51. Unraveling Shadows

CHAPTER 51

Unraveling Shadows

ILEANA

The silence stretches between us, broken only by our breathing. My knees ache against the hard floor, the dress clinging to my skin. But I can’t move. Not yet. My hands remain limp at my sides, my head bowed.

He doesn’t move either.

The weight of what just happened between us is heavy in the air, but it doesn’t feel wrong. It doesn’t feel like something I had no choice in. If anything, it feels like too much of a choice.

One I can’t take back.

One I’m not sure I want to.

My chest rises and falls, the air cool against the heat radiating from my skin. My hands twitch at my sides, the instinct to wipe away the wetness on my chest warring with the memory of why it’s there. Of how I wanted it, wanted to see him unravel the way he always does to me.

His fingers touch my jaw, in a move that’s become familiar and welcome. I don’t resist when he tilts my head up. My body responds on instinct, my eyes meeting his. His are focused, taking me in like a puzzle he’s still solving. Like I’m something he already owns.

“You’re beautiful like this. Kneeling for me. Wearing what I chose for you. Covered in me.”

The words delivered in that rough tone send a shiver down my spine. But it’s not fear. Not anymore. He strokes my cheek, my jaw, my lips, and I feel the same spark of electricity I did when he touched me earlier.

“Don’t look away. Don’t hide from me. ”

I don’t. I can’t . My cheeks flush, but I hold his gaze, letting him see everything. The questions. The need. The vulnerability. I don’t have the strength to hide it anymore. His lips curve into a smile, soft but dangerous.

“Tomorrow.” He leans down to kiss my lips, my jaw, my cheeks. “Come to me tomorrow, and I’ll give you another piece of the truth. Another step toward understanding who you really are.”

The words feel more like a command than a request, and yet they ignite something in me that terrifies me. A longing to say yes. A need to hear more. I nod before my mind even has a chance to think about it, and he smiles. A dark, satisfied smile that does something to my insides.

And just like that, his hand drops away, and the warmth of his touch is gone. He straightens his clothes with infuriating calm, like I’m not still kneeling on the floor, covered in the evidence of what we’ve just done. His gaze moves to me once more, then he turns and walks out.

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone in the studio. I sit back on my heels, my fingers curling into the skirts of the dress. The stickiness of his release against my skin is impossible to ignore, but I don’t move to clean it off. Not yet.

My reflection in the mirror catches my eye, and my stomach flips. My hair is wild, my cheeks flushed. I don’t look like myself … or maybe I do. Maybe this is who I was meant to become, brought into the light by his touch.

I don’t know whether to hate him or thank him for it.

Who am I now? The girl who once lived in the shadows, happy to remain unnoticed, or the one sitting here, marked by Wren’s touch?

His whispered words echo in my mind.

Your father had another name once. Agent Charleston.

Operation Rossi Crown.

Your parents kept secrets.

Each phrase is like a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit, leaving me with more questions than answers. He knows something, something that will change everything I understand about my world.

Taking in breath after breath, I try to pull myself together, the reality of what I just did finally setting in. The dress clings to my body, the fabric heavy with the weight of what just happened. I need to get out of it. My hands shake as I strip it off, the silk sliding over my skin and pooling around my knees. I stare at it for a long moment before pushing myself to my feet and picking it up. I wipe my skin with my T-shirt, then stuff both that and the dress into my bag. The urge to hide it, to hide what it represents is overwhelming, but there’s no erasing how it made me feel.

I pull on my underwear, jeans and hoodie, and glance around the studio. Part of me expects him to be here, but the room is empty. He’s gone, leaving behind only silence and the echo of what we did.

The night air stings my skin as I step outside. The school grounds are eerily quiet, the soft rustle of leaves the only sound as I cross the courtyard and walk through the gates. My feet ache with every step, my muscles burning. But it’s my mind that hurts the most, racing with questions I’ve never dared to ask and truths I can no longer ignore.

The folded note in my pocket feels like it’s burning a hole through the material.

Alias established for James Charleston. Disappearance linked to incident.

My father's face flashes through my mind. The way he checks the locks, how he insists on cash-only payments, his rules about staying invisible. All the things I’ve taken for granted now feel like pieces of a larger lie.

A car drives past, moving too slowly, as I walk down the darkened street, and my heart stops.

Is it him? Is Wren still watching me?

The thought sends a rush of heat through me. An unwanted thrill that I shove down, refusing to let it take hold. I can’t think about that now. Not when I’m so close to home .

