Page 29 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

Dr. Specter’s expression softens. “Then you’ll have been honest about your experience, regardless of how it’s received. That has value in itself.”

The session ends without resolution, and my homework assignment is clear but terrifying: consider reaching out to Luna Queen, the girl whose life I helped destroy, to discuss our shared trauma and mutual survival.

I drive through darkening streets to my temporary apartment outside of Shark Bay, where I’ve been spending my weekends, my mind churning with possibilities and fears.

The autumn air carries the scent of dying leaves and approaching winter, reminding me that six months have passed since the Queens’ arrest, six months since the trial that laid bare the scope of our families’ crimes.

Six months of therapy, of processing, of slowly admitting to myself that I was more than just an unwilling accomplice—I was a victim too.

My apartment feels hollow when I return, all expensive furniture and perfect aesthetics with no warmth or personality. I pour myself a glass of wine—a 1998 Bordeaux that costs more than most people’s weekly salary—and settle onto my pristine white couch with my phone.

Luna’s number is still in my contacts, though I’ve never called it. My thumb hovers over her name, paralyzed by indecision. What would I say? How do you apologize for years of systematic torture while simultaneously asking for understanding about your own suffering?

The wine helps, loosening the tight coil of anxiety in my chest. By the third glass, I’m typing.

Luna, this is Belle. I know this is unexpected, and you have every right to ignore this message.

I’ve been in therapy, processing everything that happened, and my doctor suggested I might benefit from talking to someone who understands what it’s like to be a daughter of the network.

I was wondering if you might have time for coffee this Thursday? If not, I understand. —Belle

I stare at the message for ten minutes, rewriting it three times before finally hitting send. The whoosh of the outgoing text feels like jumping off a cliff—exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

The response comes faster than expected, my phone buzzing against the glass coffee table.

Thursday at 2 PM. Harbor View Café on Newbury Street. One chance, Belle. Don’t waste it.

I set the phone aside with trembling hands, my heart hammering against my ribs. Luna agreed. She actually agreed to meet with me. The relief is overwhelming, followed immediately by terror.

What have I done?

The next five days pass in a blur of anxiety and preparation. I research everything I can about trauma bonding, shared experience healing, the psychology of abuse survivors. I practice conversations in the mirror, rehearsing apologies and explanations until they sound natural.

But nothing can prepare me for the reality of walking into Harbor View Café on Thursday afternoon and seeing Luna Queen sitting at a corner table, her dark hair shorter now, her green eyes wary but not hostile.

She looks healthier than I remember—less fragile, more grounded.

There’s a strength in her posture that wasn’t there before, a confidence that speaks to healing and growth.

She’s wearing simple jeans and a sweater, no makeup, looking like any other college student rather than the victim or weapon our parents tried to make her.

She hadn’t returned to Shark Bay yet, but there were some rumors circling that this would change.

“Belle.” She doesn’t stand when I approach, doesn’t offer false pleasantries or pretend this is anything other than what it is—a reckoning.

“Luna.” I slide into the chair across from her, my hands shaking slightly as I set down my coffee. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”

“I almost didn’t.” Her voice is steady, controlled. “But curiosity won out over self-preservation.”

“I understand.” And I do. If our positions were reversed, I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to show up.

“So,” she says, leaning back in her chair, “your therapist thinks we should bond over our shared trauma. Tell me, Belle—what trauma would that be? The trauma of being Daddy’s perfect little spy? The trauma of destroying someone else’s life for sport?”

The words sting, but I don’t flinch away from them. I deserve her anger, her suspicion, her contempt.

“The trauma of being raped by my father’s business associates from the time I was eleven years old,” I say quietly, watching her face for reaction.

“The trauma of being drugged and passed around like party favors while my parents collected IOUs. The trauma of convincing myself that becoming a spy was somehow better than remaining a victim, even though it just made me a different kind of victim.”

Luna’s eyes widen slightly, her composed facade cracking for just a moment. “I heard your testimony. Belle—”

“I’m not trying to excuse what I did to you,” I continue, needing to get it all out before my courage fails.

“I made choices. Terrible, selfish choices that hurt you in ways I can never undo. But I need you to understand that those choices were made by a girl who was drowning, who saw you as competition for the only life raft in sight.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken pain and grudging recognition. Luna’s hands wrap around her coffee cup, her knuckles white with tension.

“How long?” she asks finally.

“Three years. From eleven to fourteen, when I figured out how to make myself more valuable alive than broken.”

“And you really think that makes us the same?”

The question cuts deep, exposing the fear I’ve been carrying since Dr. Specter first suggested this meeting.

“No,” I admit. “I think it makes us survivors of the same system, handled by the same monsters for the same purposes. I think we both learned to adapt in whatever way we could, and I think we both carry guilt for choices we made when we had no real choices at all.”

Luna stares at me for a long moment, her green eyes searching my face for signs of deception or manipulation. Finding none, she exhales slowly.

“I dreamed about you sometimes,” she says quietly.

“After everything came out, after the trials. I would dream that you were there, in those rooms, experiencing what I experienced. I thought it was my mind trying to make sense of your cruelty, trying to find some explanation for why someone would choose to hurt another person so systematically.”

“It wasn’t a choice I made consciously,” I say. “But it was still a choice. And I’m sorry, Luna. For all of it. For being weak when you needed someone to be strong. For choosing my safety over your well-being. For letting them use me as a weapon against you.”

She nods slowly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “I’m sorry too. For what happened to you. For what they did to you before you became their spy.”

“You don’t need to apologize for that.”

“Maybe not. But I’m saying it anyway.” She takes a sip of her coffee, her expression thoughtful. “My therapist would probably say this is progress—two trauma survivors acknowledging each other’s pain instead of competing over who suffered more.”

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth despite everything. “Mine would say the same thing. She’s been pushing me to reach out to you for weeks.”

“And here we are.”

“Here we are.”

The conversation continues for another hour, tentative and careful but growing warmer with each exchange.

We don’t forgive each other—forgiveness will take time, if it comes at all.

But we begin to understand each other in ways that were impossible when we were both trapped in our families’ web of manipulation and control.

When we finally part ways, Luna pauses at the café door. “Belle? Would you… would you want to do this again sometime? Not immediately, but… eventually?”

Hope blooms in my chest, fragile but real. “I’d like that.”

“Thursday afternoons work for me. If you’re interested.”

“I’m interested.”

She nods, something like a smile ghosting across her lips. “Then I’ll see you next Thursday.”

As I watch her walk away, I feel something I haven’t experienced in months: the possibility of healing that doesn’t require isolation. For the first time since my world imploded, I’m not facing my demons alone.

It’s not forgiveness—not yet. But it’s a beginning.

And for now, that’s enough.