Page 29
Breaking the Chain
T he steel doors clang shut behind me with a finality that still makes my heart race, even after multiple visits. The prison visiting room is stark—beige walls, fluorescent lighting that casts everyone in a sickly pallor, and tables bolted to the floor. A far cry from the marble floors and crystal chandeliers my mother once considered her natural habitat.
I check my watch—a gift from Erik for our one-year anniversary. It’s a simple timepiece with a leather band, nothing like the diamond-encrusted monstrosities my mother used to drape on me. The second hand ticks steadily, counting down the minutes until my mother appears.
Spring has fully blossomed at Shark Bay, and the scent of the ocean lingers on my clothes despite the sterile prison air. My life has transformed so completely in the past year that sometimes I wake up wondering if it’s all been an elaborate dream. But then Erik will roll over beside me in our shared dorm room, his storm-gray eyes soft with sleep, and I know this freedom is real.
The door on the opposite side of the room buzzes open. My mother enters, escorted by a guard. Prison hasn’t been kind to Eleanor Queen. Her once-perfect blonde hair has lost its luster, growing out to reveal gray roots she can no longer disguise with expensive salon treatments. The orange jumpsuit hangs on her frame; she’s lost weight. But it’s her eyes that have changed the most—the calculating sharpness replaced by something hollow, almost bewildered.
She spots me immediately, her posture straightening in a reflexive attempt at dignity. Even now, even here, appearances matter to her.
“Hello, Mother,” I say as she takes the seat across from me. No hugs, no touching allowed—a rule I’m grateful for.
“Luna.” Her voice is raspier than I remember. “You look… healthy.”
Coming from her, it’s practically an insult. Healthy was never the goal—thin, perfect, and marketable were her standards. I’ve gained weight in the past year, muscle from the kickboxing classes I take with Leyla, and curves from actually eating regular meals without fear.
“I am healthy,” I confirm. “In every way that matters.”
She glances down at my simple jeans and sweater, a far cry from the designer outfits she used to insist upon. “I see your taste has… evolved.”
“Among other things.” I place my hands flat on the table between us, deliberately showing off the absence of the family ring she once insisted I wear. “I’m not here for fashion advice, Mother.”
She sighs, a flicker of the old impatience crossing her features. “Why are you here then? You made your feelings quite clear at the trial.”
The question is fair. I’ve visited my mother exactly three times in the year since her sentencing—twenty-five years without possibility of parole. My father received life, his network of crimes deemed more extensive, more calculating. He’s in a maximum-security facility across the country. I haven’t visited him at all.
“Professor Austin is publishing a book,” I say, watching her face carefully. “About systems of power and exploitation. He’s asked me to write the foreword.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You wouldn’t.”
“I already have.” I keep my voice steady. “It doesn’t name names—the legal team made sure of that. But it tells the truth about what happened. What you and Father did.”
She looks away, jaw tightening. “More public humiliation. Hasn’t there been enough?”
“This isn’t about humiliation.” I lean forward slightly. “It’s about breaking the cycle. Helping others recognize the patterns before they’re trapped in them.”
“Always the crusader now,” she says with a dismissive wave. “I suppose that boyfriend of yours encourages this… activism.”
I can’t help the small smile that forms at the mention of Erik. “He supports me in everything I do. That’s what healthy relationships look like, Mother.”
Her lip curls slightly. “And I suppose you’re the expert now?”
“No,” I admit. “I’m still learning. We both are. But we’re learning together, with help.”
Dr. Marshall has been instrumental in my recovery, in teaching me what normal boundaries look like and how to recognize manipulation, how to trust my own perceptions again. Erik has his own therapist, helping him work through the aftereffects of his addiction and the trauma from that night at my parents’ mansion.
“The mighty Queen fortune, wasted on therapy,” my mother murmurs, a shadow crossing her face. “Your father would be appalled.”
“My father is serving life for crimes against dozens of people,” I remind her. “His approval isn’t exactly my priority.”
She flinches slightly, then composes herself. “What about your studies? At least tell me you haven’t abandoned those.”
It’s such a mundane, almost maternal question that it catches me off guard. For a moment, she sounds like a normal parent, concerned about her daughter’s education rather than a woman who once drugged that same daughter for business advantage.
“I switched majors,” I tell her. “From business to psychology, with a minor in criminal justice. I made the dean’s list both semesters.”
Something flickers across her face—pride? Regret? Calculation? With my mother, it’s impossible to tell.
“And do you still live on campus? In that dreadful dormitory?”
“It’s the school’s condition, but they did allow Erik and me to share the room. It’s small, but it’s ours.”
“You’re living with him.” It’s not a question. Her mouth tightens with disapproval.
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate, don’t justify. My relationship with Erik is one of the few pure things in my life; I won’t have her taint it with her judgment.
“And what about your… social circle?” She says the words as if they taste unfamiliar. “I imagine most of your former acquaintances have distanced themselves.”
A laugh escapes me, genuine and unexpected. “You’d be surprised. Belle and I have coffee every Thursday.” After her testimony, Belle was accepted back to Shark Bay to finish her degree. Our relationship is complicated—we’ll never be the carefree best friends of college movie tropes—but we understand each other in ways no one else can. “Leyla’s my kickboxing partner. And Jessica from Belle’s old group is in my study cohort now.”
“How… quaint.” Her voice drips with disdain, but there’s something else there, too—confusion, perhaps. The idea of friendship based on genuine connection rather than strategic advantage seems to genuinely puzzle her.
“It’s real,” I correct her. “That’s what matters.”
