Page 25 of Stalk Me

My father materializes at the bottom of the stairs, resplendent in his tailored tuxedo. His smile doesn't reach his eyes as he takes my arm. "There's my girl. We were starting to worry you wouldn't make it."

"Hello, Father." I fix my best socialite smile in place. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I was getting dressed."

"Hmm." He looks me over as if checking for flaws. "Don't pull that face, Luna. You'll get wrinkles."

I relax my features into practiced neutrality, suppressing a flinch at the faint ringing of alarm bells. "Sorry, Father."

"Louder." The sharpness in his voice cuts to the bone. "You're supposed to show respect. Don't let me hear that attitude from you again."

"No, sir. Sorry, Father." The words come easily, wrapped in the artificial warmth of the pills.

"Better." His cold smile only emphasizes the contempt in his eyes. His fingers dig into my arm as he guides me through the crowd. "Murphy's been asking about you. Such a shame you had to leave town so suddenly last time—he was quite disappointed."

My stomach lurches. "Father?—"

"Now, now." He stops us near a group of men in expensive suits, their faces flushed with alcohol and other substances. "Let's not revisit old grievances. Tonight is about family, about maintaining the relationships that keep our little empire running smoothly." His voice drops to a whisper. "Unless you'd prefer another lesson about consequences? I hear your new friend Erik has been quite attentive lately."

Ice shoots through my veins, cutting through the chemical haze. "You're watching him."

"We watch everything, sweetheart. It's what keeps our family safe." He straightens my necklace, the gesture almost tender. "Now, smile. Murphy's coming over, and you know how he hates to see pretty girls cry."

"Sebastian!" Murphy's drawl is louder than the string quartet playing in the corner. His gray hair and bushy mustache are perfectly in place as he swoops down on us. The stink of old whiskey rises from his breath, but his eyes remain clear, sharp as a predator as he takes my hand. "It's been too long. I was afraid you weren't going to let me see your little girl this time."

My father gives him a politician's smile. "Nonsense, George. You know how it is. Girls these days are always dressing and primping. She doesn't like to be rushed."

"Ah yes, but it was worth the wait." Murphy's eyes glitter dangerously as he turns to me. "Look at her. A real stunner."

I force myself not to flinch away as he runs a hand down my side. My skin crawls under his touch, but I'm powerless to stop him. My father's the one who controls the strings here. I'm just a puppet.

The next few hours pass in a blur of forced laughter and wandering hands. I float through conversations about mergers and acquisitions, nodding at appropriate intervals while men old enough to be my grandfather stare down my dress. The chandeliers above cast prismatic shadows across their faces, turning them into fractured monsters in tailored suits. The pills make everything distant, dreamlike, like watching a horror movie through frosted glass. Even when Murphy's hand finds my thigh under the dinner table, his fingers leaving invisible brands on my skin; even when another board member's wife comments on how "grown-up" I've become, her diamond rings flashing like warning signals; even when my father leads me to his study for a private toast with his closest associates, their footsteps echoing behind us like a funeral march.

More pills appear, these promising to "enhance the experience." My father watches as I swallow them, his approval like acid in my veins. The room spins slowly, faces blurring into masks of luxury and decay. Someone suggests moving the party upstairs, to the private rooms where the guests are convinced there are no cameras, but my parents know better. They won't lose an opportunity for another bargaining chip, an ace to play when negotiations aren't in their favor.

I try to focus on Erik, on the memory of his gray eyes and gentle hands. He wouldn't want this for me. He'd tell me to fight, to run, to burn this whole corrupt empire to the ground. But Erik isn't here. He can't save me from what I've always been—a prop in my parents' elaborate performance, a bargaining chip in their games of power and control. This is my life. This is my fate.

They lead me to a bedroom overlooking the lake. The bed is soft as a grave as they ease me onto it, hands roaming freely. Everything's spinning now, a whirlpool of dark hair and shrewd eyes, searching for cracks in my armor. My dress is little more than a scrap of blue silk, clinging desperately to my hips. A shadow moves across the ceiling, but I can't focus long enough to see. Too many pills. Too much whiskey. They smell like expensive cologne and take without giving. There's a camera hidden somewhere, and I hope it records this moment. I'm sure the sight of me breaking into a thousand sharp pieces will entertain its watcher. If it would all end someday, I wish I could at least have the satisfaction of destroying them.

Please. Let it end soon.

The thought gets swallowed by the darkness rushing toward me. As someone eases me back against the pillows, I wish that tonight I would just dissolve. Fade into nothing. Maybe they'll finally move on and destroy someone else, someone who's never become unbreakable like me.

Eventually, the light breaks through the dark haze and I'm standing in the grand salon again, unsure of how or when I got here. Time has become liquid, flowing between my fingers like mercury—beautiful and poisonous. Everything's spinning, the elaborate crown molding above blurring into a carousel of wealth and excess, but I can see the party's still going, a symphony of crystal glasses and hollow laughter. Designer watches catch the light like predators' eyes as alcohol flows and pills fly around like confetti, each colorful tablet a bomb waiting to detonate.

"Luna." My mother's voice cuts through the fog. She stands next to me, her perfect smile firmly in place. "Mr. Murphy was just telling me about his new yacht. Why don't you let him show you the photos? In the library, perhaps?"

It's not a suggestion. We all know the rules of this particular dance. I rise on unsteady legs, the room tilting dangerously. Murphy's arm snakes around my waist, steadying me with practiced ease.

"Such a good girl," my father murmurs as I pass. "Remember—discretion is everything."

The library door closes behind us with a soft click. Murphy's breath is hot against my neck, whiskey-sour and hungry. I close my eyes, letting the drugs carry me somewhere far away. Somewhere with gray eyes and gentle hands and promises that don't taste like poison.

But even as I drift, I know the truth: There is no escape from this gilded cage, and the night is still young. They'll always find me, always drag me back to this house of mirrors where nothing is real except the power they hold over me. The best I can do is survive, swallow their pills and play their games until maybe, someday, I become numb enough not to feel anything at all.

Because that's what it means to be a Queen—to rule over a kingdom built on secrets and sins, to wear a crown of thorns and call it glory. And tomorrow, when I return to Shark Bay with fresh bruises hidden under designer clothes, I'll go back to playing my own games of power and control. Because they taught me well, these monsters who call themselves my parents.

After all, every queen needs her sacrificial lambs. And if Erik isn't careful, he might just become mine.

The night stretches endlessly, a parade of hands and mouths and chemical dreams. By the time dawn creeps through the mansion windows, I'm hollow—a perfect porcelain doll with nothing left inside. Just the way they want me.

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