47. Invisible No More

CHAPTER 47

Invisible No More

ILEANA

The afternoon drags, each class blending into the next. My notebook remains mostly empty, the pen in my hand moving only to make faint lines and scribbles. The words of the teachers barely register, lost beneath the whispers and stares.

Behind me, Wren’s presence is impossible to ignore. His pen brushes lightly against my back. A tap here, a faint drag there. Each touch is purposeful, meant to remind me he’s there. Watching. Waiting. I grip my pen tighter, keeping my eyes on the page and refusing to turn around.

“Stop pretending you’re invisible.”

Heat rises to my face, and I keep my eyes fixed on the textbook in front of me.

“We both know you can’t fight it. I’m going to make you visible.” His voice is light, amused.

The whispers in the room don’t stop. I’m sure he can hear them as clearly as I can.

“ She’s not even his type. Too quiet.”

“ Do you think he’s serious?”

“It’s probably just another one of his games. Wait for the bomb to drop.”

Each comment hits a nerve. I’ve spent years being invisible in class, and he’s demolished it in little more than a week. Every glance feels like a spotlight I can’t escape. The knot in my stomach twists tighter, making it hard to focus on anything but the way everyone is looking at me. I’m a spectacle, a curiosity, and it’s all because of him.

Wren taps his pen against my back, harder, demanding attention .

“Sit up straight. Put your shoulders back. Hold your head up. Let them see you.”

I straighten before I can stop myself, and the change feels monumental. My heart races, while the whispers grow louder. I can sense their stares without even needing to look. Each moment stretches out, the air around me heavy with tension. Behind me, Wren hums softly, like he’s pleased with himself.

The same pattern continues in History. Wren behind me, his pen a constant point of contact between us. The teacher walks between the desks, pointing at students to answer questions. It’s part of her usual routine—call on someone, wait for their answer, move on. I don’t pay much attention. She never asks me.

“Ileana. What led to the Treaty of Versailles?”

My hand freezes mid-note, and my head snaps up. She’s talking to me? I gape at her for a second. Wren’s pen digs between my shoulder blades, the pain snapping me out of my frozen state.

“The treaty was shaped by the Allies’ desire to prevent future wars, while also punishing Germany for World War One.”

The teacher nods. “Well done.”

The exchange is brief, a routine part of the class, but to me it’s more. It’s a shift to my entire world. Faces turn toward me. I duck my head. The pen jabs at me. I lift my head, straightening my posture.

“Good girl.” That pen traces a pattern on my back. I don’t need to turn around to know that he’s smiling.

When the bell rings, I bolt for the door. The next class isn’t one Wren is in, and the relief of not being under his constant gaze is overshadowed by something I can’t quite name. An emptiness … an absence I didn’t expect caused by the lack of his presence.

In biology, I force myself to focus on the task at hand, but the whispers still follow me, softer now but there. My lab partner, something else that’s new, fumbles with the slides, and I take over without a word, my hands steady despite the noise in my head. The teacher pauses near our table, glancing at my notes with a faint nod of approval. It’s the only moment of quiet in a day that feels unbearably loud.

I catch myself glancing toward the door more than once, half-expecting him to appear, the thought of his presence steadying in a way I can’t explain.

“You’re good at this,” my lab partner says, tone awkward.

“I’ve done it before.” I adjust the microscope, focusing on the tiny, intricate details on the slide.

But inside, thoughts are crashing around my head. I’m no longer invisible. Wren has changed things, changed me .

When the bell rings again, my relief is muted by a nervous tension that sets off butterflies in my stomach. I step into the hall, ignoring the flare of disappointment when Wren isn’t there waiting. At my locker, I focus on the familiar routine—spin the combination, grab the books I need to take home, shut the door. I’m about to close the door when a voice pulls me from my thoughts.

“Ileana?”

I look over my shoulder to find Lottie standing there. She steps closer, but keeps a small distance between us, her hands clasped lightly in front of her.

“Can we talk? About Wren.” She hesitates, glancing up and down the hallway before meeting my gaze again. “I just want to make sure you’re okay. I’ve seen what happens when people get too close to him. They don’t come out the other side the same.”

I close my locker, and turn to face her fully. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Are you?” Her voice is soft. “Because once he decides on something … it’s not easy to get away.”

I force a small nod. “Thanks, but I’m okay. I promise.”

She stares at me for a second longer, then nods. “Well, if you ever need to talk …” She turns away and walks down the hall toward the exit.

I stay where I am, watching her leave. Her words swirl around my head, but I push them aside. Her warnings won’t make any difference now. It’s too late to go back. I walk in the same direction she took at a slower pace. The closer I get to the doors, the more manic the butterflies spin in my stomach.

The memory of last night teases the edges of my thoughts, vivid and raw. I let him in. Into my room. Into my space. I let him touch me, made no attempt to stop him. And now it’s the end of the day, and I have a decision to make.

Do I go to the dance studio? Do I want to know the answers to the things he hinted at? Do I stand in front of him again, knowing that I’ve already started to fall into his grasp? Knowing that I’ve already let him take so much from me already? Or do I turn away, and continue to pretend I still have a choice?

Any answers Wren has to give me will come at a price I’m not sure I can afford to pay. But walking away doesn’t feel like an option. Not anymore.

The closer I get to the exit, the more obvious my decision becomes.

Wren doesn’t let go. He doesn’t ask twice.

And part of me, a dangerous, quiet part, is tired of hiding. Of pretending I don’t want the fire he’s drawn me into.