Page 60 of Betray Me
The words stop me cold. This is the man that I suspected had been watching me, the shadow I’ve feared was connected to some new threat from my family’s surviving associates.
“You’ve been following me,” I say, stepping closer to Max’s protective presence.
“Protecting you,” Harper corrects gently. “Your mother contacted me before her arrest. She left a message admitting that you weren’t responsible for Janet Wilson’s death, that you’d been manipulated into believing you were guilty to ensure your compliance.”
The revelation hits like lightning, illuminating parts of my past I never understood. “She confessed?”
“Partially. She also warned that your parents were taking orders from someone higher up in the network hierarchy. Someone who’s been orchestrating events from shadows so deep that even Richard and Olivia Gallagher were just middle management.”
Max’s arm tightens around me as the implications sink in. The network isn’t dead—we’ve only cut off visible branches while the root system remains intact, probably already growing new threats to replace what we’ve destroyed.
“Who?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to know.
“Someone your mother called ‘The Architect,’” Harper says, his expression grim. “Someone who’s been playing a longer game than any of us realized. And Ms. Gallagher? If your memories are starting to return, if the chemical conditioning is wearing off, then you’re in more danger than you know.”
The courthouse steps seem to tilt beneath my feet as I realize that today’s victory—the testimony that felt like breaking free from my past—might have just painted a target on my back for forces I don’t even understand.
But looking at Max’s fierce protectiveness, at Luna and Erik’s solidarity, at the evidence of what we can accomplish when we stop fighting each other and start fighting for justice, I’m hopeful that we can handle it.
Whatever comes next, whoever this Architect is, I won’t face it alone.
Chapter 22: Shattered Reflections
Now
The headlines scream at me from every newsstand I pass on my way to the courthouse:
GALLAGHER HEIRESS: VICTIM OR ACCOMPLICE?
THE MAKING OF A MONSTER: Inside Belle Gallagher’s Twisted Upbringing
STOCKHOLM SYNDROME: How the Elite Brainwash Their Own Children
Even though it’s cloudy outside, I’m wearing sunglasses and keep my head down as I feel the weight of stares from people who know me from all the news coverage. It’s been five weeks since my first statement, and the media circus is still going strong. If anything, it’s gotten worse as more victims have come forward. Each new detail has added to the scary story of my youth.
Max appears beside me with coffee and a grim expression, his protective presence the only thing keeping me from dissolving into panic on the sidewalk. “Don’t read the comments,” he says, pressing a warm cup into my hands. “I made that mistake this morning.”
“That bad?”
“Let’s just say public opinion is split between wanting to rescue you and wanting to lock you up as a co-conspirator.”His jaw tightens. “Neither group seems to understand that you can be both victim and perpetrator, that trauma doesn’t erase responsibility, but it sure as hell provides context.”
The truth of his words settles over me like a shroud. The media wants a simple narrative—innocent victim or guilty accomplice—but my reality is infinitely more complicated. I was both the daughter who suffered and the spy who inflicted suffering on others. Both the child who was broken and the weapon that broke others in turn.
Inside the courthouse, the hallways buzz with reporters and legal analysts dissecting every moment of testimony like vultures picking apart carrion. I catch bits and pieces of conversation as we pass:
“—clear signs of Stockholm syndrome—”
“—sophisticated manipulation tactics—”
“—question remains whether she’s truly reformed—”
Each word feels like a knife between my ribs. They’re talking about me like I’m not human, like I’m some fascinating case study rather than a person trying to rebuild her life from the wreckage of her past.
“Ms. Gallagher!” A reporter shoves a microphone in my face before the bailiffs can intervene. “How do you respond to critics who say you’re just playing victim to avoid prosecution for your role in your family’s crimes?”
The question hits like a physical blow, but before I can respond—before I can even think of how to respond—Max steps between us with lethal grace.
“No comment,” he says, his voice carrying enough menace to make the reporter step back. “And if you harass Ms. Gallagher again, you’ll be hearing from our attorneys.”
