SELENA
Stay hurt, but hide it. That is what Selena Vance lives by.
That night sticks with me. Six years old, standing by the curtain, seeing Dad sneer while Mom kept smiling. The gown cost more than our car. Another woman handed her a drink - same brand he liked - and Mom took it slow. Her face stayed smooth, like nothing cut deep.
Hold back your pain, Selena. Pain pulls predators close.
Now I sit here, in the west dining hall, eyes on Damen Blackwood poking at his food like it means nothing. Three days straight he's moved through air that isn't there, mind caught somewhere far off. Not gone - just unreachable. His body stays, yet doesn't quite arrive.
Finding the reason feels clear now.
Miraculously quiet, her presence slips through classroom cracks - Mira Castillo, always tucked behind rows. That oversized blazer hangs loose, sleeves swallowing wrists like it belongs to someone else entirely. Conversations pass around her; none ever land on names people care about. Nobody sees her, really. A shadow between lockers, fading before the bell rings.
It's her that keeps his eyes turned away from me.
Damen." My voice comes out low, just how he prefers it. This meal sits nearly untouched on his plate. Is something wrong? That quiet look in his eyes stays fixed across the room
A shadow passes behind his gray eyes when he looks up - just for a breath, just enough to catch guilt, perhaps. That moment fades fast into the flat calm he has shaped through endless observation. His stare settles back into stillness.
"I'm fine. Just tired."
Tired," I say again, a hint of uncertainty slipping through. Lately you seem worn out more often than not
On Damen's opposite flank, Kael fixes me with a sharp glance. His gaze slides right off me. Bound tight to Damen, loyalty never strayed my way - so his signals carry no weight at all.
"I have a lot on my mind." Damen stands, gathering his tray. "I'm going to the library."
Out loud, I say it like I'm hearing things - "The library?" That place hasn't seen Damen Blackwood walk in by choice since ninth grade. Since when does he trade lunchtime for books?
"Since I decided I want to pass Mr. Liu's final." He doesn't meet my eyes. "I'll see you later."
Feet carry him down the hall. My fingers rest flat, unmoving, while silence fills the space where sound should be.
Yet beneath the surface, a wound leaks slowly.
***
Briar shows up right after sixth period, catching me in our usual spot - the bathroom near the old gym. Nobody goes there much; it's too far from everything, plus the stalls look like they're stuck in another decade. We picked it on purpose - places like this keep secrets better. The kind of talk we have needs walls that don't listen.
"He went to the library," Briar says, leaning against the sink. "Same as yesterday. Same as the day before."
"Who does he talk to there?"
"No one. He just... sits. In the back, near the history section. He doesn't even check out books."
Behind the shelves marked 900 something. That is where Mira Castillo sits each afternoon with her meal, tucked away as if shadows could hide her routine. Not that anyone really looks anyway.
Darkness behind my lids. Air fills my lungs. They must not know where it hurts.
"Briar." I open my eyes, meet her gaze in the mirror. "I need you to find out everything about her. Where she lives. Who her family is. What she does when she's not here. Everything."
Briar's neatly arched brows lift a touch. "Everything?"
"Every. Thing."
For a second, she says nothing. Her eyes shift down. After that pause, her head moves slightly up. Once the thought settles, agreement shows without words. What happens next comes out slow
"Then we decide how to use it."
Briar's mouth lifts, just a little, like she's holding back laughter. This moment suits her best. Not force - calculation instead. Control slips into place when someone dares challenge what we guard. Her quiet work begins long before the fall.
Funny how things change over time. I once felt the same way.
These days my wish is simple - watching Damen glance my way like he does when she walks into the room.
***
MIRA
Footsteps sound just as I finish eating.
Right now, the library holds a hush - just Mr. Hendricks settled by the entrance, while nearly every student eats or lingers beyond the doors. Nobody ever seems to step into the history aisle.
Today's different. A visitor arrives.
A sharp breath catches in my chest, muscles coiled tight like I might bolt any second. Then - silence where the steps were, just stillness past the metal rack. Out of that quiet comes a sound I know too well: "Stay. Don't go."
