CHAPTER 1

The Invisible Girl

ILEANA

I’ve always beengood at being invisible.

It’s a skill I’ve perfected over years, drilled into me by my father’s daily mantra before school.

Don’t attract attention. Don’t get involved. Focus on your studies. Be a good girl.

I was fourteen when I figured out other parents didn’t say those kinds of things to their kids. But by then, blending into the background was as automatic as breathing, and I’d stopped asking why it mattered so much.

In Silverlake Rapids, where a whispered secret spreads from the grocery store to the school parking lot in minutes, being invisible should be impossible. Yet I’m so good at it, I can walk into any downtown store and still get asked if I'm new—in the town I've lived in my whole life.

It used to bother me when I was younger. I’d see other kids getting invited to birthday parties, social events, family barbecues, and ask my parents why I couldn’t go too. Over time, it hurt less, and eventually it became my normal.

Some days, I imagine myself fading away, blending into nothing—a ghost no one remembers. Would I be one of those missing kids whose yearbook photograph shows up on the news, while classmates struggle to remember if they ever spoke to me.

Those are the thoughts in my head as I weave through the crowded hallways of Silverlake High, dodging elbows and backpacks on the way to my locker. My movements are precise and careful. Step aside when someone approaches. Keep my head angled down, but not so far it looks deliberate.Make my presence small enough for people’s eyes to slide past me without registering my existence. Every motion has been honed through years of practice.

I pause at my locker, dump my books inside, then head toward the cafeteria. The air is thick with the smell of greasy pizza and body odor. I grab my usual—sandwich and orange juice—and make my way to my spot near the fire exit.

It’s perfect. Technically off-limits, which means it’s always empty. Just how I like it. The isolation suits me, lets me observe without being seen. From here, I watch the social hierarchy play out—the football team holding court at their table, rowdy and loud; the cheerleaders preening for attention; the band kids comparing sheet music.

And then there’s the center table …

The students there command attention without trying, occupying the prime real estate in the middle of the cafeteria. Everyone gives them a wide berth. Wren Carlisle sits at the heart of it all, his cafeteria chair more like a throne, eyes scanning the room with bored indifference.

Everyoneknows Wren Carlisle. His family practically owns this town, or at least the most expensive part of it. The new east wing of the school bears his family name, and the football team’s equipment comes courtesy of the Carlisle fortune. But it’s not his money that makes people avoid him where possible.

It’s the coldness in his eyes. The way he watches people like he’s taking mental notes of their weaknesses. The rumors about what happens to those who cross him. He’s intimidating as hell, and wrapped in a ‘don’t fuck with me’ attitude that radiates off him like a physical force.

I’ve watched long enough to know the patterns. How other students alter their paths to avoid crossing too close. How conversations drop to whispers when they pass. How even teachers seem to defer to their presence.

But today, the table is empty, which means I can go directlyto my seat without skirting the edges of the room. My attention shifts to the dance routine I’ve been working on. I plan to go to the dance studio as soon as I’ve eaten, and spend the rest of lunch there.

Ballet is my escape. The place where I can transform into something real. When I dance, I exist, Imatter. It’s my secret. The one thing that belongs only to me. Not even my family knows about it. Dad would shut it down if he ever found out.

Lost in thoughts of pirouettes, I don’t see the bag in my path until my foot catches it, sending me stumbling. Time seems to slow as my tray tips, sending my orange juice sailing through the air in a graceful arc my ex ballet teacher would have been proud of …

… and soaks the front of a pristine white T-shirt that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home.

My eyes follow the path of the spreading orange stain upward, and my stomach plummets. Of all the people in the school, of course it has to be him.

Wren Carlisle.

The cafeteria falls silent, like someone has hit pause on a movie. Wren doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He has one hand resting on the table beside him, as though he’d been about to sit down. In the other, he’s holding a can of soda. His stillness is more unnerving than any outburst would be.

Locked in some kind of self-destructive moment, my eyes keep lifting until they meet his. His gaze is locked onto me with a predatory focus.

Oh no.

Behind him, his friends look on with various expressions of amusement.

When did they get here? They weren’t here a minute ago.

Wren’s gaze pins me in place, an intensity in his eyes that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.