Page 34 of Stalk Me

Ice shoots through my veins. No one sends mail here without following the right steps. This wasn't sent by the school's mail service, whatever it is. Someone with enough power to keep their name secret sent it. Someone who wants to scare me.

I close the door behind me, letting my bag slide to the floor. Every instinct screams at me not to touch it, to call security or maybe Erik. But I can't risk involving anyone else. Not when I already showed too much weakness last night. Any more, and someone might figure out that weakness and use it against me.

With unsteady hands, I sit down in my chair and roll it closer to the desk, leaning forward to inspect the package. It's a box, rectangular and simple, wrapped in old-fashioned butcher paper and tied with twine. Even though I'm scared, it looks like a present a professor might give at the end of the year or a hidden admirer leaving a confession without being seen.

But I've learned not to trust the package. I've received enough "gifts" from my parents to know that the most dangerous things often come in the most unassuming packages.

Should I open it? Ignore it? Throw it away? The uncertainty is killing me and tearing my defenses apart. My father's voice echoes in my head. "Are you going to be a mouse or a predator? What are you going to do? Run away or face the storm?" I don't have the luxury of avoiding, not when a refusal might draw more attention, attract more predators.

"Get it together," I mutter to myself, squaring my shoulders. I'm Luna fucking Queen. I don't let mysterious packages intimidate me.

The twine's knot gives easily beneath my fingers, falling away to reveal plain white shipping tape. The paper tears easily under my fingers, revealing a simple white box underneath. There's no card taped to the top, and there is no note to indicate a sender. It has no marks, branding, or other clues that show where it came from. I can feel my heart beating against my chest as I lift the lid, already preparing for all sorts of scenarios.

Photos. Dozens of them, spilling across my desk like poisoned confetti. When I recognize the subject as me in different states of undress and debauchery, my stomach lurches. One is of me with Ollie in the bathroom on the boat, and another is of me with Nicolas at the party. The others are from the encounters I barely remember. Some of them I don't remember at all. They were probably taken at one of my parents' parties when I was high and didn't see the cameras. In each, my head is turned or in shadow, so only the curve of my breast or the dip of my hips is visible. Designed to titillate, not shock. To send a message, not expose the subjects.

These aren't just surveillance photos. They're artfully composed, shot from angles that maximize the exposure and the vulnerability. Whoever took them wanted to capture every detail of my shame, every moment of weakness. And they succeeded. The photos display me naked, vulnerable, my flaws clear in every picture. Dark bruises and black lace, painted-on smiles and secrets barely hidden in the shadows. Under the bright lights of my bedroom, the scene is a visceral reminder of all the ways I let others use and hurt me.

A note sits at the bottom of the box, printed on expensive cardstock:

"Such a busy girl. What would Erik think if he saw how you really spend your time? Stay away from him, or everyone at Shark Bay gets a front-row seat to your greatest hits. You have twenty-four hours to end whatever's going on between you or these go viral. Don't test me."

Bile rises in my throat. I've been so careful, so controlled in my game of manipulation and power. But someone's been watching, documenting, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The photos mock me from the desk, each one a reminder of how easily my carefully constructed walls can crumble. This isn't just a threat—it's a promise. Someone got into my room, arranged these pictures, and sent a very explicit message. They aren't trying to humiliate me. They're trying to break me.

I sink into my chair, my legs suddenly too weak to hold me. The room spins slightly as memories crash over me—hands and mouths and whispered demands, the burn of expensive liquor, the floating sensation of whatever pills they fed me. I thought I was in control, using my body as a weapon before anyone could use it against me. But these photos tell a different story. The cracked veneer of a party girl finally faltering, cracking under pressure. Weakness. Vulnerability. Control slipping through my fingers.

My phone buzzes, making me jump. It's a text from an unknown number: "Tick tock, Queen. Clock's running."

Another photo appears—this one from last night. Erik and me during the storm, his arms around me as I sobbed into his chest. The vulnerability in my expression makes me want to vomit. They even managed to capture the exact moment I let my guard down, the moment I dared to trust someone. Everything's on display here: the tears in my eyes, the fear and exhaustion on my face, the way I cling to Erik like a lifeline. A terrible juxtaposition of strength and fragility. He tried to be there for me, and somehow, it became a weapon against me.

"Fuck." I sweep the photos into the box with trembling hands. Who could have taken these? Belle's the obvious suspect—she's had it out for me since day one. But this feels different, more calculated. The quality of the photos, the expensive paper of the note, the timing… it all screams of professional surveillance.

My parents? They've certainly done worse to keep me in line. But why target Erik specifically? Unless…

A memory surfaces—my mother's voice, sharp as broken glass:We watch everything, darling. Every move, every mistake. That's what keeps our family safe.

Of course. They must have seen me with Erik during the storm and noticed how he's been breaking down my walls. They can't risk me trusting someone, not when they've worked so hard to keep me isolated and under control. I should have known. They've been watching from the beginning, manipulating every encounter. I should've known there were more cameras around.

One thing's clear now: I can't run from this anymore. Someone—probably my parents—wants me and Erik apart. If I don't heed the warning, all of Shark Bay will get a glimpse into my family's carefully concealed secrets, but they'll orchestrate it in a way that will only take me down while they remain untouched. Erik might finally be repulsed by me, and the thought is almost more terrifying than a public outing.

I force myself to look at the photos again, studying them with clinical detachment. Most are recent, taken here at Shark Bay. But a few… my blood runs cold as I recognize the wallpaper in one shot. It's from my parents' house, from one of their parties. Which means either they're working with someone here, or they've hired professionals to follow me.

Either way, the message is clear: I don't get to have real connections. I don't get to trust or be trusted. My role is to be the perfect weapon, the ice queen who uses people before they can use her.

The worst part? Part of me is relieved. Because pushing Erik away means protecting him from my parents, from the darkness that follows me like a shadow. Better to hurt him now than watch my family destroy him later. Because that's what they will do—destroy him and his family.

My phone buzzes again. This time, it's Erik: "Hey, you okay after last night? Want to grab coffee?"

The words blur as tears threaten. I blink them back ruthlessly. Crying is for the weak, and I can't afford weakness. Not now. Not ever. Instead, I type out a message, each press of a letter carving a new fracture in my heart: "Last night was a mistake. Please leave me alone."

His reply comes instantly: "Luna, what's wrong? Talk to me."

"Nothing's wrong. I just realized you're not worth my time."

I can almost see him frowning at his phone, those storm-gray eyes clouded with concern. He won't give up easily—it's one of the things that draws me to him. But I have to make this convincing. Have to make him believe I'm exactly what everyone thinks I am: cold, manipulative, incapable of real connection. It's the only way I can keep him safe.

I type out another message: "I was using you, Erik. Couldn't you tell? You're so pathetic. I'd get more pleasure from sleeping with a fucking potato. Go ahead, fuck whoever you want—you were nothing special. It was a mistake."

Erik's typing bubble appears, disappears, and appears again.

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