Page 52 of Betray Me
“What happens now?” I ask.
Max’s arms tighten around me. “Now we build something new. Something that’s ours, not theirs.”
“And if they come for us?”
“Then we face them together.” His voice carries the same unwavering certainty that convinced me to trust him in the first place. “Belle, whatever happens next, whatever threats we have to deal with, you’re not alone anymore. You’ll never be alone again.”
The promise wraps around me like armor, but it’s armor made of love instead of fear, protection instead of paranoia. For the first time since this nightmare began, I dare to believe that maybe—just maybe—I can have a future that isn’t defined by my past.
Outside the safe house windows, dawn is beginning to break across the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. A new day. A new beginning.
And for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of what it might bring.
PART FOUR: THE HEALING
Chapter 19: Facing the Past
Before
The leather chair in Dr. Specter’s office has become both a sanctuary and a torture chamber over these past six months. I sink into its familiar embrace, my fingers automatically finding the small tear in the armrest that I’ve been worrying wider with each session. The late afternoon sun streams through the blinds, casting prison-bar shadows across the Persian rug that costs more than most people’s cars.
“How are you feeling today, Belle?” Dr. Specter asks, her pen poised over her ever-present notepad. She’s a sharp woman in her fifties, with steel-gray hair and eyes that miss nothing. More importantly, she doesn’t coddle me the way Dr. Marshall did during my brief stint with Luna’s former therapist.
“Fine,” I lie automatically, the word sliding off my tongue with practiced ease. After eighteen years of perfecting the art of deception, even therapy feels like another performance to master.
Dr. Specter raises an eyebrow, her expression patient but knowing. “Belle, we’ve been meeting twice a week for six months. I think we’re past the ‘fine’ responses, don’t you?”
I shift in the chair, my silk blouse suddenly feeling too tight around my throat. Outside, Boston’s traffic hums with the familiar rhythm of a city that never sleeps. Inside this office, time moves differently—slower, more deliberately, stripping away layers of protection I’ve spent years building.
“The Queens were sentenced last week,” I say finally, my voice carefully modulated. “Thirty years for Sebastian, twenty-five for Eleanor. It was all over the news.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
The question hangs in the air like incense, heavy and demanding. How does it make me feel? Relief that Luna’s tormentors are behind bars? Vindication that justice was served? Terror that my own parents’ fate is approaching with the inexorable march of destiny?
“Satisfied,” I answer, but the word tastes like ash. “They deserved worse.”
“Yet you don’t sound satisfied.”
Dr. Specter has an uncanny ability to hear the truth beneath my carefully constructed lies. It’s both infuriating and oddly liberating to be seen so completely by someone who has no agenda beyond healing.
“Because it doesn’t change anything,” I snap, the anger surprising us both with its sudden intensity. “Luna gets her justice, her freedom, her happy ending with Erik. Meanwhile, I’m still here, still dealing with the aftermath of being my family’s perfect little spy.”
“Is that how you see yourself? As a spy?”
The question cuts deeper than it should. I’ve been clinging to that identity for months now, wearing it like armor against the more uncomfortable truths lurking beneath. Belle Gallagher, a reluctant intelligence operative. Belle Gallagher, victim of circumstance. Belle Gallagher, anything but what I really am.
“That’s what I was,” I insist, my knuckles white where they grip the chair arms. “From the time I was fourteen, I gathered information for my father. I monitored Luna, reported on her activities, helped orchestrate her downfall. I was his spy.”
“And before you were fourteen?”
The air in the room grows thick, oppressive. I can feel my carefully constructed walls beginning to crack under the weight of her gentle persistence. This is the territory we’ve been circling for months, the dark waters I’ve refused to dive into.
“Before fourteen doesn’t matter,” I say quickly. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Isn’t it?” Dr. Specter leans forward slightly, her voice soft but relentless. “Belle, you’ve spent six months telling me about your role as an informant, your guilt over betraying Luna, your fear of your parents’ upcoming fate. But you’ve never once talked about why you were so desperate to escape that first role that you convinced your father to make you a spy instead.”
The words hit like physical blows, each one stripping away another layer of protection. My throat constricts, my heart hammering against my ribs with the desperate rhythm of a trapped bird.
