyes. The way he watches people like he’s taking mental notes of their weaknesses. The rumors about what happens to those who cross him. He’s intimidating as hell, and wrapped in a ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude that radiates off him like a physical force.

I’ve watched long enough to know the patterns. How other students alter their paths to avoid crossing too close. How conversations drop to whispers when they pass. How even teachers seem to defer to their presence.

But today, the table is empty, which means I can go directly to my seat without skirting the edges of the room. My attention shifts to the dance routine I’ve been working on. I plan to go to the dance studio as soon as I’ve eaten, and spend the rest of lunch there.

Ballet is my escape. The place where I can transform into something real. When I dance, I exist, I matter . It’s my secret. The one thing that belongs only to me. Not even my family knows about it. Dad would shut it down if he ever found out.

Lost in thoughts of pirouettes, I don’t see the bag in my path until my foot catches it, sending me stumbling. Time seems to slow as my tray tips, sending my orange juice sailing through the air in a graceful arc my ex ballet teacher would have been proud of …

… and soaks the front of a pristine white T-shirt that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home.

My eyes follow the path of the spreading orange stain upward, and my stomach plummets. Of all the people in the school, of course it has to be him.

Wren Carlisle .

The cafeteria falls silent, like someone has hit pause on a movie. Wren doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He has one hand resting on the table beside him, as though he’d been about to sit down. In the other, he’s holding a can of soda. His stillness is more unnerving than any outburst would be.

Locked in some kind of self-destructive moment, my eyes keep lifting until they meet his. His gaze is locked onto me with a predatory focus.

Oh no.

Behind him, his friends look on with various expressions of amusement.

When did they get here? They weren’t here a minute ago.

Wren’s gaze pins me in place, an intensity in his eyes that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.

Out of all the students in school, why did it have to be him ?

And I just spilled my drink all over him .

Fuck my life.

“I … I’m sorry.” The words feel flimsy as I grab a napkin from the closest table. “It was an accident.” I hold it out to him like a peace offering.

His gaze moves from my face to the spreading stain, then to the napkin. Instead of taking it, he drags his fingers over the wet fabric, smearing orange across white in deliberate strokes. Then his head tilts, eyes on me again. In my horrified state, it’s like he’s considering what to do with me. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something about it that puts my nerves on edge.

“Is spilling drinks your way of making an impression?” His voice carries across the silent room.

I nod, realize what I’m doing, and shake my head. His friends snicker, leaning back in their chairs, clearly anticipating the show about to start. One of them, Monty Grier, grins.

“She’s got some nerve, huh? What a way to try and get your attention, Wren.”

One corner of Wren’s mouth kicks up at his friend’s words. “You trying to get my attention, Ballerina?”

My blood turns to ice.

Ballerina?

How does he know?

I’ve never told anyone about my dancing.

It’s my secret. My sanctuary.

Wren’s eyes narrow slightly when I don’t reply, and he takes a step forward. The space between us shrinks, and the closer he comes toward me, the harder it is to breathe.

“Let me give you a little bit of advice.” His voice is low, and I’m not sure anyone else can hear him. “Don’t attract my attention again. You might not like the outcome.”

I’m pretty sure anything I say in response will make this situation worse, so I stay silent, and lower the hand still holding onto the napkin. He holds my gaze for another long moment, eyes sharp, and I feel every second of it like a physical touch. Just as I’m about to explode from holding my breath, he steps past me, brushing his shoulder against mine in the process. The contact is brief, but deliberate.

His friends push up from their seats and follow him, laughing and nudging each other as they pass me, while I stand frozen to the spot. I’m still clutching the napkin, and my mind is spinning.

The noise in the cafeteria slowly returns to normal, but the air feels different—thicker, oppressive.

Everyone saw what happened. Everyone saw me mess up. Everyone saw … me .

And now … Wren Carlisle knows I exist.

Forcing myself to move, I head to the table I’d aimed for. In my head, everyone’s watching, tracking my steps. Logically, I know the second Wren left, they lost interest. But it doesn’t feel that way.

I set down my tray, but don’t bother touching the food. The thought of eating makes me feel sick, and my stomach twists as the stories I’ve heard about Wren echo in my head.

How he doesn’t get angry, he gets even.

How he can destroy someone’s reputation without laying a single finger on them.

How he likes to play with his prey before striking.

He’s like a storm gathering on the horizon. Beautiful to look at from a distance, but deadly if he gets too close.

Don’t be ridiculous. He knows it was an accident.

But will that matter to Wren?

I jump up. There’s no point in me staying here. I’m not going to eat. I’m just going to rehash what happened over and over in my head. I gather my things and head for the door. I have a free period next, and I need to get away. Away from the noise, from the stares I’m likely just imagining, from everything . So, I go to the one place I know no one else will be. The only place where I feel like I can breathe .

The abandoned dance studio welcomes me with its familiar scent of wood and rosin. No one comes here anymore, not since Mrs. Reynolds left for California. The school didn’t bother to hire a replacement. There was no point when I’m the only student who cared.

I change quickly, and slip my feet into my ballet flats. The mirrors reflect back a girl I barely recognize. Eyes wide in a pale face, hair coming loose from its ponytail.

Usually this is where I find my peace, where I can shed my invisibility and become something more. But as I move to the barre, I can’t shake the memory of Wren’s eyes. The way he looked at me, like he could see right through me. Like he knew exactly who I am beneath my camouflage.

Why did he call me ballerina?

How does he know?

My father always told me that freedom is dangerous. Invisibility is safety. He said that’s why he chose to live in Silverlake Rapids, why I don't have a phone, and why I don't exist online. We hide in plain sight because that’s how we survive. For years, I would ask him why. Why did we have to live like that? His answer was always the same.

You’re too young to understand. One day I’ll explain. But not now.

Every time I step into the old dance studio, I betray his philosophy. But I can’t stop. It’s as though dancing is in my blood, and if I go too long without it, the reality of my existence suffocates me.

The mirrors here are cracked, the ceiling dotted with water stains, and the floorboards creak underfoot. The light that seeps through the dusty windows is pale, filtered by years of grime. It’s a forgotten place. Unnoticed, unwanted.

Just like me.

Yet here, I am anything but invisible. The abandoned studio knows my name in every move I make. The space knows my secrets. When I dance, the emptiness fills with my presence, with every leap and turn that releases what I keep locked away. Dancing is dangerous because it makes me visible. It forces me to exist, fully and unapologetically, if only to the cracked reflections staring back at me.

Dancing is my rebellion. My reminder that, for at least an hour each day, I exist for myself.

But for the first time in years, I’m terrified that I’m not invisible anymore.