Damen.
Turning the corner, he appears - suddenly my body tenses, resisting the pull of his warning. Running feels right. Vanishing even more so. Staying put? That takes work.
Here I remain, the apple loose in my fingers. Who sent you into this place?
Lunch time." He lifts a sandwich - obviously from the cafeteria, sealed in plastic. "What about you?"
"Same. Obviously."
A small gesture points to the spot next to me. Maybe I could take a seat?
"It's a free country."
A quiet settles. Legs folded under him, just like mine, near enough his scent drifts across - some rich cologne, faint and earthy. Not at all the sharp chemical fog the boys back home douse themselves in.
A silence sits between us, heavy but calm. My teeth sink into the apple. His fingers peel back the paper on his sandwich. Almost feels like peace.
"Why here?" I finally ask. "Why not eat with your friends?"
"I wanted to talk to you."
"You talked to me yesterday. And the day before."
"And I want to talk to you today." He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews thoughtfully. "Is that a problem?"
"It's weird. You have to know it's weird."
"Why? Because I'm rich and you're not?" He says it flatly, without judgment, like he's stating a fact. "I know how it looks. I know what people think. But I'm not... I'm not trying to play games with you, Mira."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
He's quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is different - softer, almost uncertain. "I don't know. I just know that when I'm around you, I feel like I can breathe. Like I don't have to be Damen Blackwood, heir to the empire, perfect son, whatever. I can just be... me."
I stare at him. "You don't even know me."
"I know you're smart. I know you're hiding from something. I know you work harder than anyone I've ever met. I know you love your sister more than anything in the world." He meets my eyes. "That's more than most people know about me."
"How do you know about Elena?"
"Kael. He looked you up. I told him not to, but he did anyway." He has the decency to look embarrassed. "I'm sorry. That's... that's exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about. The way my world works. People don't ask - they take."
Anger sits close, yes. That much feels true. Yet beneath it crawls a different weight - sharp, known too well. Should he have searched my name, what turned up? What pieces now rest in his hands?
"What else did he find?"
"Nothing. Your records are sealed. He couldn't get past basic information." He pauses. "Why are they sealed?"
I look away. "That's not your business."
"You're right. It's not." He sets down his sandwich. "I'm not asking you to tell me. I'm just... I'm telling you that I noticed. That I care. That whatever happened, whoever hurt you - I'm sorry."
A weight settles in my chest, heavier than expected. Blinking fast helps hold off the sting at my eyelids.
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"You're right. I don't." He stands, brushes off his jeans. "But I'd like to. If you'd let me."
Off he goes, just as I open my mouth - no chance to speak. There I stay, planted on the cold library tiles, chewing slowly, an unfinished apple in hand, pulse jumping like it's got its own plans.
***
SELENA
Friday rolls around, Briar holds a file. A folder sits waiting by noon, tucked under their arm.
Thin. Thinner than expected after all the searching. Mira Castillo shows up only where paper trails break apart, where files go quiet. One parent named at birth - the other left blank. School history begins midstream, seventh year onward, nothing earlier accounted for. An apartment in The Shallows holds her address, though another person signed the rental papers.
"Her mother's name is Rosa," Briar reports, spreading papers across my bed. "She has a record - petty stuff, mostly. Shoplifting, public intoxication, one DUI. She's been arrested four times in the past ten years."
"Where is she now?"
"That's the interesting part." Briar taps a document. "She was picked up three weeks ago in Bridgeport. Public intoxication again. She's still in holding - couldn't make bail."
Forward I go, eyes moving across the paper. Her name - Rosa Castillo - thirty-eight years old. Held since September fourth. Bond: two thousand five hundred dollars. That amount too much for her to cover.
"So Mira's been alone for three weeks?"
"Looks like it. There's a sister - Elena, fourteen. They live together in a two-bedroom apartment on Willow Street. Mira works at a diner called Lou's, nights and weekends."
A diner. Naturally. Right where a lonely girl might find wealthy boys chasing cheap thrills.
"Anything else?"
For just a moment, Briar stops. That small silence slips by like wind through leaves - almost gone before you see it - but time spent learning her tells me something shifted.
