39. A Different Kind of Invisible

CHAPTER 39

A Different Kind of Invisible

ILEANA

Sleep never came. I've spent the night watching shadows move across my ceiling, dreading what morning would bring. His command echoes in my mind.

Six A.M., the dance studio .

My breathing turns shallow as I tangle my fingers into the sheets, eyes locked on the clock as it inches toward the deadline.

Every minute feels heavier than the last. The rational part of me says to go, to avoid the fallout, do whatever it takes to keep him from escalating. But something deeper, a small stubborn ember I haven’t felt in years, refuses to move.

I tell myself it’s resistance, that I’m reclaiming a shred of power. But beneath that thin layer of rebellion is fear.

What if defiance makes him worse? What if not showing up is the final push he’s been waiting for?

My hands tremble when I gather my hair, twisting it back, binding it into my usual ponytail. This small act feels like a challenge, but also like a reminder of who I am. Maybe if I look the same as always—plain, invisible—I can pretend none of this has happened. That I’m still the girl no one notices.

Five forty-five.

I should be getting dressed. Should be on my way to school. Should be following his orders.

But I don't move.

I imagine him waiting at the studio, his camera poised, the smug curve of his lips when he sees me walk in. He’d take his time with me, drawing out each moment like he always does. Each step I take toward him would be another layer of myself stripped away.

But what happens if I don’t go? What will he do when I don’t show up?

The minutes slip past, and with each one, my resolve wavers. I grip the sheets tighter, eyes glued to the clock as it ticks toward six.

Five-fifty.

Five-fifty-five.

My breath catches as the numbers change.

Six o’clock.

The decision is made. I’m still in bed, still in my pajamas.

I'm not going.

A shot of panic goes through me at the thought.

What have I done?

I try to reassure myself. He doesn’t have as much power as he wants me to believe. This is my line, my refusal to give him what he wants. But no matter how much I tell myself that, I can’t stop nerves from making my hands shake.

I picture his reaction when he realizes I’m not there.

Anger? Disappointment? Amusement?

None of those seem like something I can’t handle.

What if he doesn’t care? What if my defiance only proves how insignificant I really am to him?

The thought bothers me more than it should.

No. Wren isn’t the type to let anything escape his grasp. He’ll notice. He’ll retaliate. I’ve seen what he’s capable of.

Five after six.

Every second feels like a mistake I can’t take back. Maybe there’s still time. If I leave now, I could make it before six-thirty. He wouldn’t let me being late go unpunished, but maybe it would be less.

No! I’m done letting him treat me like a toy .

But what if I’m wrong? What if not showing up just makes everything worse ?

I’m still spiraling when Dad’s knock breaks through the silence at six-thirty.

“Time for school.”

“I’m up,” I call back, forcing a steadiness into my voice I don’t feel.

I pull on clothes like armor. Long sleeves, high collar, every piece a shield against what he left behind. The bruise on my throat, the bites on my breasts. My hands shake as I tie my shoes, but I ignore it, focusing instead on the mirror.

The dark circles under my eyes are obvious, but there’s nothing to be done about that now. At least I still look like me. At least I still have that.

I wait until seven-thirty to leave, much later than usual. The walk to school feels like an execution march. Every car could be his. Every face, a potential spy.

I think about turning back more than once, but going home wouldn’t change anything.

By the time I reach the school, the halls are packed, and my invisible routine is shattered. A group of girls passes, their laughter cutting off abruptly as they look my way.

Are they staring at me? Can they see it? The shame, the fear?

I reach my locker, and my heart stops when I open it. A single black rose lies waiting, its petals dark and perfect. Mocking. My stomach twists as I shove it deep into my bag. Its scent lingers, sweet and cloying, a reminder that he’s still watching.

He knows I didn’t go.

“Did you hear about—” A snippet of conversation drifts over me, and my heart stutters. But they’re not talking about me.

They can't be. No one knows.

Do they?

First period passes without incident. There’s no sign of Wren. No sign of his friends. Relief should flood me, but it doesn’t. Instead, it curdles, turning to dread. This isn’t like him. He doesn't just … not show up .

Second period. His seat is empty, and the silence of it taunts me.

Is this part of his game? Making me wait, making me wonder?

By third period, I’m unraveling. Every noise sets me off, every shadow in my periphery a potential threat. A pencil clatters to the floor two rows over, and I bite back a scream.

This is what he wants. To keep me on edge. To make me break before he even lifts a finger.

Lunch is a blur of paranoia. I can’t eat. Can’t focus. The cafeteria feels like a stage, every door a potential entry point for him.

Nico passes my table, eyes meeting mine for a second too long. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak, but I know that look. He’s reminding me that they’re always there. Always watching.

Have they seen the photographs Wren took of me? Do they know what he made me do?

My eyes dart to the cafeteria doors, expecting Wren to appear any second, that smile on his lips, the one that says he knows exactly how I’m falling apart.

But he doesn’t come.

His absence is worse. At least when he’s here, I can anticipate his moves. I can see him. This silence, this vanishing act—every second that ticks by feels like another twist of the knife. Another reminder that he holds all the cards.

He’s making me wait. Making me imagine the consequences of my disobedience. My mind races, conjuring up all the ways he could punish me, each one more twisted than the last.

The final bell rings, but I don’t move. The hallways empty around me, and there’s still no sign of him. No sign of Monty or Nico. Nothing. I peer into empty classrooms, check around corners. Monty leans against a locker at the end of the hall, eyes tracking me. He doesn’t approach, doesn’t say anything, just watches.

The walk home is agony. Every step, every sound makes my anxiety worse .

He’s planning something. He has to be. Because if he’s not, then it means he’s lost interest … and I’m not sure that’s preferable.

By the time I reach my apartment, I’m shaking. Jumping at shadows. Even my room doesn’t feel safe. Not after what he did, after he proved he could invade my space whenever he wanted.

My fingers trace the bruise beneath my collar. His brand. His mark.

You want to be touched. You want to be wanted.

His words echo in the silence, bouncing off the walls, taking root in my thoughts.

Not going to meet him might have been rebellion, but this fear? This unraveling anticipation of his retaliation? This is exactly what he wants.

What is he planning? Why didn’t he come to school?

What price will I pay for my moment of rebellion?