Page 36 of Stalk Me

I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the wall. They win. They always win. Because they understand something Erik doesn't—you can't save someone who's already drowning. All you can do is watch them sink or let them pull you under too.

The sun continues its arc across the sky, casting long shadows through my window. Each minute brings me closer to whatever fresh hell awaits. But for now, I let myself mourn what could have been—the possibility of trust, of connection, of something real in this world of smoke and mirrors.

I might be playing with fire, pushing Erik away, trying to save him from whatever hell my parents are planning. But in the end, I'm not risking just his heart. There's a very real chance he'll get hurt, one way or another.

But maybe that's the difference. Here, today, his safety is more important to me than the delicate balancing act between deception and destruction. For the first time in years, I'd rather do the right thing than the selfish thing.

Even if it means my family and Belle and everyone else will drag me down in the process.

It's a small gesture of rebellion—of the goodness and hope buried deep inside me. I might still be treading water and holding my breath, but in this moment of quiet and of silence, I'm ready to drown rather than give in to their demands. No matter what I sacrifice in the process.

At least I'll keep Erik safe. And in a world of shadows and lies, perhaps that's enough.

Tomorrow, I'll go back to being Luna Queen—the ice queen, the manipulator, the girl who uses people before they can use her. The photos will be locked away, my mask perfectly in place, and my walls rebuilt higher than ever. But right now, curled on my floor with evidence of my shame scattered above me, I allow myself one last moment of truth: I'm not pushing Erik away because I don't deserve love. I'm doing it because for the second time in my life, I care about someone enough to protect them—even from myself.

Desperate Measures

The photos haunt me all night, their edges sharp as razor blades against my psyche. Even with my eyes closed, I can see every compromising image—my body twisted in positions designed to humiliate, my face caught in moments of false ecstasy. Each snapshot is burned into my retinas like acid, leaving phantom imprints that pulse with every heartbeat. The threat feels like a noose around my neck. Stay away from Erik, or everyone at Shark Bay gets a front-row view of my greatest hits.

Morning light filters through the gothic windows, casting long shadows across my bed. I haven't slept. How could I, knowing someone's been documenting my every move? The thought makes my skin crawl. I'm used to being watched—my parents made sure of that—but the more I think about all this, the more I'm starting to believe that it feels different. More personal. Like whoever's behind this isn't just trying to control me; they want to break me.

I pull out the photos again, studying them with clinical detachment. My fingers tremble slightly despite my best efforts to remain cold, analytical—a skill my father taught me when evaluating leverage against his enemies. Most are from parties here at Shark Bay—Ollie in the bathroom, Nicolas against the wall, Max in the storage room. But there are others, older ones from my parents' parties. The kind that could destroy more than just my reputation. The kind that could topple empires and end lives. This means either someone has access to my parents' private collection or…

"Good morning!" Belle's voice cuts through my thoughts, dripping with artificial honey—the kind that masks poison. She breezes into our room as if she owns it, designer bag swinging from her arm in perfect rhythm with her practiced catwalk stride. "Sleep well?"

I shove the photos under my pillow, plastering on a matching smile. "Like a baby. You?"

"Oh, you know." She starts her morning routine, each movement being precise and calculated. "I had the most interesting conversation with Jessica last night. Apparently, someone's been collecting quite the portfolio of evidence."

My blood turns to ice. The casual way she says it, the gleam in her eyes—she might as well have signed her name to those photos. "Evidence of what?"

"Well, you know." She examines her reflection, adjusting her perfectly-styled hair. "Just how far some people will go to get attention. It's sad, really. Almost like they're asking to be exposed."

The double meaning isn't lost on me. I watch her through narrowed eyes, cataloging every micro-expression. "Sounds like someone has too much time on their hands."

"Or maybe they're just thorough." She turns from the mirror, blue eyes sharp as winter frost. "After all, the truth always comes out eventually. Isn't that right, Luna?"

Before I can respond, she grabs her bag and heads for the door. "Don't be late for class. Professor Austin gets so cranky when students don't show up."

The door clicks shut behind her, but her words linger like poison in the air. I wait until her footsteps fade before moving to her side of the room. If she's really behind the photos, there might be more—and knowing Belle, she'd keep the evidence close.

Her things are mostly immaculate—a shelf of fashion magazines, various makeup products, and a collection of couture clothing labels. Her desk yields nothing but color-coded notes and perfectly organized textbooks. The drawers contain only school supplies and a few expensive makeup items. But when I run my fingers along the underside of the top drawer, I feel something taped there. A small key.

Hands steady, my heart races as I pry it loose. It's old, the kind used for antique furniture rather than modern locks. I scan the room, trying to think like Belle. Where would she hide something she didn't want found? Where would a Barbie like her keep her secrets?

The answer comes as I spot the vintage jewelry box on her dresser. It's been there since I moved in, but I always assumed it was just another rich girl accessory. A Cartier replica, silver-plated with hand-painted enamel roses—expensive enough to flaunt wealth, cheap enough to be expendable. Hiding in plain sight. The key fits perfectly, tumblers clicking into place with a sound that might as well be a gunshot in the silence of the room.

Inside, beneath a layer of expensive jewelry, I find a manila folder with my name written in Belle's precise handwriting. My hands shake as I open it. Images—photos, video clips, newspaper articles. Some from my parents' parties, some from my childhood, all of which prove the extent of my involvement with unsavory figures. The details of each encounter are in an appendix on the back of the folder—when, where, how long, and what happened. An encyclopedia of dark desires carefully detailed and assembled. But it's not just photos that are in there, though there are plenty of those. She also got her hands on so many damn documents. Bank statements. Medical records. News clippings about my parents' business dealings. Pages of handwritten notes detailing my movements, my conversations, my private moments. She's been having me followed, documenting everything.

But it's the email printouts that make my blood run cold. Correspondence between Belle and a private investigator, discussing my family's "interesting business practices" and "questionable associations." She's not just collecting dirt on me—she's investigating my parents. My father, who thrives on control and owns nearly a quarter of the city's finest houses.

"Fuck." The word escapes in a harsh whisper. This is so much worse than I thought. If Belle digs too deep, if she finds out what really happens at those parties… she's royally fucked. So to speak.

My parents don't just silence their enemies; they destroy them. And they have a special kind of destruction reserved for people who threaten to expose their secrets. I've seen it happen before—watched them systematically dismantle lives, ruin reputations, and make people disappear.

I flip through more pages, my horror growing. Belle's notes are meticulous, color-coded, and cross-referenced like a prosecutor's case file. She details every suspicious transaction, every unexplained absence, every connection to powerful people who've had their own scandals buried. Names I recognize from my father's private dinner parties—judges, senators, CEOs—all connected with thin red threads on a separate diagram. She's piecing it together, getting dangerously close to the truth. Close enough to die for it.

My heart threatens to pound out of my chest. Belle doesn't need proof of my "connections" to ruin me or my family. All she has to do is plant a few rumors, drop a word in the right ear, and start a whisper of gossip. People will assume she's telling the truth—after all, there's no shortage of "evidence" here.

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