Page 16

Desperate Measures

T he 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.

Which means she isn't just exposing me. She's threatening to rip the country's power structure apart with no regard for who's standing closest to the wreckage. Because if the world finds out what my parents do during their lavish parties…

"Looking for something?"

I whirl around to find Belle leaning against the doorframe, her expression caught between triumph and fury. She must have doubled back after leaving. Bitch.

"Quite the collection you've got here." I hold up the folder, proud that my voice doesn't shake. "Tell me, does Daddy know you're playing private detective?"

Her eyes narrow. "Put it down."

"Or what? You'll release those photos?" I laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut. "Go ahead. You think I care if people know I fuck around? That's old news, sweetheart."

"No." She steps into the room, closing the door behind her. "But I bet you care about what happens when people start asking questions about your family. About those special parties they throw. About all the girls who seem to disappear afterward."

Ice floods my veins. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" She moves closer, each step precise as a predator stalking prey. "It's amazing what people will tell you if you ask the right questions. Pay the right people. Your parents have quite the reputation in certain circles."

"Stop." The word comes out more desperate than I intended. "Belle, you need to stop digging. You have no idea what you're getting into."

"Oh, I think I do." Her smile is all teeth, no warmth. "Did you really think you could just waltz in here and take everything from me? My boyfriend, my status, my control? I'm not some simpering freshman you can intimidate. I know how to play this game."

"This isn't a game!" I grab her arm, forcing her to look at me. "You think you're so clever with your little investigation? You're going to get people killed."

Something flickers in her eyes—uncertainty maybe, or fear. But it's quickly replaced by steel. "More threats? Please. I have enough evidence to?—"

"To what? Go to the police?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "They're already bought and paid for. The media? My parents own half the papers in the state. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"Then enlighten me." She jerks her arm free, but doesn't step back. "Tell me what's really going on. Why you're really here."

For a moment, I'm tempted. The truth sits heavy on my tongue, begging to be released. Maybe if she understood the danger, she'd back off. But one look at her face tells me it wouldn't matter. Belle's too far gone, too invested in her revenge fantasy to see reason.

"You want to know the truth?" I step closer, dropping my voice to a whisper. "The truth is, you're nothing. A spoiled little rich girl playing power games. But my family? They eat girls like you for breakfast. And when they're done, no one even remembers your name."

Fear finally breaks through her perfect mask. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" I grab the folder and start tearing pages out. "You think these little notes scare me? That I care about some photos? I've survived things that would break you, Belle. Things that would make your worst nightmare seem like a sweet dream."

"Stop it!" She lunges for the papers, but I hold them out of reach.

"Or what? You'll tell everyone what a slut I am? Go! But remember this—" I lean in close enough to whisper in her ear. "Every time you think you've won, every time you think you've got the upper hand, remember that I'm letting you live. Because the moment you become a real threat? Well, let's just say there are worse things than having your sex life exposed."

I step back, watching the color drain from her face. "Keep the photos. Keep your little investigation. But if you're smart, you'll bury it all and forget you ever heard the name Queen. Because trust me, sweetheart—you don't want to see what happens when my family feels threatened."

Without waiting for her response, I walk out, taking the folder with me. My hands shake as I close the door, but I force myself to keep moving. I make it halfway down the hall before my legs give out.

Rage and hatred swirl inside me, a maelstrom threatening to swallow me whole. Belle might be a Barbie, but she's also smart, with endless resources at her disposal. She could have the whole folder duplicated and distributed in a matter of hours, with barely any effort. And once the stories spread, once the pictures are seen by the wrong people…

My parents play a dangerous game, one that puts not just their entire wealth and status at risk but also the country. They wouldn't go down without a fight, certainly. My father would spin a believable story and claim it was all lies and conspiracy. But he wouldn't be able to protect everyone. Not when this kind of info can turn even his best friends against him.

I sink to the floor, clutching the evidence of Belle's investigation to my chest. Tears threaten, but I blink them back. I can't afford to break down. Not now. Not when there's so much at stake.

What the hell am I going to do? If I ignore Belle's threats, the whole thing could blow up in my face. If I report her, it might draw attention to the rumors, and my parents wouldn't risk that. Which leaves me with very few options—either give her what she wants and bow out or expose her first. Maybe there's a third option that I haven't thought of yet. Could there be a way out for me?

My phone buzzes—a text from an unknown number. Another photo of Alex, this one showing him walking into his dorm. The message below is simple: "Tick tock."

They know. They always know. This means Belle's investigation isn't just dangerous for her—it's putting Alex at risk too. And Erik. And everyone else I've dared to let close.

If this game turns personal, no one is safe.

I force myself to stand, smoothing my uniform with trembling hands. I have to end this before it goes too far. Before Belle's curiosity gets someone killed. But how do I stop someone who's already seen too much? Someone who hates me?

The answer comes to me as I pass Professor Austin's classroom. He's alone, grading papers with that familiar furrowed brow. His computer sits open on his desk, displaying lines of code I don't understand. But I don't need to understand it. I just need to use it. And if there's one thing I learned from my parents, it's knowing exactly how to use people and their resources when survival is on the line.

I check the hall—empty except for distant voices and the echo of footsteps. Then, squaring my shoulders, I step into his classroom. Time to fight fire with fire.