Page 7 of Betray Me
Every lesson in manners wars with the alarm bells ringing in my head. Good girls don’t refuse adults. Perfect daughters obey. But my feet remain frozen to the Persian rug.
“I… I should probably get back to the party. Mother will be looking for me.”
His face darkens, just for a moment, before the practiced smile returns. “Your mother knows exactly where you are, dear. Now come here. Don’t make me ask again.”
The threat is subtle but unmistakable. This is a test. Father is testing me, seeing if I’m truly the perfect daughter he’s been sculpting. With legs that feel like water, I approach the chair.
Mr. Morrison’s hands are soft but strong as he pulls me onto his lap. I perch stiffly, every muscle tensed to flee. He smells wrong—cigars and alcohol and something else, something that makes my throat tight.
“There’s a good girl,” he croons, one arm circling my waist while the other hand rests on my knee, just below the hem of my dress. “You know, Belle, you’re very special. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, staring at the bookshelf across the room. First edition of Pride and Prejudice. Father bought it at auction last year for more money than most people make in a lifetime.
“Special girls have special responsibilities.” His hand moves slightly higher, fingers tracing patterns on my thigh through the silk. “They make people happy. Important people. Do you want to make people happy, Belle?”
The room spins slightly. This is wrong. Every cell in my body knows this is wrong. But Father sent me here. Mother dressed me up like a doll and sent me to this man. They wouldn’t… they couldn’t…
“I want to be a good daughter,” I manage, the words automatic.
“Of course you do.” His breath is hot against my ear. “And good daughters do what they’re told, don’t they?”
Before I can answer, the library door opens. Mother stands silhouetted in the doorway, her expression unreadable in the backlighting.
“Jacob,” she says, her voice calm but firm. “Richard needs you in his study. Something about the Singapore deal.”
Mr. Morrison’s hands tighten briefly before releasing me. “Of course. Business first.” He sets me on my feet, his touch lingering. “We’ll continue our chat later, Belle.”
I watch him leave, my legs trembling beneath layers of pink silk. Mother approaches, her heels clicking on hardwood. When she reaches me, she kneels—something she never does, not in her designer dresses—and straightens my skirt with careful hands.
“Did you do what Mr. Morrison asked?” she asks quietly.
“He… he wanted me to sit with him.” My voice cracks. “Mother, I don’t understand what’s happening.”
She cups my face in her cool hands, and for a moment, I see something raw in her eyes. Pain? Guilt? But like always, it’s quickly buried beneath layers of practiced composure.
“I know, darling. I know it’s confusing.” She smooths my hair, fixes a curl that’s come loose. “But this is how our world works. This is how we maintain our position, our power. Do you understand?”
I don’t. I don’t understand any of it. But I nod because that’s what she wants.
“Good girl.” She rises, tugging me toward the door. “Let’s get you some water. There are more guests who want to meet you.”
More guests. More strangers with hungry eyes and grasping hands. My stomach churns as she leads me back to the party, back into the bright lights and tinkling laughter that now sounds like breaking glass.
The rest of the evening blurs together. A parade of faces, all wanting to “chat” with me, to “get to know” Richard Gallagher’s special daughter. Some are content with conversation, asking about school and hobbies, while their eyes devour me. Others want me to sit with them, their hands wandering in ways that make my skin crawl. Mother hovers nearby, occasionally intervening when someone gets “too friendly,” but never stopping it entirely.
By the time the last guest leaves, I’m exhausted in ways I didn’t know existed. My dress is wrinkled, my carefully styled hair mussed. The makeup Mother applied has smudged, making me look like a broken doll.
Father finds me in the kitchen, where I’m sitting at the servants’ table, drinking milk and trying to wash the taste of fear from my mouth.
“You did well tonight,” he says, loosening his tie. “The guests were very impressed.”
I stare at him, this man I’ve called Father for eleven years, and realize I don’t know him at all. “Why?” The word escapes before I can stop it. “Why did you make me do that?”
His expression hardens. “I didn’t make you do anything, Belle. You smiled, you talked, you were charming. That’s what we needed.”
“But they… they touched me. They wanted…” I can’t finish the sentence, don’t have words for what I felt in their eyes, their hands.
“They wanted to appreciate beauty,” he says dismissively. “To admire what I’ve created. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
