Page 11

Home Sweet Home

T he mansion looms before me like a mausoleum, all pristine white columns and manicured hedges hiding the rot within. Every window gleams in the late afternoon sun, reflecting my approach like dozens of watchful eyes. My heels click against the marble steps—designer shoes selected by my mother's stylist, along with the "appropriate" dress waiting for me on the private jet that makes me look like a living doll. That's all I am to them anyway—a toy to be dressed up and played with until I break.

A camera mounted high on the column points at me, a red light flashing. Somewhere, there are screens showing this to them. I raise my chin defiantly, letting the mask settle into place. Whatever they've planned, I'll suffer through it. That's the difference between me and my parents; I'm not a psychopath. I can endure because I actually have feelings.

The heavy oak door swings open before I can reach for it. Stevens, our butler, greets me with a perfectly practiced bow. "Welcome home, Miss Queen. Your parents are waiting in the drawing room."

Home. The word tastes like poison on my tongue. This place hasn't been home since I was old enough to understand what really happens behind these walls. Every crystal chandelier hides a camera, every priceless painting conceals a microphone. They've been watching me my whole life, collecting evidence of my failures, storing ammunition for future manipulation. Being here is like being on a stage that's not completely real, like the theater we did back in high school. Nobody can fake it better than I can.

Steeling myself, I stride past Stevens and into the marble-floored foyer. Our maid, Gloria, waits beside a pillar like a sentry, her face carefully blank despite the shock in her eyes. Her hands tremble slightly when she grips her broom, and the corners of her mouth are turned down in a failed attempt at a smile. Gloria's been in our service for more than twenty years—she's seen me since the day I was born, held me when I cried, and witnessed me make peace with the fact that I was brought here to become a little plaything of the masters of this building. Maybe she knows what happens to me in this house. After all, she used to help me get dressed in the afternoons to go to the party and clean me up in the mornings when I'm too out of it to even move.

"Luna, darling!" My mother's voice carries down the marble hallway, sharp as broken glass beneath its honeyed tone. She glides toward me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and barely concealed malice. Her smile is picture-perfect, but her eyes are cold as she air-kisses my cheeks. "You look thin. Have they been feeding you properly at that dreadful school?"

"Of course they have," I reply coolly. "Nothing but five-star accommodations."

"So I've heard." She tilts her head, raking her gaze over my outfit. "I'm not sure about that color on you, darling. Perhaps we should do a different look for the big reveal later."

My stomach twists. The big reveal. Right. How could I have forgotten about the part where they toss me to the wolves? Whatever I think about this home or the monsters I was born to, things can always get worse.

"Are you sure you haven't lost weight? If you don't like the food, I can send Gabriel there to cook for you," she presses. "Darling, we have an image to keep up."

"The food's fine, Mother." I allow her to fuss with my hair, straightening imaginary imperfections. Her fingers catch on a small tangle and pull sharply—a reminder of who's in control. "I've been busy with classes."

"Hmm." She steps back to examine me like a piece of art she's considering purchasing. "Well, we'll have Gloria bring up something before you dress for the party. Can't have you looking peaked in front of our guests."

The way she says "guests" makes my skin crawl. I know exactly what kind of party this is—the same kind they've been throwing since I was fifteen. The kind where powerful men make deals over expensive whiskey while their wives gossip about whose daughter is in rehab this month. The kind where pills appear in crystal bowls like after-dinner mints, and no one mentions the missing time or the bruises that show up the next morning. They take advantage of the girls in the most predatory way, one after another. Tasting all the fine options. And I'm my parents' prized possession, their best bargaining chip. They especially like to remind me how many deals I helped them close and how many negotiations I helped turn in their favor.

"Your father's business associates are particularly eager to see you," she continues, steering me toward the stairs. "They've missed you at our little gatherings."

My stomach turns at the thought of their hungry eyes, their wandering hands excused as fatherly affection. But I force myself to smile, to play my part in this twisted performance. "How thoughtful of them."

"Indeed." A shadow crosses her perfect features. "Though I hope you remember the importance of discretion. We wouldn't want a repeat of last time."

I fight back a wave of nausea. Last time, when I told Alex too much. I trusted him with the darkness lurking behind our family's perfect facade. When my parents showed me exactly what happens to people who try to help me. The photos of him they sent—looking lost and haunted on his new campus—flash through my mind. As if I could ever forget.

"I haven't forgotten." My voice comes out low and tight, each word razor-sharp. "I won't risk anyone's safety again."

"Good." She nods, satisfied, and pats my cheek, her wedding ring cold against my skin. "Now, Gloria has laid out your dress. The blue Versace—you remember the one. Mr. Murphy was quite taken with it at the Christmas gala."

