Page 49 of Betray Me
But it doesn’t feel over. It feels like the beginning of something worse—a reckoning I’m not sure I’m prepared for. Because with my parents behind bars, with their protection gone, I’m exposed in ways I’ve never been before. Every enemy they made, every threat they held at bay through fear and manipulation, could come for me now.
“Is it?” I whisper. “Or am I just an easier target now?”
Max’s grip on my hand tightens. “No one’s going to hurt you. I won’t let them.”
The sincerity in his voice nearly breaks me. When was the last time someone promised to protect me without expecting something in return? When did anyone care about my safety more than my usefulness?
The news switches to a live feed from outside the federal courthouse, where David Stone is addressing reporters. His tall frame fills the screen, his expression grim but determined as he speaks about justice for victims and holding the powerful accountable.
“This is just the beginning,” David says, his voice carrying clearly over the crowd of journalists. “We will not rest until every member of this network is brought to justice, until every victim receives the closure they deserve.”
Every victim. Including me, I suppose, though the word still feels foreign when applied to myself. For so long, I thought of myself as a willing participant, a calculated spy who chose her role to avoid something worse. But sitting here, watching theruins of my family’s empire broadcast to the world, I finally understand what David tried to tell me during our first meeting.
I was eleven years old when they first dressed me up like a doll and paraded me in front of monsters. Eleven. A child who should’ve been playing with toys and learning multiplication tables, not learning how to survive predators in designer suits.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, stealing my breath and making my chest tight. I wasn’t a willing participant. I was a victim who found a way to survive, who adapted to impossible circumstances because the alternative was unthinkable.
“Belle?” Max’s voice sounds distant, muffled. “Belle, what’s wrong?”
I try to respond, but my throat feels closed, like invisible hands are squeezing the air from my lungs. The room starts to spin slightly, colors bleeding at the edges of my vision. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape, and suddenly, I can’t get enough air.
I’m dying. I must be dying. This is what dying feels like—this crushing weight on my chest, this desperate need for oxygen that won’t come, no matter how hard I try to breathe.
“Hey, hey, look at me.” Max’s hands cup my face, forcing me to focus on his eyes instead of the panic consuming me. “You’re having a panic attack. You’re safe, Belle. You’re safe.”
Safe. The word should comfort me, but it only makes the panic worse. I’ve never been safe. Even now, in this government safe house with federal protection, I’m not truly safe. Dominic is still out there. The network has tentacles reaching into placesI can’t imagine. And somewhere in the shadows, forces I don’t understand are probably planning their next move.
“I can’t—” I gasp, clawing at my throat. “I can’t breathe—”
“Yes, you can.” Max’s voice is calm, steady, an anchor in the storm of my terror. “Breathe with me. In for four counts. One, two, three, four.”
I try to follow his breathing, to match the rhythm he sets, but my body refuses to cooperate. Everything feels too tight, too fast, too much. The news coverage continues in the background, a constant reminder that my entire world has just collapsed in the most public way possible.
“Out for four counts,” Max continues, his thumbs stroking gentle circles on my cheeks. “One, two, three, four. Good. Again.”
Gradually, painfully, my breathing begins to slow. The crushing weight on my chest eases slightly, allowing precious air to fill my lungs. The room stops spinning, colors bleeding back to their proper places.
“There you go,” Max murmurs, his forehead pressing against mine. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
But I’m not okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay. Because the little girl who was dressed up like a doll at eleven years old, who learned to survive through manipulation and performance, who convinced herself she was in control when she was really just a prisoner with a prettier cage—that girl is still inside me, terrified and broken and desperately seeking safety in a world that has never offered it.
“I don’t know who I am without them,” I admit, the words barely a whisper. “Without the Gallagher name, without my role as their weapon—I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.”
Max pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his expression fierce with an emotion I don’t dare name. “You’re Belle. Not Belle Gallagher, daughter of monsters. Not their spy or their weapon or their victim. Just Belle—a woman who’s survived hell and chose to do the right thing despite everything they taught her.”
The simplicity of it—just Belle—makes my throat tight with unshed tears. When was the last time someone saw me as a person rather than a product of my family’s influence? When did anyone look at me and see the potential for goodness instead of the corruption that shaped me?
“But what if that’s not enough?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “What if underneath all their training, all their manipulation, I’m just like them? What if I’m a monster who learned to wear a human mask?”
“You’re not.” His voice carries absolute certainty. “A monster wouldn’t have testified against her own family. A monster wouldn’t have risked everything to save other potential victims. A monster wouldn’t be sitting here having a panic attack because she’s finally free.”
Free. Another word that feels foreign, impossible. But looking into Max’s eyes, seeing the complete faith he has in my capacity for goodness, I almost believe it might be true.
The news coverage shifts to commercial, some bright advertisement for laundry detergent that feels obscene after the darkness we’ve just witnessed. Max reaches for the remote andfinally turns off the television, plunging the safe house into blessed silence.
“Come here,” he says softly, pulling me against his chest.
I resist for a moment—old habits of self-protection dying hard—but then I let myself melt into his embrace. His arms come around me, solid and warm and safe in a way I’ve never experienced before. I can hear his heartbeat under my ear, steady and reassuring, proof that he’s real and here and choosing to stay despite everything he knows about my past.
