Page 59 of Betray Me
But it’s the final set of photographs that breaks me completely.
The images appear on screen in sequence—documentation of my “training” as a teenager, learning to be the perfect spy and informant. Photos of me practicing seduction techniques on mannequins. Reports detailing my psychological profile, my usefulness as an intelligence asset, my transition from victim to weapon.
The clinical language they used to describe their own daughter’s exploitation hits me like physical blows:
Subject responds well to positive reinforcement. Recommend expanding operational parameters.
Asset demonstrates advanced manipulation capabilities. Ready for field deployment.
Daughter proving valuable in ways traditional entertainment models could not achieve.
I’m not their daughter in these documents. I’m an asset. A tool. A thing to be used until it breaks and then discarded.
The breakdown comes without warning—years of carefully controlled composure shattering like glass against stone. The sobs tear from my throat in ugly, animal sounds that fill the pristine courtroom with the raw truth of what they did to me.
“I was eleven,” I gasp between tears. “I was eleven years old, and they sold me to monsters because it served their business interests. When I got too damaged for that role, they trained me to destroy other children instead. They never saw me as their daughter—only as an investment that needed to provide returns.”
Through my tears, I see Father’s face contort with rage at my public breakdown. This isn’t the composed testimony he expected, the controlled performance that might minimize their culpability. This is his perfect weapon, finally admitting she was a victim first.
David approaches the stand, his voice gentle but firm. “Ms. Gallagher, in your opinion, were you a willing participant in your family’s criminal enterprises?”
“I was a child,” I whisper, the words carrying the weight of revelation. “I was a hurt, scared child who did whatever I had to do to survive. I thought I was choosing my role as a spy, but really I was just choosing which way I wanted to be used.”
“And do you believe Luna Queen was also a victim of this same system?”
The question forces me to look at Luna in the gallery, to meet those green eyes that have seen the same horrors from a different angle.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Luna and I both survived the only way we knew how. The only difference is that her survival looked like resistance, while mine looked like collaboration. But we were both just children trying not to die.”
The rest of my testimony passes in a blur. Questions about financial structures, operational protocols, the scope of the network’s influence. Technical details that feel meaningless compared to the emotional carnage of admitting the truth about my childhood.
When David finally dismisses me from the stand, my legs barely carry me back through the courtroom. The gallery is silent except for the soft sound of someone crying—a juror, maybe, or a reporter finally understanding the human cost of the crimes being prosecuted.
Max rises as I approach, his arms coming around me before I can collapse. The simple human contact grounds me, reminds me that I’m no longer that terrified child performing for monsters in expensive suits.
“I’m proud of you,” he whispers against my hair. “So fucking proud of you.”
The words break something open in my chest—not the painful crack of breaking, but the necessary crack of something that’s been locked away too long finally being allowed to breathe.
As we move toward the courthouse exit, Luna appears beside us. Her face is pale but determined, Erik’s hand steady on her shoulder in a mirror of Max’s protective stance.
“Belle,” she says quietly, her voice carrying weight that has nothing to do with volume.
I stop walking, allowing her to catch up. She steps forward and pulls me into a brief, fierce hug.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my ear. “I know how hard this was. You’re so brave, Belle. Thank you for telling the truth. For all of it.”
The simple words hit harder than any praise or condemnation could. They meant everything coming from Luna Queen.
“Call me if you need anything,” she says as she pulls back. “Anything at all.”
The offer is genuine, the same solidarity she’s extended since we began rebuilding our relationship through Thursday coffee meetings and shared therapy insights. But it feels different now, weighted with the understanding that we’re both survivors who finally stopped letting shame silence us.
As we reach the courthouse steps, a man in a wrinkled suit separates himself from the crowd of reporters and approaches with deliberate purpose. My first instinct is terror—after months of being followed, of glimpsing him in shadows and reflections, the direct confrontation feels like walking into a trap.
But his hands are visible, his posture non-threatening. When he speaks, his voice carries authority rather than menace.
“Ms. Gallagher, I’m Detective James Harper. I’ve been investigating murders tied to your parents’ network for over a decade.”
