Page 10

A Summons

T he manila envelope on my desk catches me by surprise. It looks like a loaded gun, a bomb that's ready to go off. There's no return address, but I know it's from my parents. My mother's the only one with that kind of handwriting. Just like everything else in her life, the letters in my name are perfectly bent, with each stroke deliberate and controlled. My hands shake as I pick it up, the paper smooth and expensive beneath my trembling fingers. Do I even want to open this?

The question's pointless, really. Whether I want to or not, I know I'll read it. My addiction to chaos is why I'm here at Shark Bay in the first place. That's the paradox: Order and control only fuel the hunger. It's my safety valve, the thing keeping me from losing it entirely. I need it to survive.

I rip the top of the envelope. I know what's inside even before I glance at its contents. The only question is which form of torture they've chosen this time.

A cool fall breeze comes in through my open window and brings with it the salty smell of the ocean and the sound of waves crashing against the rocks at Shark Bay. The smell of the ocean used to make me feel better, but now it just makes me think of how stuck I am on this beautiful island where everything has eyes. My parents' reach extends everywhere, their influence seeping through every crack and crevice until there's nowhere left to hide.

I open the envelope and spill what's inside all over my desk. A first-class plane ticket. A boat timetable. A note written by hand on thick cream paper that probably costs more than most people spend on food in a week. The words are few, but cutting:

“Your presence is required at home in twelve hours. A boat will be waiting at the dock to take you to the mainland, where you'll board our private jet. Don't be late. And don't even think about refusing—you know what's at stake.”

And I do. My stomach churns, the familiar taste of fear and hopelessness rising in the back of my throat. This is their real power, the way they control me: not by exerting actual force, but by dangling Alex's safety like a threat in front of my face. I have no way of protecting him, no way of even knowing what's happening except the snippets I catch through the photos they send me.

Home. The very word tastes like poison on my tongue. That mansion isn't home—it's a gilded cage where monsters wear designer suits and serve trauma with afternoon tea. Every room holds memories I've tried desperately to forget; every mirror reflects back versions of myself that I don't recognize anymore. They want me to go back there, to willingly subject myself to the pain and isolation, and the worst part is I'm going to do it. But why bother? It's just another party where people will treat me like a valuable item. Under the disguise of a family tradition, they'll use this chance to teach me how to be obedient.

"Fuck!" I hurl the envelope across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying thwack before falling to the floor, the pristine paper now crumpled and bent. The sight gives me a savage sort of pleasure. At least I can still damage something of theirs, even if it's just paper.

My phone buzzes—a text from an unknown number. The message contains a single photo, similar to the last: Alex walking across his college campus, head down against the wind. He looks even thinner than in the previous picture, and the shadows under his eyes got deeper and more profound. The timestamp shows it was taken today.

Another message follows: "He looks tired, doesn't he? Stress can do terrible things to a person's health."

It's clear what the threat is. Alex will pay if I don't show up tomorrow. And knowing my parents, that's just the start. They probably have similar photos of Erik, of everyone else I've dared to let close. That's how they operate—finding the things I care about and turning them into weapons.

The old anger flares hot and bright, banishing the chill in my chest. Okay. I'll play with them. They'll be sorry they took my life as a hostage one day. I'm tied down now, but these chains can only hold me for so long. I'll fight back even more if they try to control me. I can follow their rules and stay inside the lines, but I can also find little things to displease them. Nothing major, but just enough to piss them off.

I sink onto my bed, the mattress too soft beneath me, everything too soft in this place except for the sharp edges of my own thoughts. The air gets thick and heavy, making it hard to breathe, and the walls seem to close in. I'm in need of a good run. It'd help me get rid of the stress piling up in my chest. Breaking something would also work. I can't, though, not here. Not until the game is over. Probably not ever.

Instead, I do what I always do. I start planning my armor.

The uniform skirt will have to go—too schoolgirl innocent for what they want me to be, the things they want me to do. I dig through my closet until I find the black dress I've been saving for occasions like this. The fabric clings in all the right places, the neckline low enough to draw attention but not so low as to seem desperate. Professional enough for a family gathering, provocative enough to remind their guests about the real reason for the party.

My hands move on autopilot as I lay out the rest of my weapons: stilettos sharp enough to double as actual weapons, makeup that can create any mask they want to see, and jewelry that is chosen to reflect their wealth rather than my taste. Each piece is carefully chosen and adds another layer of defense between me and the new hell that awaits me at home. I'll need every piece of defense I can get.

A knock at my door startles me from my preparations. "Luna?" Erik's voice carries through the wood, concern evident in his tone. "You missed the study group. Everything okay?"

For a moment, I consider ignoring him. It would be safer that way—for both of us. But something in his voice draws me to the door, my hand turning the knob before I can stop myself.

Erik stands in the hallway, gray eyes clouded with worry. He's changed out of his uniform into dark jeans and a fitted sweater that makes him look softer somehow, more approachable. The sight of him sends an unexpected ache through my chest. All the reasons why I should keep him at a distance, all the ways my parents could use him against me, feel unbearably heavy at the prospect of letting him in even this little bit.

But at the same time, a strange longing rises inside me. Maybe it's the way he looks at me like he can see past my masks, the way his presence makes the darkness recede. Whatever it is, something keeps drawing me to him—something I've never felt with anyone else. Probably not even with Alex.

