Page 74 of Stalk Me

Erik smiles, the kind that reaches his eyes and crinkles the corners. “I think you might be right about that.”

I settle back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. Outside, the city continues its night symphony of distant sirens and passing cars. In courtrooms across the country, the cases against my parents and their associates move forward, justice grinding slowly but inexorably toward conclusion. The world keeps turning, keeps changing.

And here, in this quiet room, I’m changing too. Not all at once and not without setbacks—healing isn’t linear, as Dr. Marshall reminds me weekly. But tonight, I’ve taken a step I once thought impossible. I’ve chosen vulnerability instead of walls and connection instead of isolation. I’ve given myself to someone I love and, in doing so, reclaimed a piece of myself that was stolen long ago.

“Erik?” I murmur, already drifting toward sleep.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for waiting for me.”

His lips press against my hair, his voice soft but certain. “I would have waited forever.”

I believe him. After a lifetime of lies and manipulation, I finally believe someone when they say they love me. And maybe that’s the greatest victory of all.

The Trial

The courtroom feels like a battlefield, cold and unforgiving under the stark fluorescent lights. My fingers tremble as I smooth the wrinkled paper in front of me for what must be the hundredth time. This letter—these words that I’ve rewritten night after sleepless night—is my ammunition in this final confrontation.

Erik sits in the front row behind me, his storm-gray eyes never leaving mine. He nods slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. The gesture means everything.I’m here. I believe in you. You’re not alone.

When the bailiff called my name, I thought my legs would give out beneath me. But somehow, I’m standing now, facing the judge, the jury—and them. My parents sit at the defense table, their designer clothes swapped for prison orange that clashes grotesquely with their perfect complexions. The handcuffs circling their wrists gleam under the courtroom lights, metallic symbols of their diminished power.

The district attorney, David Stone—Erik’s brother—nods encouragingly from his place at the prosecution table. It’s been six months since that night at my parents’ mansion, six months of depositions and evidence gathering and nightmares that still leave me gasping for air. Six months of piecing together the shattered remnants of my life while my parents’ empire crumbles around them.

“Ms. Queen,” the judge prompts, her voice surprisingly gentle. “You may begin whenever you’re ready.”

I unfold the paper with hands that won’t stop shaking. The courtroom falls into a hush so profound I can hear the scratch of reporters’ pens against paper. Cameras aren’t allowed, but the press is here in force, hungry for the sordid details of the case that’s rocked the political and financial elite.

“This is an open letter to Sebastian and Eleanor Queen,” I begin, my voice steadier than I expected. “My parents.”

The word ‘parents’ tastes like acid on my tongue. Across the room, my mother flinches as if I’ve struck her. My father’s face remains impassive, his eyes as cold as they’ve always been. The sight of them in chains should fill me with satisfaction, but all I feel is a hollow ache where rage used to burn.

“I wasn’t even ten years old the first time you drugged me at one of your parties,” I continue, the words flowing now. “I was only a child when you decided my body was a commodity to be traded for influence and power. Only a child when you taught me that my only value was in what others would give you to use me.”

Murmurs ripple through the courtroom. The judge makes no move to silence them. From the corner of my eye, I see jurors shifting uncomfortably, some wiping away tears, others unable to meet my gaze.

“For years, I believed this was normal. That this was what love looked like. That this was all I deserved.”

My father’s jaw tightens, the only sign that my words have penetrated his carefully constructed façade. My mother stares at her hands, refusing to look up.

“You made me believe I was nothing without you. You isolated me, manipulated me, punished me when I tried to form connections with others. You threatened and harmed people I cared about. You sent me to Munich when I became too difficult to control, drugged me until I couldn’t remember my own name, then paraded me in front of your influential friends like a prized animal.”

The air in the courtroom feels thick, charged with collective horror. I pause, taking a deep breath. The next part is the hardest.

“But despite everything you did to break me, you failed. I’m standing here today not as your victim, but as your reckoning.”

My father finally looks up, his expression a mixture of disbelief and something that might almost be respect. It makes me want to vomit.

“I’m not the only one,” I say, my voice gaining strength. “There are others who’ve suffered at your hands, others who’ve been manipulated and exploited for your gain. But the cycle ends with me. Your empire of fear and control is finished.”

I look directly at my mother now, watching as tears slip silently down her perfectly made-up face. Are they genuine, these tears? Or is it just another performance in a lifetime of deception?

“I used to wonder if you ever loved me,” I tell her, my voice softening despite myself. “If there was ever a moment when I was your daughter rather than your asset. I may never know the answer to that question. But I’ve learned that I don’t need your love to be whole.”

She covers her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking. My father puts a restraining hand on her arm, his expression hardening.

“I’m not here to ask for your apology. I don’t expect remorse from people who’ve spent decades perfecting the art of manipulation. I’m here for the girls who’ll come after me, the ones you would’ve broken if you hadn’t been stopped.”

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