11. Breaking Point

CHAPTER 11

Breaking Point

ILEANA

The music carries me, every beat anchoring me in movements I know by heart. My body remembers the flow, the stretch, the balance. Here, I can pretend Wren Carlisle doesn’t exist. Pretend I don’t feel his eyes tracking me in hallways or his voice echoing in my head. For a little while, I can forget what it feels like to look over my shoulder.

I’ve made today’s routine harder—more spins, higher jumps, each movement demanding everything I have. I need the burn in my muscles, the ache in my chest, anything to drown out Lottie’s voice from the library.

Carlisle and his friends like to play games.

The warning loops in my head as I push through another series of turns. Each spin blurs the memory of this morning—Wren’s eyes on me at my locker, his voice echoing in English class, the touches of his pen against my back.

Sometimes they don’t end well for whoever they pick as their playmates.

I push harder, spin faster, driving myself to the edge of exhaustion. My feet move on instinct, the rhythm pulling me forward.

But Lottie’s voice isn’t the only one that’s intruding on my thoughts. Wren’s is there too.

Secrets make everything more interesting, don’t you think? They bind people together.

The way Lottie froze when he walked over, her confidence evaporating in an instant. I wasn’t any better, barely managing to hold myself together. He didn’t even need to raise his voice—just standing there, smiling that infuriating smile was enough to make my heart race.

You’re not invisible anymore, Ileana. Better get used to it.

I grit my teeth, my arms sweeping wide as I launch into a jump, the music driving me forward.

Why me? Why did he care what I did or didn’t do, why I kept to myself?

I’m not one of the girls who flirt with him, who attract his attention. I’m not someone who makes an interesting target.

I spin again, faster this time, but the memory of his thumb touching my lip pulls me off balance. The sensation lingers, uninvited and unwelcome. I can still feel the way he leaned close, the way his breath warmed my skin.

Fear suits you .

The music swells, demanding my focus, but his words are louder, drowning everything out. My rhythm falters, just for a second, and I stumble, catching myself before I fall. I straighten, but the flow is broken.

He’s inside my head.

This is supposed to be mine. But somehow, Wren Carlisle has managed to take a piece of it away from me.

The music fills the room, sharp and demanding, guiding my every movement. My arms extend, my body curves, and for a moment, I feel weightless, caught in the rhythm. Each step pulls me further into the flow, shutting out everything beyond this moment. The air brushes against my skin, cool and grounding, as I spin, letting the music drown out the thoughts I’ve been trying to escape.

Strong arms lock around my waist mid-spin, breaking my focus and wrenching me backward. A wall of warmth presses against my back, trapping me before I can react. The scent of cologne hits me, familiar and unmistakable.

“Your arabesque is getting sloppy,” Wren whispers. “Too much tension in your shoulders. You’re letting fear affect your form.”

Terror grips me, freezing my limbs, while my mind races for a way out.

How did he get here? How long has he been watching?

Before I can stop to consider the consequences, I drive my elbow back, aiming for his ribs. He catches the movement, his hands tightening before he spins me around, slamming me against the mirror. My breath escapes in a gasp as his hands rest on either side of my head, caging me in.

“There she is.” His smile turns predatory and confident, as if he’s been waiting for this moment. “I knew there was fire hiding inside you.”

“Get out!” The words tear from my throat before I can think. The anger in my own voice startles me, but it doesn’t faze him.

Instead of retreating, his smile deepens, his head tilting in amusement. “Make me.”

My pulse races, every instinct screaming at me to move, to fight, but I can’t. His presence feels like a heavy weight pinning me to the spot.

"This isn't a game. Leave me alone." My voice is firmer now.

“Isn’t it?” His lips touch my jaw, slow and deliberate, trailing down to my neck. A shiver runs through me, an involuntary reaction to his warmth. “Why do you practice over and over for an audience that doesn’t exist? Why pretend you don’t want something more?”

“You don’t know anything about me.” I turn my head, breaking the contact.

“You keep telling yourself that, Ballerina. But we both know you’re not as invisible as you want to be.” His laugh is quiet, dangerous . He shifts closer, his chest presses against mine, pinning me to the mirror. I twist, trying to get away, but his thigh moves, pushing between my legs. My breath catches as he traps me completely.

His voice drops, a low murmur against my ear. “I know about the scholarship offer from Richmond Dance Academy three and a half years ago. The one that disappeared before your father found out.”

My head jerks back, shock cutting through the fear. “My … wh at? What are you talking about?”

His fingers hook under my chin, tilting my face up. His other hand glides down my side, fingertips skimming the bare skin beneath my shirt, the touch light and delicate.

