Page 47 of Betray Me
“Maybe it is. But not with me. Not like this.” He releases my hands but doesn’t move away. “Belle, you just brought down your entire family to do the right thing. You risked everything to protect people you barely know. That’s not the action of someone who only understands transactional relationships.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s the action of someone who’s capable of love, even if she doesn’t recognize it yet.”
The word ‘love’ hangs between us like a foreign concept. In my world, love has always been conditional—earned throughperformance, maintained through usefulness, withdrawn as punishment. The idea that I might be capable of genuine affection, that someone might value me beyond my utility, feels impossible.
“I don’t know how to do that,” I admit, my voice breaking. “I don’t know how to be close to someone without sex being the transaction. Without my body being the currency.”
“Then let’s figure it out together,” Max says simply. “Starting with this.”
Before I can protest or flee, he pulls me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me in an embrace that demands nothing and offers everything. The simple human contact—comfort without agenda, touch without expectation—breaks something open inside me.
I start crying then, great gasping sobs that shake my entire body. All the fear I’ve been swallowing, all the grief for the family I’ve destroyed, all the terror of facing an uncertain future alone—it pours out of me in ugly, honest tears.
Max doesn’t try to quiet me or fix me. He just holds me, one hand stroking my hair while the other rubs gentle circles on my back. His shirt grows damp with my tears, but he doesn’t complain or pull away.
“I killed her,” I whisper between sobs. “Janet Wilson. I killed her, and I can’t even remember doing it.”
“No, you didn’t.” His voice is certain, absolute. “You were a victim, Belle. Just like she was.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve seen what my father and his associates are capable of. Because I know how they operate, how they use children as both weapons and scapegoats.” His arms tighten around me. “You were framed, Belle. Set up to believe you were guilty so you’d never dare to speak out.”
The possibility that he’s right—that my guilt is another manipulation, another tool of control—sends fresh tears streaming down my face. All these years of carrying that weight, of believing myself capable of murder, of using that supposed guilt to justify every terrible thing I’ve done since.
What if it was all a lie?
“How do I live with not knowing?” I ask into his chest.
“One day at a time. With help. With people who care about you for reasons that have nothing to do with what you can do for them.”
We sit like that for what feels like hours, his steady breathing gradually calming my hysteria. Eventually, my tears slow, then stop. The emotional storm passes, leaving me drained but somehow cleaner.
“Thank you,” I whisper against his shirt.
“For what?”
“For stopping me. For giving me what I actually needed instead of what I thought I wanted.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Don’t thank me yet. I’ll probably fuck this up in spectacular fashion before we figure out how to be normal people.”
“I don’t want to be normal,” I realize aloud. “I want to be better.”
When exhaustion finally overtakes me, Max helps me to the bedroom without any expectation beyond sleep. He tucks me into the government-issued sheets like I’m something precious, something worth protecting.
“I’ll be on the couch if you need anything,” he says, turning toward the door.
“Max?” I catch his hand before he can leave. “Will you… will you stay? Just until I fall asleep?”
He nods, settling into the chair beside the bed. In the dim light filtering through cheap curtains, his profile looks like something carved from marble—beautiful and strong and somehow permanent.
I close my eyes, feeling safer than I have in years.
The dream comes with vivid, horrifying clarity.
I’m twelve again, standing in my family’s wine cellar while Janet Wilson kneels on the cold stone floor. But in this version of events, I’m not the one holding the knife. I’m pressed against the wall, my wrists bound with zip ties, my mouth taped shut, forced to watch as a shadowy figure I can’t quite see circles Janet like a predator.
