Page 58 of Betray Me
They look like what they’ve always been: beautiful monsters wearing human masks.
“The prosecution calls Belle Gallagher to the stand.”
My legs feel disconnected from my body as I walk forward, my heels clicking against marble floors that echo like gunshots. The Bible feels heavy in my hands as I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Such a simple promise, but it will destroy everything I’ve ever known.
David begins with easy questions—my name, my age, my relationship to the defendants. Establishing the basics while I find my rhythm, my voice growing stronger with each response. But I can feel the real questions approaching like storm clouds gathering on the horizon.
“Ms. Gallagher, can you describe your relationship with your parents during your childhood?”
The loaded question hangs in the air. This is where it begins—the slow but deliberate dismantling of the perfect family façade we’ve maintained for decades.
“They were loving parents,” I hear myself say, the lies coming automatically. “They provided everything I needed—education, opportunities, guidance…”
David’s expression doesn’t change, but I see the subtle shift in his posture. We’ve discussed this—how I might initially fall back on old patterns of protection and denial. It’s a natural response when facing the people who shaped your understanding of love and loyalty.
“Ms. Gallagher, I’m going to show you some photographs. Can you identify the people in these images?”
The first photo appears on the screen, and my carefully constructed composure begins to crack. It’s me at eleven years old, wearing a white dress that cost more than most families’ monthly income. I’m standing beside my father at one of his business gatherings, my smile perfect and empty. What the photo doesn’t show is the man’s hand on my back, just below the camera’s view, or the way my small fingers were clenched into fists to keep from trembling.
“That’s me,” I whisper. “And my father.”
“Can you tell the court about this particular gathering?”
The memory surfaces like something dredged from deep water—dark, distorted, but undeniably real. Morrison’s bourbon-soaked breath against my neck. Judge Patterson’s sweaty palms on my bare shoulders. The way Mother smiled and nodded as if nothing unusual was happening while powerful men used her eleven-year-old daughter as entertainment.
“I… I can’t…” The words stick in my throat like glass shards.
“Take your time, Ms. Gallagher.”
But time won’t help. No amount of time will make this easier. I look out at the gallery, finding Max’s face in the crowd. His dark eyes hold mine steadily, offering silent strength across the distance between us. Beside him, Luna sits perfectly still, her own testimony against her parents having prepared her for this moment in ways no one else could understand.
They survived this. They found the courage to speak their truth despite the cost.
I can do the same.
“These gatherings weren’t business meetings,” I say, my voice growing clearer with each word. “They were… performances. My parents would dress me up, present me to their associates, and I would be expected to charm them. To make them happy.”
“How were you expected to make them happy, Ms. Gallagher?”
The question cuts through every defense I’ve ever built. Father’s eyes narrow across the courtroom, a warning that even now makes my heart race with familiar terror. But he can’t hurt me anymore. Not here, not with Federal Marshals standing guard and Max’s unwavering support giving me strength.
“They would touch me,” I say, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff. “Kiss me. Put their hands in places where children shouldn’t be touched. And I was taught that this was normal, that it was my responsibility to please my parents’ guests in whatever way they required.”
The courtroom erupts in whispers, jurors shifting uncomfortably in their seats. But I barely hear it over the roaring in my ears as years of buried trauma come pouring out in ugly, honest detail.
David continues with gentle precision, walking me through the systematic grooming and abuse that defined my childhood. Each question strips away another layer of the perfect daughter performance, revealing the frightened child underneath who learned to survive through compliance and careful manipulation.
When he shows the next photograph—me at thirteen, posed between two men whose names I recognize from political headlines—I start to shake.
“Ms. Gallagher, can you tell us what happened the night this photo was taken?”
“I remember arriving at the party,” I say, my voice barely audible. “Mother had given me a special dress, told me it was a very important evening. But after dinner…” I swallow hard, fighting back nausea. “Everything gets hazy. I remember waking up the next morning with blood under my fingernails and bruises I couldn’t explain.”
“Did you ask your parents about these gaps in your memory?”
“Once.” The admission tastes like ash. “Mother told me I’d had too much champagne, that young ladies sometimes drank more than they could handle at sophisticated gatherings. She said it was nothing to worry about, that I should be grateful some memories fade.”
The defense attorney objects, claiming hearsay, but the damage is done. The jury has seen the pattern now—the drugging, the memory manipulation, the way my parents used their own daughter as a commodity to be traded among their powerful friends.