“Didn’t you know? Mrs. Reynolds was very impressed with you. She wanted to help you escape from Daddy’s control. Too bad she disappeared before she could follow up.”

The words are like a punch to the gut, winding me. Memories I’ve tried to bury rise to the surface—Mrs. Reynolds’ encouragement, her soft-spoken praise, her promise of something better. I’d been fourteen, and excited at being offered the lead in the school performance. Years of ballet lessons during school, the only non-education thing my parents allowed, building to that moment. I’d gone home, excited and proud … and that’s when I really understood that my father’s behavior wasn’t normal, that the life I thought was unchangeable didn’t have to be. He tore up the permission slip, and told me I could no longer take the dance class. When I went back to school the next day, she was gone, and with her, the faint hope I’d allowed myself to believe in.

“How do you—Did you have something to do with that?”

He laughs. “Me? Not everything revolves around me, Ballerina. And I didn’t know who you were back then. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Because no one saved you. You’re still here.”

“I don’t need saving!”

His smile doesn’t falter. “No. You’ve done an excellent job of surviving. But you know … the thing about surviving? It’s not the same as living.”

His words dig into me, cutting away the layers I’ve spent years building around myself. My heart pounds painfully against my ribs, fear and fury warring inside me. I try to duck under his arm, but he’s faster. His hand catches my wrist, spinning me back against the mirror. His body presses against mine, a wall of heat and force that I can’t escape.

“You’re going to meet me tonight. Eight o’clock. ”

"No."

His hand slides into my ponytail, the tug on my hair firm but not painful, forcing me to look at him. His lips hover inches from mine, his gaze burning into me. His other hand moves lower, fingers skimming the edge of my waistband, a light, teasing touch that makes me squirm.

“If you don’t show up, I’ll come to your door. And we both know what happens then, don’t we? What secrets might come out if I talk to your father?”

“He won’t believe you.”

“Won’t he? I can be very persuasive.” His smile hardens, his tone colder now. His palm flattens against my lower back, pulling me closer. The warmth of his breath heats my skin, and I struggle to hold my ground, to keep from giving him the reaction he’s so clearly waiting for.

“Do you want to test it? Should we see what happens when I tell him about his daughter’s secret passion? About how she defies him and lies about where she’s been when she gets home late from school? About the scholarship she could have had?”

“Don’t.”

Triumph flashes in his eyes, satisfaction curving his lips. But for a fleeting moment, there’s something else—something almost gentle. His hand tightens in my hair, his lips brushing mine, so close I can almost taste him.

“Eight o’clock, Ballerina. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

“Where?” I force the word out, hating how small it feels.

“I’ll be waiting at the end of your street.” He releases me, and steps back.

The loss of his warmth makes me shiver. My skin feels branded, every place he touched burned into my memory.

“Oh, and Ileana?” He pauses at the door, his smile turning dark, knowing . “I left something in your locker. Think of it as … inspiration … for tonight. If you’re going to stop hiding, you might as well do it properly. ”

The door shuts quietly behind him, and my legs give out. I slide down the mirror until I hit the floor. Tremors ripple through me, stealing my breath and leaving my thoughts spinning, splintering into fragments of panic. Each one is worse than the last.

A scholarship. Mrs. Reynolds. The way my dreams were ripped away.

It takes ten minutes before I can get up. When I finally force myself to stand, my legs are unsteady, my steps slow and mechanical as I head for my locker. My hands shake as I spin the combination, and when the door opens, my breathing stops.

A black rose lies draped across my books, its petals velvety and dark, its thorns gleaming like tiny blades under the fluorescent light. Beneath it, a note, the handwriting bold and unmistakable.

Some flowers bloom best in darkness, Ballerina. But I prefer to watch them writhe in the light.

I pick up the rose, wincing as a thorn pierces my skin. A drop of blood wells, bright against the black petals. The sight sends a chill through me, as if the flower itself carries his promise, unspoken but impossible to ignore.

This isn’t a threat. It’s a warning. A declaration of intent.

He’s going to drag me out of the shadows whether I want it or not.

And he’s going to make me bleed in the process.

Four and a half hours. Not enough time to think. Too much time to feel. To wonder if playing his game is the only way to keep the rest of my world intact—or if calling his bluff will destroy everything anyway.

Sometimes they don’t end well.

Lottie’s warning echoes in my mind, louder now as I stare at the rose. At the blood. At the way both seem impossibly beautiful, even as they’re wrapped in something sharp and cruel.

Just like Wren Carlisle.