A Crown of Ashes (Whychoose Romance)

1. The Cage

(Lila's POV)

I never knew silence could feel so loud. It presses down on me as I sit at the dining room table, pretending to be invisible. It's a skill I've perfected over the years—keeping my head down, staying quiet, hoping Isaac doesn't notice me. But he always does, eventually.

The clatter of his knife against the plate jolts my nerves. I froze, not daring to look up, my fingers wrapped tightly around the frayed sleeve of my hoodie. My thumb rubs the fabric until the skin beneath it burns. It's the only way I can keep myself grounded—find a rhythm, a small discomfort I can control, unlike everything else in my life.

Isaac sits at the head of the table, like always. His dark eyes scan his phone, his brow furrowed as if it holds the answer to some world-changing mystery. He hasn't touched his food in minutes, but the knife and fork scrape against the plate every so often, reminding me he's still there, still waiting. Waiting for me to mess up.

I breathe in, slowly, careful not to make a sound. I've learned that mistakes come with consequences, and silence is my only weapon. The more invisible I am, the safer I stay. At least, that's the theory.

The old clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second dragging, the air so thick I can taste the tension. My stomach twists, but I stay still, eyes fixed on a crack in the table's wooden surface. I count each breath. Each second. Waiting.

"Lila."

My name is a knife, sharp and cutting, slicing through the air between us. I sit up straighter, heart hammering in my chest. My eyes stay glued to the table.

"Yes?" I manage to say, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

I can still see him through my peripherals; he doesn't even glance at me. His gaze remains fixed on his phone, like I'm nothing more than background noise. "I need you out of the house tonight."

There's no explanation. There never is. But the demand sits heavy, colder than usual, like something is coming that he doesn't want me anywhere near. The knot in my stomach tightens. I nod, even though he's not looking at me.

"Where should I go?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

His eyes snap up, and for a brief second, our gazes meet. A chill runs down my spine. His face is expressionless, but there's something in his eyes—something dark and dangerous.

"Figure it out," he says, voice low and threatening, as if daring me to push further. I don't. I've learned better.

I stand slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. The chair scrapes against the floor, the sound painfully loud in the oppressive quiet. Isaac's attention is already back on his phone, my presence dismissed the moment I rise.

As I make my way toward the stairs, I catch a glimpse of the empty plates on the table. The meal I cooked is untouched, just like every night. But I'm too used to the rejection to care. Food was never about hunger here—it was just another chore, another obligation to make sure I knew my place in life.

I climb the stairs, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. The familiar creak of the third step under my weight makes me wince. Upstairs, my room feels suffocating. The walls are too close, the air too still, like the house itself is trying to swallow me whole.

I grab my worn-out backpack from the floor and toss in a few essentials—a change of clothes, my sketchbook, the battered paperback I've read more times than I can count. The only things that make me feel like me, like there's more to my life than this hollow existence.

My fingers hesitate over the book, its spine cracked and the edges yellowed from years of use. I should leave it. But I don't. I stuff it into the bag anyway, along with my phone and charger.