Page 23 of Stalk Me

The simple declaration hits harder than any threat. I turn away, blinking back tears I refuse to let fall. "You should. It's safer that way."

"Since when do I care about safety?" His attempt at lightness falls flat. "Come on, Queen. Give me some credit."

I look at him again, taking in every detail of his face. His jaw's sharp. There's a tiny scar above his left eyebrow. His gray eyes look at me in a way that seems to hold entire storms within them. In another life, maybe we could have been something real. But in this one, caring about him is just another weakness my parents can exploit.

"I have to go," I say, gesturing to the dress. "Need to get ready."

He doesn't move. "Let me drive you to the dock at least. It's a long walk in those heels."

"You don't have a car," I point out.

"The school does," he counters easily.

The offer is tempting—not for the ride itself, but for those few extra minutes of pretending I'm not completely alone in this. But I can't risk it. They're probably watching already. If they see me getting into a car with Erik—if they follow me to the party, to my parents, to whatever hell awaits me?—

"Erik," I say, forcing myself to hold his gaze, "go back to your room. This isn't your fight. I'll be fine."

"Luna—"

"Please." My voice cracks at the word. "Just go."

Something flickers across his face—hurt maybe, or frustration. But he respects my wishes, backing toward the door. "When you're ready to talk," he says quietly, "I'll be here."

A soft click sounds as the door shuts behind him. I'm left alone with my thoughts and the weight of everything I can't say. I look back at my bed and see that my armor's waiting for me there. Mocking me. It's time to become the perfect daughter. The good puppet. The girl who knows her place in their weird game. I know it's not easy, but it's the only way I know to protect the people I care about.

The dress fits like a second skin, the black fabric clinging in all the right places. I brush my hair into a sleek updo, careful not to disturb the golden barrette shaped like a blooming hibiscus. The effect is both delicate and dangerous, a look calculated to show just how cruel beauty can be. Each piece of jewelry feels like another chain, each stroke of makeup another mask. By the time I'm done, the girl in the mirror is exactly who they want to see—beautiful, controlled, just broken enough to be useful but not enough to be a liability.

The boat will be waiting six hours. Six hours until I have to face whatever fresh hell they've planned. Six hours until I step back into that mansion where nightmares wear Armani and serve vintage wine with their violence. They'll want me to look perfect from the moment I step on the boat, the minute I get on the private jet, and the second I enter the mansion.

One last time, I touch up my lipstick. It's as red as all the secrets I'll never tell. Let them believe they've won. Let them think that their threats still have power over me. They have no idea that every time they hurt me, I heal faster and stronger. I'll find a way to escape one day. I'll play their game, wear their masks, and dance to their weird music.

But eventually, they'll find out what happens when my mask breaks. They'll find out some day that even the best-trained puppet can learn to cut her own ropes.

I need to catch a boat and put on a show right now, though. It's time to show them what kind of monster they made.

After all, I learned from the best.

Home Sweet Home

The mansion looms before me like a mausoleum, all pristine white columns and manicured hedges hiding the rot within. Every window gleams in the late afternoon sun, reflecting my approach like dozens of watchful eyes. My heels click against the marble steps—designer shoes selected by my mother's stylist, along with the "appropriate" dress waiting for me on the private jet that makes me look like a living doll. That's all I am to them anyway—a toy to be dressed up and played with until I break.

A camera mounted high on the column points at me, a red light flashing. Somewhere, there are screens showing this to them. I raise my chin defiantly, letting the mask settle into place. Whatever they've planned, I'll suffer through it. That's the difference between me and my parents; I'm not a psychopath. I can endure because I actually have feelings.

The heavy oak door swings open before I can reach for it. Stevens, our butler, greets me with a perfectly practiced bow. "Welcome home, Miss Queen. Your parents are waiting in the drawing room."

Home. The word tastes like poison on my tongue. This place hasn't been home since I was old enough to understand what really happens behind these walls. Every crystal chandelier hides a camera, every priceless painting conceals a microphone. They've been watching me my whole life, collecting evidence of my failures, storing ammunition for future manipulation. Being here is like being on a stage that's not completely real, like the theater we did back in high school. Nobody can fake it better than I can.

Steeling myself, I stride past Stevens and into the marble-floored foyer. Our maid, Gloria, waits beside a pillar like a sentry, her face carefully blank despite the shock in her eyes. Her hands tremble slightly when she grips her broom, and the corners of her mouth are turned down in a failed attempt at a smile. Gloria's been in our service for more than twenty years—she's seen me since the day I was born, held me when I cried, and witnessed me make peace with the fact that I was brought here to become a little plaything of the masters of this building. Maybe she knows what happens to me in this house. After all, she used to help me get dressed in the afternoons to go to the party and clean me up in the mornings when I'm too out of it to even move.

"Luna, darling!" My mother's voice carries down the marble hallway, sharp as broken glass beneath its honeyed tone. She glides toward me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and barely concealed malice. Her smile is picture-perfect, but her eyes are cold as she air-kisses my cheeks. "You look thin. Have they been feeding you properly at that dreadful school?"

"Of course they have," I reply coolly. "Nothing but five-star accommodations."

"So I've heard." She tilts her head, raking her gaze over my outfit. "I'm not sure about that color on you, darling. Perhaps we should do a different look for the big reveal later."

My stomach twists. The big reveal. Right. How could I have forgotten about the part where they toss me to the wolves? Whatever I think about this home or the monsters I was born to, things can always get worse.

"Are you sure you haven't lost weight? If you don't like the food, I can send Gabriel there to cook for you," she presses. "Darling, we have an image to keep up."

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