Of course he was. The dress is practically transparent under the right lighting, and Murphy's hands always seem to find their way to bare skin during his drunken reminiscences about my father's college days. I swallow bile and nod. "The one with the sequins."

"Good girl." She fixes an unruly strand of hair, letting her hand linger on the nape of my neck. "No doubt he'll have a generous proposal for us tonight. That man's worth three times his wealth, but with his connections…"

She trails off, presumably to let the implication sink in. There are things I learned growing up wealthy: how to throw a gala in twenty-four hours, how to get blood stains out of silk, how to carry a conversation with someone who speaks three times as fast as me without blinking. But there are also things I've never learned: how to choose the right jewelry for my outfit, when to pass the butter or salt, when it's safe to say no. Parties like this are my mother's territory, and she wields their strict protocol and arbitrary rules like a mastermind.

"Oh, and Luna?" She pauses at the bottom of the stairs, her smile sharp as a razor. "Do try to be more… cooperative this time. Your father was quite disappointed by your behavior at the last party."

Translation: Take the pills they offer without making a scene. Let them touch you without flinching. Be the perfect doll they created.

"Of course, Mother." I manage to speak through the bile rising in the back of my throat. "I would hate to disappoint our guests. Or you and Father."

Her smile doesn't waver, but her eyes flash with the kind of darkness I've come to associate with the worst events in this house. "Good."

As she spins around in her customary cloud of designer perfume and cruelty, the memory of Murphy's breath, hot and sour against my cheek, rises in my mind. The way he fumbled with my dress, pawing at me like I was a piece of meat and not a living, breathing human. His hands on my bare skin, pawing and grasping, stinking of cigars and stolen youth.

My mother's words echo back to me: Try to be more cooperative this time. I'll be the good puppet—if they give me a few moments with their own strings. I'm going to let them do to me whatever they want, but I won't let them touch who I am on the inside. I won't give them the satisfaction of winning, even if I'm losing in every other sense.

My bedroom looks exactly as I left it—a teenage girl's fantasy in pink and white, all ruffled curtains and delicate antiques. But I know better now. The innocence is as fake as everything else in this house. There are cameras hidden in the cherubs on my ceiling and microphones tucked behind the pastoral scenes on my walls. They've recorded every nightmare, every tearful phone call, every desperate attempt to scrub their touch from my skin. This house has seen a thousand horrors, and there's nothing that happens inside these walls that the cameras don't catch.

The dress lies across my bed like a murder victim, its blue silk gleaming obscenely in the fading light. Next to it, a small silver tray holds everything I'll need to become their perfect daughter: pills in various colors and sizes, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, and a note in my father's precise handwriting.

"To help you relax. We expect your full participation tonight."

My hands shake as I pick up the first pill—a small blue oval that will make the edges of reality soft and blurry. One by one, I swallow them down with expensive bourbon, feeling them dissolve into familiar numbness. By the time Gloria comes to help me dress, I'm floating somewhere above myself, watching as she zips me into the dress and arranges my hair in elegant waves.

"There now, Miss Luna." She steps back to admire her work, but I catch the concern in her eyes. She's been here long enough to know what these parties really are. "You look lovely."

"Thank you, Gloria." I manage a weak smile before a wave of nausea washes over me. At least this dress hides the trembling in my hands.

"I'll be in the kitchen when they're finished," she murmurs. "In case you need anything."

I nod, trying not to let the fear show. "I'll be fine."

She gives me a look that lets me know I didn't succeed. "That's a lie, but it's a brave one, dear. Take care."

With a swish of her apron, she slips from the room, the familiarity of her footsteps giving me a shred of comfort. At least someone cares. Someone knows I'm trapped, and someone is trying to make sure I won't drown completely.

The girl in the mirror is a stranger—all smoky eyes and bloodred lips, curves wrapped in silk thin enough to see the shadows beneath. She looks expensive. Untouchable. Like a masterpiece behind museum glass, meant to be admired but never truly known. But I know better. The perfect facade is just another prop in their endless performance, as fragile as sugar glass waiting to shatter. Everything has a price in this house, carved into flesh and bone and sealed with designer drugs and hundred-dollar bills. Eventually, even the invincible will have to pay, and the collection always comes with interest.

The party's already in full swing when I descend the grand staircase. Crystal glasses clink like wind chimes as Silicon Valley tech moguls mingle with old money bankers, their wives dripping in diamonds that could feed a small country. The air is thick with cigar smoke and expensive perfume, masking the chemical tang of whatever's being passed around in little silver boxes.

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.

Just the way I never wanted to be.