"I'm fine," I lie with ease, careful to keep my voice neutral. "Everything's fine. I'm just tired."

His eyes narrow slightly as they take in my appearance—the crumpled envelope on the floor, the dress laid out on my bed, the barely concealed panic I'm sure is written all over my face. "Try again," he says quietly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." I force a smile, but it feels brittle even to me. "I just need to take care of some family business."

"Family business," he repeats, his tone making it clear he doesn't believe me. "The kind that requires that dress?"

I glance back at the bed, at the carefully assembled armor waiting there. "It's just a party," I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Nothing I haven't handled before."

Erik takes a step closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle, like aged leather and rain. "Luna," he says softly, "you don't have to handle everything alone."

The softness in his voice makes me afraid to fall apart. I need to tell him everything: about the parties, what happens at the after-parties, the threats, and how often I'm watched. I want to let him in and share the lies that are making me feel so bad. I can't, though. As soon as I do, they can use him as another tool against me. They can hurt me in more ways now. I can't afford to be vulnerable, not now. Not with so much at stake.

"I'm fine." The lie comes easy, but my voice betrays me with a slight tremble. "Really, Erik. Everything's fine."

He reaches out as if to touch my shoulder, but I jerk away. I can't afford comfort or kindness—not when my heart is already so bruised from all the times I've had them taken away. I don't think I could bear to lose this too. Physical touch is dangerous right now—one gentle gesture and I might shatter completely.

"Luna." His features twist in a shadowy mirror of his usual concern, searching my expression for some kind of opening. When he finds none, a flash of hurt crosses his face. "At least let me help. Whatever's going on?—"

"Stop." My voice comes out sharper than intended. "Just… stop. You can't help me, Erik. No one can."

"That's bullshit and you know it." There's steel in his voice now, matching the storm brewing in his eyes. "You're not as alone as you think you are."

I laugh, the sound harsh and broken. "You have no idea what you're talking about. This isn't some teen drama where the good guy swoops in and saves the day. This is real life, and in real life, the monsters win."

"Only if you let them." He steps into my room, closing the door behind him. The space suddenly feels too small, too intimate. "I know about monsters, Luna. I've faced my own demons, remember?"

"This is different." I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold all my broken pieces together. "Your demons were internal. Mine have platinum cards and private jets."

"Then let me help you fight them." He moves closer, and this time I'm too tired to back away. "Whatever they're holding over you?—"

"Don't." The word comes out as a plea. "Please, Erik. Just… don't."

He studies me for a long moment, those gray eyes seeing far too much. Finally, he nods. "Okay. But I'm not going anywhere."

The simple declaration hits harder than any threat. I turn away, blinking back tears I refuse to let fall. "You should. It's safer that way."

"Since when do I care about safety?" His attempt at lightness falls flat. "Come on, Queen. Give me some credit."

I look at him again, taking in every detail of his face. His jaw's sharp. There's a tiny scar above his left eyebrow. His gray eyes look at me in a way that seems to hold entire storms within them. In another life, maybe we could have been something real. But in this one, caring about him is just another weakness my parents can exploit.

"I have to go," I say, gesturing to the dress. "Need to get ready."

He doesn't move. "Let me drive you to the dock at least. It's a long walk in those heels."

"You don't have a car," I point out.

"The school does," he counters easily.

The offer is tempting—not for the ride itself, but for those few extra minutes of pretending I'm not completely alone in this. But I can't risk it. They're probably watching already. If they see me getting into a car with Erik—if they follow me to the party, to my parents, to whatever hell awaits me?—

"Erik," I say, forcing myself to hold his gaze, "go back to your room. This isn't your fight. I'll be fine."

"Luna—"

"Please." My voice cracks at the word. "Just go."

Something flickers across his face—hurt maybe, or frustration. But he respects my wishes, backing toward the door. "When you're ready to talk," he says quietly, "I'll be here."

A soft click sounds as the door shuts behind him. I'm left alone with my thoughts and the weight of everything I can't say. I look back at my bed and see that my armor's waiting for me there. Mocking me. It's time to become the perfect daughter. The good puppet. The girl who knows her place in their weird game. I know it's not easy, but it's the only way I know to protect the people I care about.

The dress fits like a second skin, the black fabric clinging in all the right places. I brush my hair into a sleek updo, careful not to disturb the golden barrette shaped like a blooming hibiscus. The effect is both delicate and dangerous, a look calculated to show just how cruel beauty can be. Each piece of jewelry feels like another chain, each stroke of makeup another mask. By the time I'm done, the girl in the mirror is exactly who they want to see—beautiful, controlled, just broken enough to be useful but not enough to be a liability.

The boat will be waiting six hours. Six hours until I have to face whatever fresh hell they've planned. Six hours until I step back into that mansion where nightmares wear Armani and serve vintage wine with their violence. They'll want me to look perfect from the moment I step on the boat, the minute I get on the private jet, and the second I enter the mansion.

One last time, I touch up my lipstick. It's as red as all the secrets I'll never tell. Let them believe they've won. Let them think that their threats still have power over me. They have no idea that every time they hurt me, I heal faster and stronger. I'll find a way to escape one day. I'll play their game, wear their masks, and dance to their weird music.

But eventually, they'll find out what happens when my mask breaks. They'll find out some day that even the best-trained puppet can learn to cut her own ropes.

I need to catch a boat and put on a show right now, though. It's time to show them what kind of monster they made.

After all, I learned from the best.