Page 57 of Stalk Me

"Luna!" Erik struggles against his captor. "Are you hurt? Did they touch you?"

Before I can answer, Griffiths steps between us, blocking my view. "Touching reunion, but let's move this along, shall we? Your hosts are waiting."

We're marched up the grand staircase to the mansion's entrance, where our butler—Stevens—opens the door as if this is all perfectly normal. The foyer beyond is cavernous, all marble and crystal and old-money opulence. Staff in formal attire stand at attention, their expressions carefully blank. They've seen this before. They know better than to react.

"Take Miss Queen to the blue suite," Griffiths instructs one of the maids. "Mr. Stone to the East Wing. They both need to be… prepared for the evening."

"No," Erik says immediately, his voice hard with determination. "We stay together."

Griffiths chuckles, genuinely amused. "I'm afraid that's not how things work here, Mr. Stone. You'll see Luna again at the gathering. In the meantime, you both need to be dressed appropriately."

"It's okay, Erik," I say, trying to convey confidence I don't feel. I meet his eyes, willing him to understand what I can't say aloud: Don't fight them. Not yet. We need to play along until we find an opening. "I'll see you soon."

Reluctantly, Erik allows himself to be led away, though his eyes never leave mine until he disappears up the grand staircase. I'm guided in the opposite direction, through ornate hallways lined with artwork that costs more than most people make in a lifetime.

The blue suite lives up to its name—a palatial bedroom decorated in varying shades of sapphire and navy, dominated by a four-poster bed draped in silk. Laid out on the duvet is a dress I've never seen before—black as midnight, with a neckline that plunges dangerously low and a slit that rises indecently high. Beside it are shoes that could double as weapons, all stiletto heel and minimal support.

"Your mother selected this for you," the maid explains, her voice carefully neutral as she cuts the zip ties around my wrists. She’s nothing like Gloria, who, despite being unable to help me, always treated me with genuine kindness. "The bathroom is through there if you'd like to shower before dressing."

I rub my chafed wrists, calculating. They've left me unbound, which means either they don't consider me a threat, or…

"The house is fully secured," the maid adds, as if reading my thoughts. "All exits require key card access, and the grounds are patrolled. Mr. Queen thought you should know."

Of course. They know me well enough to anticipate escape attempts. There's no point in restraining me when the entire property is a gilded cage.

"How thoughtful of him," I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. "How long until this 'gathering' begins?"

"Guests will arrive at seven this evening." She nods toward an elegant clock on the mantle. It's just past 5 a.m. "You have time to rest if you wish. I'll return in a few hours to help you prepare."

She slips out, the soft click of the door followed by the unmistakable sound of a lock engaging. I'm trapped—at least for now.

I scan the room, looking for surveillance devices. My parents are nothing if not thorough in their monitoring. Sure enough, I spot a tiny camera disguised as part of the ornate crown molding, another hidden in the decorative sconce by the bathroom. They're watching. They're always watching.

The bathroom offers slightly more privacy—no visible cameras, though I'm sure there are listening devices. I turn on the shower, letting the steam fill the room as I search for anything I could use as a weapon. The toiletries are all in plastic containers—nothing glass that could be broken into a sharp edge. The towel bars are firmly attached to the wall. They've thought of everything.

I step into the shower, letting the hot water wash over me as I try to clear my head. The drug is finally wearing off, leaving behind a clarity tinged with desperation. I need to find Erik, to make sure he's okay. I need to determine if Professor Austin made it to David. I need a plan.

By the time I emerge, wrapped in a plush towel, my resolve has hardened. I will play my parents' game—for now. I'll wear their dress, smile at their guests, and be the perfect daughter they want to showcase. And I'll watch, and wait, and look for any opportunity to escape. Because this time, I'm not just fighting for myself. I'm fighting for Erik, too.

I examine the dress more closely. It's designer, of course—probably custom-made. The fabric feels like a liquid shadow against my skin as I slip it on. The mirror reflects a stranger—a polished, perfect version of myself transformed into exactly what my parents want me to be. The vulnerability of sleep shorts and tangled hair is gone, replaced by dangerous curves and calculated seduction.

A perfect weapon, crafted for my father's use.

The door unlocks around noon, and a different maid enters with a tray of food. "Your mother thought you might be hungry," she explains, setting it down on a small table by the window.

I eye the carefully arranged fruit, cheese, and bread with suspicion. "Is it drugged?"

The maid's eyes widen slightly—the first genuine reaction I've seen from any of the staff. "No, miss. Just food."

I'm not convinced, but hunger eventually overcomes caution. I pick at the safest items, watching the shadows lengthen outside the window as afternoon stretches toward evening. With each passing hour, dread builds in my chest. What is happening to Erik? Is he locked in a room like this, waiting and wondering, too?

At precisely 5:30 p.m., my mother breezes in, already dressed for the evening in a gown the color of champagne. Her hair is perfectly styled, her makeup flawless, her smile as sharp and empty as a knife's edge.

"Luna, darling," she says, air-kissing my cheeks as if this is a normal family gathering. "You look lovely. Though your hair could use some attention."

She snaps her fingers, and a stylist appears with a case of supplies. For the next hour, I'm transformed further—hair arranged in elegant waves, makeup applied with surgical precision, jewelry selected to complement rather than overshadow. My mother supervises every detail, occasionally adjusting an earring or suggesting a different shade of lipstick.

"There," she says finally, satisfaction evident in her voice. "Perfect. Your father will be pleased."

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