2. Stained Intentions

CHAPTER 2

Stained Intentions

WREN

Details consume me. The truths others overlook, the ones that strip people bare and show me who they really are. A nervous tap of fingers. A glance that lingers too long. That fleeting, cruel smile when they see someone else stumble. Patterns and secrets—those are my currency . And I know how to exploit every single one.

Ileana Moreno was just another file in my head. A name, a pattern, a set of habits I could use if I ever needed to. She wasn’t supposed to matter.

She moves like a shadow, fading into the background with deliberate care. Most people wouldn't notice. But I did. I noticed the way she skirts around the edges of the crowd, how her eyes dart away if anyone looks too closely. She has a routine—afternoons spent sneaking behind the school, toward the abandoned dance studio by the gym. It’s her hiding spot. She thinks no one sees her disappear.

But I do.

Her invisibility makes her interesting. Interesting enough to watch, to mark as a possibility. A game to play if Monty, Nico, and I got bored. Someone who could be nudged into the spotlight just to see how far she’d run—or if she’d stand and break.

Just a possibility. Until today.

It started when she spilled the juice on me. Cold stickiness soaked into my shirt, and her eyes went wide—shock, fear, vulnerability, all in a flash. I barely felt the irritation, just a faint annoyance at the mess. What caught my interest was her reaction—how quickly she shrank back, cheeks flushing, stammering an apology.

I glance down at the stained shirt, the sticky residue still clinging to my skin. It’s disgusting, but I don’t bother changing. Not yet. My mind is too busy replaying the moment, the way she froze when I spoke her secret out loud.

Ballerina.

Her face went white. Her entire body tensed, like I’d stripped away something vital. She didn’t think anyone knew. She’s good at hiding, staying unnoticed, keeping her world separate from the rest of us.

But she’s not as invisible as she thinks.

One moment, she was on the edges, just another name. Then she spilled that juice, and something changed. Maybe it was the fear in her eyes. Maybe it was the vulnerability she tried to hide. Either way, something shifted, and now she’s in my head, demanding my attention, refusing to be just another face in the crowd.

I leave my friends by the football field, their laughter fading as I cross the courtyard. My mind buzzes, replaying the way she froze when I spoke. She looked as though I’d uncovered a part of her no one else had ever seen.

Pausing at the edge of the courtyard, my attention locks onto the far side of the school. I know where she is. Her routine plays out like clockwork in my mind. She thinks no one notices.

She thinks the dance studio is her sanctuary. It won’t be for much longer. Not once I decide to make my move, to strip away the illusion of safety she clings to.

The October sun warms my neck, but I ignore it. My focus is elsewhere. My mind is already plotting, planning, thinking about what comes next. I can hear my friends in the distance, their voices blending into the background noise of the school. They have no idea what I’m doing. If they did, they’d want to join in.

Today, I’m going to see what makes Miss Ileana Moreno tick, and I don’t want to share the experience.

The school grounds are quiet as I make my way toward the ballet studio. I know exactly where to stand—outside the building, by the narrow window, where I can see her without being seen .

I’ve done this before. Back when she first caught my eye, and I wanted to see where she disappeared to. But this time feels different.

This time, she’s come into a much sharper focus.

Coming to a stop just out of sight, I peer through the small window. Classical music drifts through the cracks, and there she is—already moving across the floor, her body flowing with the music.

I’ve watched her dance before, but never for long. A few minutes, enough to satisfy my curiosity, then I’d walk away. But today, there’s something raw in her movements. A desperation I haven’t seen before.

She isn’t the same girl who walks through the halls unnoticed. Not here. Here, she’s pure fire. Disciplined, graceful, every movement a statement of power she never shows outside this room. It’s a secret she’s kept from everyone—and now it’s mine.

I stare at her, transfixed. She’s lost in the dance, unaware of my eyes on her. She’s beautiful like this. Not conventionally, not the way people think beauty should look. It’s in the control, the focus, the perfection she chases with every movement. It’s in the frustration that flickers across her face when something isn’t quite right.

Her body moves with a kind of intensity that draws me in. Her feet glide across the floor, her arms reach out, her expression shifting between fierce concentration and fleeting satisfaction. There’s sweat beading on her forehead, dampening the strands of hair that have come loose from her ponytail. She’s putting everything she has into this. Every ounce of strength, every bit of focus.

I step back, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. She’s completely lost to the music, and I don’t move, don’t make a sound. Watching her feels like holding my breath. She can’t see me through the glass. She’s too focused on her dance. She thinks no one is watching .

But I am.

And she’s no longer just a game for the future. She’s the main event, the only thing in my head right now.

There’s a thrill in this—the knowledge that I see her as she truly is, and she has no idea. She’s caught up in her little world, but I’m the one who’s in control. I could step inside right now and disrupt everything, shatter the illusion. But I won’t. Not yet.

Because timing is everything.

She finishes her routine with a final flourish, her hands gripping the barre tightly as she stretches. Her movements are slower now, but the tension is still there. It’s in the way her muscles strain, the frustration in her face every time she glances at her reflection.

She’s not happy with what she’s seeing.

Good.

I take a step back, just as she glances toward the window, a hint of something crossing her face. Suspicion, maybe. But then she shakes her head, dismissing whatever thought crossed her mind, and goes back to her routine.

She hasn’t seen me. But she will. When I’m ready, she’ll know how closely I’ve been watching, and by then, it’ll be too late to run, too late to hide. She’ll be exactly where I want her.

I walk away from the studio, a smile tugging at my lips. Today is just the beginning. An unplanned beginning, but not unwelcome. Somehow she caught me off guard, ignited a spark I hadn’t expected, turning a new potential game into something far more captivating.

I make my way back to where my friends are waiting. They greet me with questions, wanting to know where I disappeared to, but I don’t reply. My mind is too busy thinking ahead, plotting, considering my next step. I’ve seen her vulnerability now.

She thinks she’s invisible, but she’s wrong. I see her. I see everything, and I’ve already decided how this will go.

She belongs to me now. She just hasn’t realized it yet.