67. Choosing Visibility

CHAPTER 67

Choosing Visibility

ILEANA

Walking into the library feels like stepping into a trap.

The doors are stiff, and my palms sting as I push them open. The warm air inside wraps around me, jarring after three days of bitter cold, like stepping out of one world and into another. For a moment, I freeze just inside, the muffled hum of voices and the faint rustle of pages making everything too quiet. Too still.

I breathe in slow, forcing the air into my lungs. Don’t stop now.

No one looks at me, but it doesn’t matter. My skin crawls with the sense of being out of place, like a spotlight’s trained on me. My sneakers scuff against the carpet as I move deeper into the room, one foot in front of the other, trying not to look like I’m running.

The library smells the way I remember, dust and old paper, but it doesn’t comfort me. The familiar scent feels like a trick, lulling me into a false sense of safety when I know I can’t afford to let my guard down. I pass a row of tables where someone is flipping through a thick textbook, a pencil tapping against their notes. They look up, and glance in my direction. I keep my head down and hurry past them.

The computers sit at the far end. A man is just finishing, muttering under his breath as he shoves his papers into a bag. I hover nearby, fingers curled tightly into my sleeves until he leaves. Then I take the seat he’s abandoned.

The screen is still logged in.

Thank God.

I sag a little, breathing deeply, then straighten. My fingers hover over the keyboard, shaking now that I’m sitting still. I rub them together in an attempt to steady myself, then I type in Wren’s name.

The results flash on the screen, page after page of noise—articles, profiles, nothing I can use. My vision blurs, fatigue pressing in on the edges of my mind, but I force myself to focus.

Look for something. Anything.

An article catches my eye. A photograph of a man with Wren’s face, older but eerily familiar.

Charles Carlisle announces expansion of West Coast operations.

I skim the article. Charles Carlisle, CEO of Carlisle Industries. Tech development. Defense contracts. I trace the lines of his face in the photograph, taking in the familiar jaw, the intense gaze. But where Wren’s eyes hold dark promises, his father’s seem cold and calculating.

Another article mentions charity events at their estate. My gaze snags on the words Carlisle estate and Ravencrest.

Ravencrest.

I mouth it to myself as if saying it will make it real. Old money. Old property. It fits everything I’ve learned about Wren. The estate. His home. The fortress where he hides from the rest of the world. It’s private. Guarded. Untouchable. But nothing exists in total isolation.

Think, Ileana. Think.

I type “Ravencrest services.” My eyes dart across the screen, cataloging half-read words. Maintenance. Security. Events. My vision swims, and I rub my temples, trying to clear the fog.

Then I see it.

Kensley Catering: private events and exclusive clients.

Ravencrest is mentioned in small, italicized print. I sit up straighter, a spark of hope breaking through the haze. I grab a pen abandoned on the desk next to me and scrawl the number across my palm, pressing hard enough to leave faint marks even when the ink fades.

Now I just need to use it.

Leaving the library feels harder than entering. My feet drag, my exhaustion pressing heavier with every step, but I keep my head down and force myself to move. Out into the open again, where the wind cuts through my clothing like it knows I don’t belong here.

The streets feel too loud. Every sound—shoes scuffing pavement, car horns, a door slamming—makes my pulse stutter. I scan every face as I walk, checking for eyes lingering too long, for someone who might be following me. My hands stay shoved deep into my sleeves, curling tighter around the coins.

Then I see it. A payphone, tucked against a crumbling brick wall. The glass is smeared, the door half-hanging off its hinges, but it doesn’t matter. My knees nearly buckle as I step inside, pulling the door shut behind me.

The coins fall from my shaking fingers as I fumble to feed them into the slot. The final one rolls away, bouncing onto the sidewalk, but I don’t have time to care. The dial tone buzzes in my ear, so loud it makes my teeth ache. I punch in the number and clutch the receiver to my ear, my other hand braced against the cold metal wall.

“Good morning, thank you for calling Kensley Catering. How can I help you?” The voice on the other end is bright, polite. It makes my throat tighten.

I swallow hard and force a breathy, steady tone. “Hi, I’m trying to reach the Carlisle residence at Ravencrest. I had contact details saved, but they were corrupted, and I need to confirm an event.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry, but client information is confidential.”

My heart lurches, but I keep my voice calm, light, even as my stomach knots. “Oh, of course, I understand. It’s just … well, Mr. Carlisle’s assistant doesn’t forgive mistakes like this, and I’d hate to cause a bigger issue. ”

She hesitates. I hold my breath, gripping the receiver so tightly my knuckles ache.

“Hold, please.”

The hold music crackles faintly in my ear. I press my forehead to the glass, squeezing my eyes shut.

Please. Please let this work.

When she comes back, her tone is lower, softer. “I really shouldn’t do this, but … here’s the number.”

I scramble to write it on my arm, pressing the pen so hard it leaves faint scratches.

“Thank you so much.” I manage to keep my voice steady, despite the adrenaline roaring through me. I manage to end the call, to say goodbye, to hang up without slamming the receiver down.

I step out of the booth, and force myself to walk calmly down the street. Every step feels like a victory and a new risk, my mind already racing ahead.

Three blocks later, I find another payphone, and call the operator.

The operator’s voice crackles. “How may I assist you?”

“I’d like to make a collect call.” My voice shakes, but I don’t care. I give her the number.

“Name?”

I freeze. My mind scrambles, searching for something—anything—that will reach him.

“Ballerina,” I whisper. “Tell him it’s his Ballerina.”

The line clicks, then rings. Each tone stretches out longer than it should, winding my nerves tighter and tighter until it feels like I might shatter. My other hand digs into the glass, holding me steady as the cold air seeps through the cracks in the booth.

Please pick up. Please answer. Please, Wren. Still be there.