Page 15

Mysterious Package

B efore I even get to my room, I'm already tired. Because of the storm last night and crying in Erik's arms, I feel like I have no defenses left. Every look from passing students feels like sandpaper on my nerves because my skin is still so sensitive. It feels like I've been scrubbed raw. I can't afford weakness, not here. Not when there are so many predators stalking these halls, waiting for any sign of weakness. At Shark Bay, the name isn't just for show—the students here are trained to detect vulnerability like blood in the water.

It doesn't help that my designer bag feels as heavy as my emotional baggage when I climb the stairs to my floor. Even my uniform feels too tight and makes me think of all the ways I'm stuck in this golden cage. Every step I take on the marble floor makes me aware that I'm balancing between control and chaos. If I make one mistake, everything falls apart.

Something feels off the moment I open my door. The air is different—disturbed, like someone's been in here recently. The small package sitting in the middle of my desk grabs my attention right away. It's wrapped in plain brown paper and is about the size of a textbook. There's no return address or postmark on it. Just my name in unfamiliar handwriting: "Luna Queen."

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.

"You're lying." He finally writes. "Something's happened. Let me help."

A bitter laugh escapes me. Help? No one can help me. I'm trapped in a web of my parents' making, every struggle only entangling me further. The only way to protect Erik is to make him hate me.

I scroll the photos, finding one from a particularly wild party. It's not as explicit as the ones in the box, but it gets the message across—me, straddling some faceless guy, clearly in the middle of something heated. I send it with the caption: "This is who I am, Erik. Last night meant nothing. You mean nothing. Find someone else to save."

It's easier than it should be, typing out the messages, being the ice bitch everyone expects me to be. Easier than admitting my parents won. Easier than telling him the truth, as dangerous and damning as it would be. Sending those final messages is so easy. I can practically see him, reading them with pain and disappointment and betrayal on his face.

The three dots appear and disappear several times. Finally: "I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want. But stay away from me, or you'll regret it."

"Luna—"

"And delete my number. Next time, I won't be so nice."

Silence. Long enough that I wonder if he believed it. Long enough to reconsider, to risk trust over self-preservation. I turn off my phone before I can change my mind and text him again, my hands shaking so badly that I nearly drop it. The box of photos seems to pulse with malevolent energy, a cancer spreading across my desk. I should burn them, destroy the evidence. But that won't solve anything. Whoever sent these clearly has copies, probably digital ones, ready to spread across campus at the click of a button.

A knock at my door makes me jump. "Luna?" Erik's voice carries through the wood, concern evident in his tone. "I know you're in there. Please, just talk to me."

The thought of letting him in makes me freeze. I know I can't. I shouldn't. The pictures that are covering the majority of my desk are reminder enough of what happens when I let people get too close. To protect him, I have to push him away.

I step back until my spine hits the wall, the dark wood paneling cold against my skin. Don't open the door. Don't give in. My nails bite into my palms as I fight the impulse, my heart a war drum in my chest. I can feel the walls closing in, the gilded cage around me tightening. Part of me wants to open the door, to find refuge in Erik's steady presence. But another, louder voice reminds me that hiding in his arms will only make it worse later.

"Luna, please." Erik's voice sounds almost raw.

"Go away, Erik." I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds. "I meant what I said. We're done."

"Bullshit." The door handle rattles. "Something's wrong. You're not acting like yourself."

A broken laugh escapes me. "You don't know me. No one does."

"I know enough." His voice softens. "I know you're scared. I know someone's threatening you. Just let me help."

"I don't need your help." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "I don't need anything from you."

There's a long pause. When he speaks again, his voice is different—harder, more determined. "Fine. Push me away if you need to. But I'm not giving up on you, Luna. Whatever's going on, whoever's making you do this—we can fight them together."

Tears burn behind my eyes. God, he makes it sound so simple. As if we could just team up and take on the world, defeat the monsters, ride off into the sunset. But life isn't a fairy tale, and I'm not a princess waiting to be saved. I'm the monster, the villain, the girl who destroys everything she touches. And the sooner Erik learns that, the better.

"Please," I whisper, knowing he can't hear me. "Just go."

For a moment, there's only silence. Then, so quietly, I almost miss it, "I'll be here when you're ready to tell me the truth."

His footsteps fade down the hallway, each one an echo of what I'm losing. Only when I'm sure he's gone do I allow myself to slide to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees as the first sob tears free. I sit in the shadows, head cradled in my hands, as my heart shatters and pieces dig into my lungs like broken glass.

I wish I didn't have to lie. I wish I could tell him the truth. But I don't even know what that is anymore.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, grief bleeding through the carefully constructed mask. "God, I'm so sorry."

But there's no one around to hear the apology. I'm alone. Always alone. Protecting Erik was the right choice, the only option. The alternative—letting the wolves smell blood, using him as bait for the shark that lurks in the depths—means accepting the worst-case scenario as my new truth.

The photos mock me from above, a gallery of my sins and weaknesses. Each one is a reminder of why I can't have nice things, why I don't deserve someone like Erik. He sees the best in me and believes there's something worth saving beneath all the darkness and sharp edges. But he's wrong. There's nothing inside me but ghosts and memories and nightmares.

No matter how many times I repeat those words, they don't ring true.

I curl into a ball and cry like a child, finally mourning all the ways my parents have shattered and destroyed the possibility of a normal life. This isn't fair. I haven't done anything to deserve this. And yet here I am, at Shark Bay, cowering in my room. Alone, terrified, without any hope for a different future. If anyone in this building could see me now, see me like this, they'd stop seeing me as an untouchable ice queen. In their eyes, I'd just become a broken mess—the girl without armor, crying over her own weakness and the fate of others.

My phone buzzes again. Another unknown number: "Good girl. Keep him away, or the next photos will be much worse. Remember—we're always watching."

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.