We fall into silence, the gulf between us wider than the physical table that separates us. What do you say to a mother who never really mothered? To a woman who saw her child as an asset to be leveraged rather than a person to be loved?
“Why did you come here, Luna?” she asks finally, her voice softer, almost vulnerable. “You clearly don’t need anything from me. You’ve made that abundantly clear.”
The question gives me pause. Why did I subject myself to this visit? It’s not for closure—I found that in the courtroom, standing up to them both. It’s not for reconciliation—some bridges can’t be rebuilt once they’ve been burned so thoroughly.
“I came because I needed to remember,” I say at last.
“Remember what?” A hint of the old sharpness returns to her voice.
“What it costs to get free. What happens when power becomes more important than humanity.” I meet her eyes directly. “I need to see you here, like this, to remind myself that the cycle can be broken.”
Something shifts in her expression, a crack in the perfect mask she’s worn for as long as I can remember. “And have you? Broken it?”
For the first time in our conversation, there’s no calculation in her question; no angle is being played. Just a mother asking if her daughter has escaped the fate she herself couldn’t avoid.
“I’m trying,” I tell her honestly. “Every day, I have to make the choice not to become what you made me. Not to use people the way I was used. Not to see relationships as transactions.”
She nods slowly, her gaze drifting to the window where sunlight streams through the wire-reinforced glass. “Your grandmother—my mother—was like that too. Cold. Calculating. She saw me as an investment, not a daughter.” Her voice is distant, as if she’s speaking more to herself than to me. “I swore I’d be different, but…” She trails off, shaking her head.
The revelation shouldn’t surprise me, but it does—this glimpse of a cycle that extends back generations. My grandmother, whom I barely remember, passing her damage to my mother, who passed it to me.
“But you weren’t different,” I finish for her. “You were worse.”
She flinches as if I’ve slapped her, then nods once, the gesture almost imperceptible. “Perhaps I was.”
It’s not an apology—Eleanor Queen doesn’t apologize—but it’s the closest thing to acknowledgment I’ve ever received from her. The weight of her admission settles between us, neither reconciliation nor absolution, but a fragile moment of truth.
“I have to go,” I say, glancing at my watch. “I have dinner plans.”
“With Erik?” She can’t quite keep the curiosity from her voice.
“And friends,” I confirm, standing. “We’re celebrating. Erik’s brother and his fiancée are expecting their first child. We just found out yesterday.”
The news that Erik will be an uncle had filled our room with joy, Erik spinning me around the kitchen in celebration. The thought of a child born into love rather than obligation feels like hope personified.
My mother’s lips part slightly, perhaps remembering her own pregnancy, her own choices. “I see. Well. Congratulations to them.”
The guard approaches, signaling that our time is up. My mother stands, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from her jumpsuit with the same gesture she once used on designer dresses.
“Luna,” she says as I turn to leave. “The book. Your foreword. Will you…” She hesitates. “Will you send me a copy when it’s published?”
The request catches me off guard. “Why would you want to read it?”
She looks down, a hint of color touching her pale cheeks. “I’d like to understand. What it was like. From your perspective.”
It’s such an unexpected display of interest that, for a moment, I don’t know how to respond. Is this manipulation or the first glimmer of genuine empathy? With my mother, it’s impossible to be certain.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally.
She nods, accepting the non-commitment. As the guard leads her toward the door, she pauses, looking back over her shoulder. “You look like her, you know. My mother. The same strength in your eyes.” There’s something like pride in her voice, tinged with regret. “But you’re not her. And you’re not me. Remember that.”
With that, she’s gone, the door buzzing shut behind her. I stand there for a moment, absorbing her words. Was that her version of blessing my attempt to break free? Or a final attempt to bind me to the family legacy?
It doesn’t matter. My path is my own now, chosen with clear eyes and an open heart.
Outside the prison, spring sunshine bathes the visitor parking lot in golden light. Erik waits by his car, long legs stretched out in front of him as he reads something on his phone. He looks up as I approach, his face breaking into that smile that still makes my heart skip.
“How was it?” he asks, pulling me into an embrace that feels like safety.
“Complicated,” I admit, breathing in his familiar scent. “But okay. Better than I expected.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, studying me with those perceptive gray eyes. “You alright?”
I consider the question seriously, taking inventory of my feelings. There’s sadness there, and anger still, but also a steadiness that wasn’t present before. “Yeah,” I say, surprising myself with how true it is. “I really am.”
His smile widens. “Good. Because everyone’s eager to go to the cliffs. They’re threatening to start the barbecue without us.”
The thought of our friends gathered together—Leyla with her boundless enthusiasm, Belle with her dry wit, Professor Austin with his thoughtful insights, even Max, who’s become surprisingly decent after getting sober—fills me with warmth.
“Then we should hurry,” I say, reaching up to kiss him softly. “I wouldn’t want to miss it.”
As we drive away from the prison to catch the boat, I don’t look back. My mother will always be part of my story, the dark prologue to who I’ve become. But she doesn’t get to write the chapters anymore. That power belongs to me now—the power to choose love over fear, connection over isolation, truth over manipulation.
Erik’s hand finds mine across the center console, warm and steady. “I love you,” he says simply.
“I love you too,” I reply, the words coming easily now, no longer terrifying.
Ahead of us, the road winds toward the dock that will take us to Shark Bay, toward our friends, our studies, our future. The path isn’t straight or simple—healing never is—but for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of where it leads.
I am Luna Queen, daughter of Sebastian and Eleanor, raised in darkness but choosing light. Their legacy ends with me.
My story is just beginning.