Page 76 of In Shadows We Dance

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 myselfstripped 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.

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