Page 53 of Betray Me
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” Her pen hasn’t moved on the notepad; her full attention is focused on me with surgical precision. “What were you before you became your father’s spy, Belle?”
The question echoes in the silence, demanding an answer I’ve spent years refusing to give. My hands tremble as I reachfor the glass of water on the side table, the simple movement requiring tremendous effort.
“I was…” The words stick in my throat like glass shards. “I was what Luna was. What they wanted her to be.”
Dr. Specter nods, her expression gentle but encouraging. “Can you be more specific?”
The dam breaks.
“I was entertainment.” The word comes out as a whisper, barely audible over the sound of my own ragged breathing. “From the time I was eleven years old, I was dressed up like a doll and paraded in front of my father’s business associates. They would touch me, use me, pass me around like a party favor while my parents watched and smiled and counted the favors owed.”
The confession pours out of me like poison finally being purged from my system. Years of carefully buried memories surface in vivid, horrifying detail—the parties, the hands, the way Mother would dress me in white to emphasize my innocence before sending me into rooms where that innocence would be systematically destroyed.
“For three years,” I continue, my voice growing stronger with each admission, “I was their perfect victim. Compliant, beautiful, broken just enough to be interesting but not enough to be useless. Until I figured out that information was more valuable than my body, and I convinced Father to give me a different role.”
Dr. Specter’s pen moves across her notepad now, documenting my destruction with clinical precision. “How did you convince him?”
“I proved my worth.” The memory surfaces, bitter and sharp. “I told him what Judge Patterson whispered to Senator Caldwell about his gambling debts. I revealed Mrs. Morrison’s affair with the prosecutor who’d been investigating her husband’s company. I showed him that I could be more than just another party favor—I could be his eyes and ears in places he couldn’t go.”
“And he agreed?”
“Eventually.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in the sound. “After testing me. After making sure I understood that my new role was a privilege to be earned, not a right to be demanded.”
The room falls silent except for the steady scratch of Dr. Specter’s pen and the distant hum of traffic. I feel hollowed out, emptied of secrets I’ve carried for so long they’d become part of my identity.
“Belle,” Dr. Specter says finally, her voice gentle, “what happened to you was not your fault. You were a child. You survived the only way you could.”
“I know that intellectually,” I reply, surprised by my honesty. “But knowing and believing are different things.”
“They are. And healing means bridging that gap between knowledge and belief.” She sets down her pen, giving me her full attention. “You’ve taken an enormous step today by acknowledging the full extent of your trauma. That courage shouldn’t be minimized.”
Courage. The word feels foreign when applied to me. I’ve spent so long thinking of myself as a coward—choosing collaboration over resistance, information gathering over direct confrontation, my own safety over Luna’s well-being.
“I destroyed Luna’s life,” I say, the guilt settling over me like a familiar shroud. “While she was being drugged and abused, I was reporting on her every move, helping them control her more effectively. How is that courage?”
“You were both victims, Belle. The fact that your parents found different ways to exploit you doesn’t make either of you more or less worthy of compassion.”
“Luna doesn’t see it that way. She sees me as the enemy.”
“Have you asked her?”
The question catches me off guard. “What?”
“Have you spoken to Luna about any of this? About your shared experiences, your parallel trauma?”
I shake my head, the idea terrifying in its simplicity. “She hates me. Rightfully so.”
“Does she? Or is that your assumption based on guilt and shame?” Dr. Specter leans back in her chair, her expression thoughtful. “Belle, you’ve spent months in here processing your trauma in isolation. But healing doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Sometimes it requires connecting with others who understand what you’ve been through.”
“You think I should talk to Luna.” It’s not a question.
“I think you should consider it. Not for her sake, but for yours.” Her voice is measured, professional. “You both survived the same system, albeit in different ways. There might be healing in acknowledging that shared experience.”
The suggestion sends ice through my veins. Luna Queen, the girl I spent months tormenting at my father’s behest, the girl whose every move I cataloged and reported, the girl whose trust I systematically destroyed—she’s the last person who would want to hear my sob story.
“She’ll never agree to it.”
