Page 62 of Betray Me
His certainty feels like an anchor in the storm of my disintegrating self-perception. But underneath his comfort lurks a more terrifying question: if my parents could implant false memories so convincingly that I believed them for years, what else might they have done? What other aspects of my personality, my beliefs, my very identity might be artificial constructs designed to serve their purposes?
“Max,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “What if you’re wrong? What if the person you think you love is just another lie they created?”
Instead of answering immediately, he pulls me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me with the fierce protectiveness I’ve come to depend on. I can hear his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and reassuring and real.
“Then I guess we’ll find out who you really are together,” he says finally. “But Belle? I’m not afraid of that discovery. Are you?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to face. Because if I strip away the falsememories, the manufactured guilt, the carefully constructed control mechanisms my parents used to shape me—what’s left? Who is Belle Gallagher when she’s not defined by trauma or survival or the roles others have forced her to play?
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never been asked what I want before. Never been allowed to consider who I might be if I had real choices.”
“What do you want?” Max asks, pulling back to meet my eyes. “Right now, in this moment, if you could have anything—what would it be?”
The question should be simple, but it feels revolutionary. What do I want? Not what my parents wanted for me, not what would keep me safe, not what would help me survive—what do I actually want for my own life?
“I want to go back to school,” I say slowly, the words feeling foreign in my mouth. “Not to maintain appearances or gather intelligence or play any role except student. I want to learn things that interest me instead of things that make me useful.”
“What would you study?”
The answer comes from somewhere deep inside, a dream so buried I’d forgotten it existed. “Teaching. I want to help children learn to think for themselves, to question authority, to recognize manipulation.” I pause, surprised by my certainty. “I want to be the adult I needed when I was eleven.”
Max’s smile is brilliant, transforming his entire face. “That’s beautiful, Belle. That’s who you truly are—someone who wants to protect others from what you experienced.”
“But what if I’m not good at it? What if the damage they did to me makes me too broken to help anyone else?”
“Then you’ll learn. You’ll get even more therapy, you’ll practice, you’ll make mistakes and figure out how to do better.” His hands find mine, squeezing gently. “Belle, healing isn’t about erasing your past or pretending the trauma never happened. It’s about choosing who you want to become despite everything that’s been done to you.”
The concept feels both terrifying and exhilarating. Choice. Agency. The radical idea that I can author my own story instead of being a character in someone else’s.
A soft knock interrupts our moment. David’s voice comes through the door: “Belle? There’s something else you need to see.”
My stomach drops, wondering what fresh revelation awaits. But as we return to the room adjacent to the courtroom, waiting for the trial to continue, I realize something has shifted inside me. The false memories still feel real, the manufactured guilt still aches like a phantom limb. But underneath it all, something new is growing—a tiny seed of authentic self that might, with time and care, flourish into someone worth being.
David’s expression is grave as he uses the time to show me a new piece of evidence—photographs recovered from Dominic’s personal effects, showing the actual murder scene with ruthless precision. Janet Wilson’s body, Dominic’s hands positioning her like some grotesque art installation to send a message to her father, while my father watches from the shadows with cold satisfaction.
“This is what really happened that night,” David says quietly. “While you were unconscious in Munich, having your memories rewritten, this monster was carrying out orders and documenting the process.”
The images should traumatize me, but instead I feel something like relief. This is reality. This is the truth. Not the twisted, implanted version that’s haunted me for years, but the actual horror that was committed while I was helpless to prevent it.
“Why show me this?” I ask.
“Because the defense is going to argue that you helped orchestrate Janet’s murder from Munich, that the memory therapy was just cleaning up evidence of your involvement.” David’s jaw tightens. “They’re going to paint you as a criminal mastermind and partner in crime who outsourced the actual killing to protect yourself.”
The accusation should terrify me, but instead it makes me angry. Righteously, cleanly angry in a way I haven’t felt since this nightmare began.
“Let them try,” I say, surprised by the steel in my voice. “I know who I am now. Not the victim they created, not the weapon they built, but the person I’m choosing to become. And that person won’t be intimidated by lies.”
Max’s hand squeezes mine, his pride evident in his expression. “There’s my fighter,” he murmurs.
David nods approvingly. “Good. Because in one hour, you’re going to face cross-examination, and they’re going to try todestroy you. But Belle? You’ve already survived the worst they could do. Everything else is just noise.”
As we leave the courthouse to grab a quick coffee, the media swarm feels less overwhelming. The reporters’ questions bounce off me like rain against stone. They can speculate about my guilt or innocence, my complicity or victimhood, but they can’t touch the growing certainty inside me about who I’m meant to be.
“Belle!” A voice calls from the crowd, and I turn to see Luna pushing through the mass of reporters, Erik close behind her. “How are you holding up?”
The simple question, asked with genuine concern by the girl I once tormented, nearly breaks me with its kindness. “Better,” I manage. “I think I’m figuring out who I really am.”
Luna’s smile is one of understanding. “It’s terrifying and wonderful at the same time, isn’t it? Discovering that you’re more than what they made you.”
