Page 41 of Betray Me
I may not survive the night, but their secrets won’t survive much longer.
The game ends tonight, one way or another.
***
My bedroom looks exactly as I left it—a museum to the girl I used to be, complete with ribbons and trophies that mock the innocence they represent. I move to the window, studying the grounds for potential escape routes while my mind catalogs everything I’ve learned.
The recording device has captured enough evidence to implicate my father, Dominic, and Victor in conspiracy, murder,and God knows what else. But getting that evidence to David Stone requires surviving the next few hours, and every instinct I have screams that survival is far from guaranteed.
A soft knock at my door makes me freeze. “Come in,” I call, expecting Mother or perhaps one of the staff.
Instead, Father enters alone, closing the door behind him with deliberate care. His expression is unreadable as he studies my face, and I force myself to project calm despite the terror clawing at my chest.
“We need to talk,” he says quietly, moving to sit on the edge of my bed. “Privately.”
I settle into the window seat, maintaining distance while keeping my posture relaxed. “About what?”
“About Janet Wilson.” The words hit like physical blows, and I have to fight to keep my expression neutral. “About the night she died. About what you may or may not remember.”
My mouth goes dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t lie to me, Belle.” His voice carries paternal disappointment, as if I’m a child who’s been caught stealing cookies rather than a daughter who’s been betraying family secrets. “You’ve been asking questions. Searching for answers about gaps in your memory. That’s dangerous for everyone involved.”
The wire feels like it’s made of molten metal against my skin as I realize this might be my only chance to get him to confess on tape. “I just want to understand what happened that night. Why I can’t remember anything after arriving at the party.”
Father’s expression shifts, becoming something approaching pity. “Some memories are taken away as an act of mercy, darling. To protect you from truths that would destroy you.”
“What truths?” I lean forward, letting desperation color my voice. “What happened to Janet Wilson? Was I there when she died?”
For a moment, vulnerability flickers across his features—the mask slipping to reveal something human underneath "You were there," he admits quietly. "But not by choice. None of you were there by choice. You, Luna, and Janet—three girls drugged beyond conscious thought, positioned for something that needed witnesses."
"I saw the photos," I whisper. "All three of us on that couch. But I can't remember any of it."
"Luna, you, and Janet. But you fought the drugs harder than expected. Started to wake up, started to resist at the worst possible moment." His hands clench into fists. "We had to remove you. Take you somewhere safe while the necessary work was completed."
"Safe?" The word tastes like bile.
"The facility. Where we could protect you from remembering what you'd already seen, ensure you'd never be able to testify about the early events." He looks almost proud. "You were unconscious in a medical chair while Janet Wilson died. Technically innocent. Practically complicit. Permanently silent."
The room spins slightly as fragments of sensation assault me—the taste of copper, the feeling of something sticky under my fingernails, the sound of my own screaming muffled by chemicalfog. Not memories, exactly, but echoes of memories that refuse to stay buried.
“Who killed her?” I whisper.
Father’s face goes pale. “That’s not the right question, Belle. The right question is who wanted her dead and why they needed you to believe you were responsible.”
Before I can process the implications of his words, before I can demand more answers, the door opens without warning. Dominic steps inside, his cold smile fixed in place as he takes in the scene.
“Richard,” he says pleasantly, but there’s steel beneath the civility. “I was wondering where you’d disappeared to.”
I catch the subtle nod that passes between them—some kind of signal that makes my father’s expression harden back into the mask of calculated control I know so well.
“Just having a heart-to-heart with my daughter,” Father replies, rising from the bed. “Making sure she understands the importance of family loyalty.”
“Of course.” Dominic’s gaze drifts to me with predatory assessment. “And I’m sure Belle appreciates the… guidance. Speaking of which, your wife is asking for you downstairs. Something about reviewing the dinner menu.”
It’s a dismissal disguised as a request, and Father recognizes it as such. He moves toward the door, pausing only to place a paternal hand on my shoulder.
“We’ll continue our conversation later, darling. There’s so much more you need to understand about that night. About who was really pulling the strings.”