When I finally reach the apartment building, my hands are shaking. I unlock the door and step inside. The familiar hallway stretches out in front of me, but everything feels different now. Changed. Like Wren’s revelations have twisted the foundation of my life into something unrecognizable.

Dad's voice carries from the kitchen when I step inside our apartment. "Ileana? You're late."

“I was studying.” My heart races, my skin burning.

Is the truth obvious? Can he tell what I’ve really been doing?

His chair scrapes across the floor, and then he’s there, standing in the doorway. His arms are crossed, his stance rigid, but it’s his eyes that makes my pulse jump. Assessing. Knowing. They rake over me like a scalpel.

He knows something. He always knows. It’s like he can smell guilt, like he’s spent his entire life training to detect the tiniest cracks in someone’s armor. And I’m full of cracks now. Split open by Wren’s hands, his words, and the things he’s made me feel.

I force myself to keep my expression blank. My bag is heavy on my shoulder, the dress tucked away inside like a secret begging to be discovered.

Has he noticed the flush in my skin? The tremor in my hands? The way I can’t quite meet his eyes for more than a second at a time?

I feel like a small child caught sneaking out after curfew, but this is worse. So much worse. This isn’t just breaking the rules.

“You were studying?” The words are more accusation than question.

“Yes.”

“Where?” The word is clipped, and something inside me snaps.

“Does it matter? Isn’t that what you want? For me to be the perfect little daughter who never attracts attention, never asks questions, never actually lives?”

Behind him, Mom appears, hands soapy, a dish towel clutched between them.

“Watch your tone,” Dad says .

“Why?” I take a step forward, heart pounding so hard I can barely hear my own voice above it. “So I can keep pretending everything about our life is normal? So I can keep ignoring the way you act like the entire world is out to get us?”

“Ileana—” Mom’s voice is soft.

“This stops now. I won’t tolerate this attitude from you.”

“Or what?” My voice rises. “What happens if I stop following your stupid rules? If I stop hiding? What will you do if I ask why we never use credit cards? Or why you check the locks every night? Or why you’re so afraid of anyone wanting to talk to me?”

“Enough!” His hand slams against the doorframe, the sound making my mom flinch. But it’s not anger I see in his face, it’s fear. Raw and unguarded, just for a moment, before he schools his expression into something harder.

“Go to your room.”

I hold his gaze, refusing to be beaten down. “Maybe I’m tired of being told what to do. Maybe I want to do more than just survive!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” I turn away, moving toward my room. “Maybe I know more than you want me to.”

I close my bedroom door quietly, resisting the urge to slam it. My whole body is shaking from the adrenaline flooding my system.

I've never talked to him like that. Never challenged him. Never let him see how much I resent the cage he's built around me. Because before now, before Wren , I didn’t know there was some other way for me to live. Didn’t know what I was missing.

Their voices reach me through the walls—too muffled to make out words, but the tension in their tones is clear. Mom's higher pitch, worried. Dad's deeper rumble, angry. Or scared.

What are you afraid of, Dad? What's really out there?

I pull the dress out of my bag and lay it across the bed. The blue silk glistens in the light. I can still feel it against my skin.

Wren's voice echoes in my head again .

Your parents kept secrets.

A soft knock at my door makes me jump.

"Ileana?" Mom's voice, hesitant. "Can we talk?"

"I'm tired." The words come out harder than I intend. "I just want to go to bed."

A pause. "Your father ... he just wants to protect you."

"From what?"

The silence goes on for so long I think she's left. Then, so quietly I almost miss it, she speaks. "Some questions are dangerous."

My heart pounds against my ribs. "More dangerous than not knowing the answers?"

She doesn't respond. Her footsteps fade away, leaving me with more questions than ever.

I pull out my dance notebook, but the pages blur before my eyes. Every movement I've ever choreographed now looks like evidence of a rebellion I didn’t know I was committing. Each step, each turn, a tiny act of defiance against my father's rules.

The curtains at my window shift in the breeze and I freeze, anticipation filling my veins.

Is he out there? Watching? Waiting for me?

The thought used to terrify me. Now, it makes me feel hot and needy.

Tomorrow , he said. Come to me tomorrow.

But tomorrow feels too far away. The walls of my small bedroom press in, suffocating me. My father's anger, my mother's warning. They push me toward a decision that would have been unthinkable this morning.

My eyes fall on the blue dress spread across my bed. The dress he chose. The dress I wanted but never would have dared to buy for myself. It represents everything my father warned me against—being noticed, being wanted, being seen.

Maybe that's exactly why I need to wear it.