"What?"
"Her records are sealed. Really sealed, like someone went to a lot of trouble to hide something. I couldn't get past the surface stuff - address, school, basic bio. Anything before seventh grade is locked down tight."
Leaning into the chair, thoughts moving slow. When files are locked away, someone's hiding something. Hidden things can be used later.
"Keep digging," I say. "There has to be something. No one seals records without a reason."
Briar gives a small nod while stacking her pages. What happens until then?
"In the meantime, we start small. Let people know she exists. Let them wonder why Damen's suddenly interested in the scholarship nobody." I smile - small, satisfied. "Attention is a weapon. Use it."
***
MIRA
The phone lights up while I'm sitting in the booth. A message shows up out of nowhere.
A text pops up, number unknown. The words are short - Nice dress. Shame you got it at a secondhand shop.
Staring at my phone, pulse loud in my ears. Jeans on now, along with the usual diner shirt - same as always. Yesterday was different though. School had me in a dress instead. Blue fabric, pulled from a rack at Goodwill. Cost eight bucks. Felt like it suited me somehow.
A photo was snapped by a person.
A picture arrived without warning - me crossing campus, dress on full display, head slightly turned. Not kind in how it shows me. Designed to hurt.
Out comes the phone. The message disappears with a swipe. That number will never get through again. Back to work now, scraping plates and folding napkins.
Still, my hands tremble.
When my work finally finishes, three new texts wait. Not the same person, but the same idea runs through each. They mention my footwear. My hairstyle. How I hold my textbooks. Every line meant to say: we see you. You can't disappear like before.
Beneath streetlights that flicker like dying fireflies, I move through pockets of darkness, fingers tight around keys - positioned just so, thanks to Marcus's lesson. Shadows stretch and twitch, though the neighborhood stays quiet, mostly harmless, nothing like its grim reputation suggests; still, each rustle prickles my skin. A branch snaps somewhere behind a fence, maybe just wind, yet my breath hitches anyway.
Home is where Elena sits, already there, tucked into the couch with papers spread out. A shift happens the moment I walk through - her eyes lift, focus softening into something watchful. Stillness breaks as she notices me, expression sliding from study mode to quiet worry. The air changes without words when our gazes meet across the room. Curled around textbooks, she stays silent at first, then lets her guard dip slightly.
"What's wrong?"
Just nothing. My coat goes on the hook, face shifts into something like happy. Was a long time at work. The evening stayed full of things to do
"You're lying."
"I'm not - "
"Mira." She sets down her pencil. "I'm fourteen, not stupid. Something's wrong. Your face is all pale and you keep looking at the door."
I sink onto the couch beside her, suddenly exhausted. "There's this boy. At school. He's... he's been talking to me. And now other people are noticing. And I don't know what to do."
Eyes narrowing, Elena asks who exactly the boy is
"His name is Damen. Damen Blackwood."
"The rich one? The one whose family owns everything?"
"Yeah. That one."
For a second, she says nothing. After that pause, her voice returns - "Is he someone you care about?"
"No. I mean - I don't know. Maybe. It doesn't matter. This isn't about liking anyone. This is about survival."
Mira." Her fingers close around mine, suddenly heavy with years I cannot count. Not a child now. Not even close. It is okay to want someone near. It is okay to build something real
"I have a life. I have you."
"That's not the same thing." She squeezes my fingers. "You've been taking care of me since I was a baby. When do you get to take care of yourself?"
Nothing comes to me. Not once has it.
Close, I draw her near - just like when her whole body could nestle into mine. Silence fills the space where words might go. This girl, she's the sole right choice I've made. Maybe the one sign I can care at all.
She stays with me, no matter who tries to pull her away.
Nothing gets taken without a fight.
Awake in bed, eyes on the ceiling - this quiet dread creeps in. It isn't loud, yet it pulls like a current. What's missing? A piece of me, gone before I knew it was there.
Vanishing keeps me whole. Silence wraps around like armor. Empty space, shaped by habit, holds firm.
That moment shifted everything when his gray gaze met mine.