Page 24 of Stalk Me

"The food's fine, Mother." I allow her to fuss with my hair, straightening imaginary imperfections. Her fingers catch on a small tangle and pull sharply—a reminder of who's in control. "I've been busy with classes."

"Hmm." She steps back to examine me like a piece of art she's considering purchasing. "Well, we'll have Gloria bring up something before you dress for the party. Can't have you looking peaked in front of our guests."

The way she says "guests" makes my skin crawl. I know exactly what kind of party this is—the same kind they've been throwing since I was fifteen. The kind where powerful men make deals over expensive whiskey while their wives gossip about whose daughter is in rehab this month. The kind where pills appear in crystal bowls like after-dinner mints, and no one mentions the missing time or the bruises that show up the next morning. They take advantage of the girls in the most predatory way, one after another. Tasting all the fine options. And I'm my parents' prized possession, their best bargaining chip. They especially like to remind me how many deals I helped them close and how many negotiations I helped turn in their favor.

"Your father's business associates are particularly eager to see you," she continues, steering me toward the stairs. "They've missed you at our little gatherings."

My stomach turns at the thought of their hungry eyes, their wandering hands excused as fatherly affection. But I force myself to smile, to play my part in this twisted performance. "How thoughtful of them."

"Indeed." A shadow crosses her perfect features. "Though I hope you remember the importance of discretion. We wouldn't want a repeat of last time."

I fight back a wave of nausea. Last time, when I told Alex too much. I trusted him with the darkness lurking behind our family's perfect façade. When my parents showed me exactly what happens to people who try to help me. The photos of him they sent—looking lost and haunted on his new campus—flash through my mind. As if I could ever forget.

"I haven't forgotten." My voice comes out low and tight, each word razor-sharp. "I won't risk anyone's safety again."

"Good." She nods, satisfied, and pats my cheek, her wedding ring cold against my skin. "Now, Gloria has laid out your dress. The blue Versace—you remember the one. Mr. Murphy was quite taken with it at the Christmas gala."

Of course he was. The dress is practically transparent under the right lighting, and Murphy's hands always seem to find their way to bare skin during his drunken reminiscences about my father's college days. I swallow bile and nod. "The one with the sequins."

"Good girl." She fixes an unruly strand of hair, letting her hand linger on the nape of my neck. "No doubt he'll have a generous proposal for us tonight. That man's worth three times his wealth, but with his connections…"

She trails off, presumably to let the implication sink in. There are things I learned growing up wealthy: how to throw a gala in twenty-four hours, how to get blood stains out of silk, how to carry a conversation with someone who speaks three times as fast as me without blinking. But there are also things I've never learned: how to choose the right jewelry for my outfit, when to pass the butter or salt, when it's safe to say no. Parties like this are my mother's territory, and she wields their strict protocol and arbitrary rules like a mastermind.

"Oh, and Luna?" She pauses at the bottom of the stairs, her smile sharp as a razor. "Do try to be more… cooperative this time. Your father was quite disappointed by your behavior at the last party."

Translation: Take the pills they offer without making a scene. Let them touch you without flinching. Be the perfect doll they created.

"Of course, Mother." I manage to speak through the bile rising in the back of my throat. "I would hate to disappoint our guests. Or you and Father."

Her smile doesn't waver, but her eyes flash with the kind of darkness I've come to associate with the worst events in this house. "Good."

As she spins around in her customary cloud of designer perfume and cruelty, the memory of Murphy's breath, hot and sour against my cheek, rises in my mind. The way he fumbled with my dress, pawing at me like I was a piece of meat and not a living, breathing human. His hands on my bare skin, pawing and grasping, stinking of cigars and stolen youth.

My mother's words echo back to me: Try to be more cooperative this time. I'll be the good puppet—if they give me a few moments with their own strings. I'm going to let them do to me whatever they want, but I won't let them touch who I am on the inside. I won't give them the satisfaction of winning, even if I'm losing in every other sense.

My bedroom looks exactly as I left it—a teenage girl's fantasy in pink and white, all ruffled curtains and delicate antiques. But I know better now. The innocence is as fake as everything else in this house. There are cameras hidden in the cherubs on my ceiling and microphones tucked behind the pastoral scenes on my walls. They've recorded every nightmare, every tearful phone call, every desperate attempt to scrub their touch from my skin. This house has seen a thousand horrors, and there's nothing that happens inside these walls that the cameras don't catch.

The dress lies across my bed like a murder victim, its blue silk gleaming obscenely in the fading light. Next to it, a small silver tray holds everything I'll need to become their perfect daughter: pills in various colors and sizes, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, and a note in my father's precise handwriting.

"To help you relax. We expect your full participation tonight."

My hands shake as I pick up the first pill—a small blue oval that will make the edges of reality soft and blurry. One by one, I swallow them down with expensive bourbon, feeling them dissolve into familiar numbness. By the time Gloria comes to help me dress, I'm floating somewhere above myself, watching as she zips me into the dress and arranges my hair in elegant waves.

"There now, Miss Luna." She steps back to admire her work, but I catch the concern in her eyes. She's been here long enough to know what these parties really are. "You look lovely."

"Thank you, Gloria." I manage a weak smile before a wave of nausea washes over me. At least this dress hides the trembling in my hands.

"I'll be in the kitchen when they're finished," she murmurs. "In case you need anything."

I nod, trying not to let the fear show. "I'll be fine."

She gives me a look that lets me know I didn't succeed. "That's a lie, but it's a brave one, dear. Take care."

With a swish of her apron, she slips from the room, the familiarity of her footsteps giving me a shred of comfort. At least someone cares. Someone knows I'm trapped, and someone is trying to make sure I won't drown completely.

The girl in the mirror is a stranger—all smoky eyes and bloodred lips, curves wrapped in silk thin enough to see the shadows beneath. She looks expensive. Untouchable. Like a masterpiece behind museum glass, meant to be admired but never truly known. ButIknow better. The perfect façade is just another prop in their endless performance, as fragile as sugar glass waiting to shatter. Everything has a price in this house, carved into flesh and bone and sealed with designer drugs and hundred-dollar bills. Eventually, even the invincible will have to pay, and the collection always comes with interest.

The party's already in full swing when I descend the grand staircase. Crystal glasses clink like wind chimes as Silicon Valley tech moguls mingle with old money bankers, their wives dripping in diamonds that could feed a small country. The air is thick with cigar smoke and expensive perfume, masking the chemical tang of whatever's being passed around in little silver boxes.

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