7. Breaking Glass

CHAPTER 7

Breaking Glass

ILEANA

I shove my locker closed, and plan the quickest route to my next class. After math, avoiding Wren is my top priority. Every hallway feels like a potential trap, every turn a risk. I duck around corners, take longer paths—anything to escape those eyes that see too much.

My stomach still twists from his whispered words, the way he tore me apart, one comment at a time. No one has ever paid that much attention to me before. No one has ever noticed enough to?—

Stop! Don’t think about it. Just get through the rest of the day and go home.

I adjust the strap on my bag and start walking, keeping close to the wall. The hum of students fills the space around me. Conversations, laughter, footsteps. It all sounds louder than usual. Usually their inattention is my shield, but today every laugh, every sudden move makes me tense.

A deafening crash shatters the hallway noise, freezing everyone in place. For a heartbeat, there’s absolute silence, then chaos erupts. Bodies surge forward, voices rising in excitement as everyone pushes toward the exits. Despite my attempts to press against the wall, I’m swept along with the tide, until we all spill out onto the school steps.

Every instinct I have screams at me to turn back. To find another way to get to class. To stay invisible like I’m supposed to. Dad’s voice echoes in my head— don’t get involved, don’t draw attention —but the crowd prevents my retreat, and I’m dragged along with them until the source of the noise comes into view .

There’s a car at the bottom of the steps. Its hood is buried into the wall, while glass from the windshield glitters across the ground like scattered diamonds. The driver’s door hangs open, interior empty, and the airbag dangles, limp and deflated, from the steering wheel.

Students crowd forward, phones raised to capture the scene. Questions bounce through the air.

Did anyone see what happened?

Where’s the driver?

Did they lose control?

But no one seems to have any answers. The energy of the crowd is crazy, hungry for drama to break up the school day.

I try to edge backward, that familiar voice in my head urging me to disappear before someone notices me standing there. But the press of bodies is too thick, and I collide with something solid. My stomach drops.

“You're making a habit of knocking into me, Ballerina. I guess I should be thankful you don’t have a drink this time.” The words ghost across my ear, sending icy fingers down my spine.

I freeze, my eyes locked on the wreck, every muscle tense. I don’t need to turn to know it’s Wren. His presence wraps around me, oppressive and inescapable, his words threading through my thoughts like smoke.

“What are you doing here?” My voice comes out tight, barely audible over the chatter around us, but he hears me.

“Same as everyone else.” Wren steps up beside me, his arm brushing against mine. “Watching the show.”

A quick glance in his direction reveals that easy smile playing around his lips, like the chaos around us is nothing but mild entertainment put on for him. After what he put me through in class, seeing him so relaxed makes my uneasiness worse.

“Is something funny?”

His smile widens, as his gaze shifts to me, dark eyes glinting. “Maybe. ”

“Someone could have gotten hurt.”

He laughs softly, the sound somehow both amused and dismissive, and it sends a chill through me. More students push past us, jostling for better views with their phones.

“It’s not funny.” I hate how my voice shakes.

“No. But it is entertaining, watching everyone scramble for a look.” His eyes flick back to the scene, and there’s something in his tone—a detached, almost clinical interest. “Such good little vultures, aren’t they?”

I shift away from him, but the crowd presses in, and there’s nowhere to go. I’m trapped, cornered, my usual escape routes cut off. I hate how trapped I feel. How aware I am of him—his proximity, his voice, the way he seems to take up all the air around us.

Shouts erupt from the crowd, students pointing toward the edge of the parking lot where a figure sprints toward the tree line. A ripple of excitement spreads, the onlookers buzzing like a hive.

“Who’s that?” someone calls out.

I should take the chance to sneak away while everyone’s distracted, but before I can move, Wren’s fingers wrap around my wrist. The touch is light, almost casual, but it roots me in place, electricity shooting up my arm. His grip tightens just enough to make my pulse spike.

“Leaving so soon?” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “Aren’t you curious, Ballerina? Don’t you want to see how it ends?”

The principal’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker, ordering everyone back inside. No one moves. They’re too busy filming, too caught up in the drama unfolding in front of them.

My heart pounds, my skin burning where his fingers rest against my wrist. I want to pull away, to put distance between us, but I can’t. Not without drawing attention. Not without making a scene.

It would make people look. It would make them see me .

“Quite a show,” Wren muses, his thumb brushing over my racing pulse. “Amazing how quickly chaos draws a crowd. Makes you wonder what else they’d flock to, doesn’t it?”

The way he says it—like he’s talking about something far more intimate than the wreck before us—sends a fresh wave of unease crashing over me. He’s too close, his words too knowing, his touch too familiar.

“Let go,” I whisper, hating the tremor in my voice.

He does, but not before his fingers trail down my arm, a deliberate touch that leaves goosebumps in its wake. “As you wish.”

I turn, and run, darting through gaps until I’m back inside. I aim for the nearest restroom, and lock myself inside a stall until my breathing steadies.

What the hell was that?

Outside, other girls filter in and out, their voices high with excitement as they dissect what just happened. None of them sound concerned about the missing driver. They’re just thrilled to have something to talk about, to post about, to make another boring school day extraordinary.

When the restroom finally empties, I step out. The mirror shows what I expect—pale face, wide eyes, hair coming loose from its ponytail. My hands shake as I tighten the elastic, forcing myself to focus on the familiar task. I take my time fixing it, using the routine to push Wren’s words and touch from my mind.

It was just a car crash. A fluke accident that caught everyone’s attention.

By the time I reach the classroom, my heart rate has mostly settled. Students are still trickling in, their conversations centered on what happened. Through the window, I can see people gathering around the wreck, probably getting ready to clear it away.

I take my seat, and pull out my notebook. My skin still burns where Wren’s fingers circled my wrist, and I rub at the spot, thinking about how easily he held me in place. How naturally he’d inserted himself into my space. How, despite the chaos and crowd, he still managed to make me feel like I was the only person he was truly watching.

My pen moves across the paper, creating meaningless patterns, while the teacher’s voice drones on.

Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow he’ll forget about the girl who spilled orange juice on him. Tomorrow everything will go back to normal.

But deep down, I know the truth is something else.

Tomorrow, he’ll still be watching me.