Page 28
The Trial
T he courtroom feels like a battlefield, cold and unforgiving under the stark fluorescent lights. My fingers tremble as I smooth the wrinkled paper in front of me for what must be the hundredth time. This letter—these words that I’ve rewritten night after sleepless night—is my ammunition in this final confrontation.
Erik sits in the front row behind me, his storm-gray eyes never leaving mine. He nods slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. The gesture means everything. I’m here. I believe in you. You’re not alone.
When the bailiff called my name, I thought my legs would give out beneath me. But somehow, I’m standing now, facing the judge, the jury—and them. My parents sit at the defense table, their designer clothes swapped for prison orange that clashes grotesquely with their perfect complexions. The handcuffs circling their wrists gleam under the courtroom lights, metallic symbols of their diminished power.
The district attorney, David Stone—Erik’s brother—nods encouragingly from his place at the prosecution table. It’s been six months since that night at my parents’ mansion, six months of depositions and evidence gathering and nightmares that still leave me gasping for air. Six months of piecing together the shattered remnants of my life while my parents’ empire crumbles around them.
“Ms. Queen,” the judge prompts, her voice surprisingly gentle. “You may begin whenever you’re ready.”
I unfold the paper with hands that won’t stop shaking. The courtroom falls into a hush so profound I can hear the scratch of reporters’ pens against paper. Cameras aren’t allowed, but the press is here in force, hungry for the sordid details of the case that’s rocked the political and financial elite.
“This is an open letter to Sebastian and Eleanor Queen,” I begin, my voice steadier than I expected. “My parents.”
The word ‘parents’ tastes like acid on my tongue. Across the room, my mother flinches as if I’ve struck her. My father’s face remains impassive, his eyes as cold as they’ve always been. The sight of them in chains should fill me with satisfaction, but all I feel is a hollow ache where rage used to burn.
“I wasn’t even ten years old the first time you drugged me at one of your parties,” I continue, the words flowing now. “I was only a child when you decided my body was a commodity to be traded for influence and power. Only a child when you taught me that my only value was in what others would give you to use me.”
Murmurs ripple through the courtroom. The judge makes no move to silence them. From the corner of my eye, I see jurors shifting uncomfortably, some wiping away tears, others unable to meet my gaze.
“For years, I believed this was normal. That this was what love looked like. That this was all I deserved.”
My father’s jaw tightens, the only sign that my words have penetrated his carefully constructed facade. My mother stares at her hands, refusing to look up.
“You made me believe I was nothing without you. You isolated me, manipulated me, punished me when I tried to form connections with others. You threatened and harmed people I cared about. You sent me to Munich when I became too difficult to control, drugged me until I couldn’t remember my own name, then paraded me in front of your influential friends like a prized animal.”
The air in the courtroom feels thick, charged with collective horror. I pause, taking a deep breath. The next part is the hardest.
“But despite everything you did to break me, you failed. I’m standing here today not as your victim, but as your reckoning.”
My father finally looks up, his expression a mixture of disbelief and something that might almost be respect. It makes me want to vomit.
“I’m not the only one,” I say, my voice gaining strength. “There are others who’ve suffered at your hands, others who’ve been manipulated and exploited for your gain. But the cycle ends with me. Your empire of fear and control is finished.”
I look directly at my mother now, watching as tears slip silently down her perfectly made-up face. Are they genuine, these tears? Or is it just another performance in a lifetime of deception?
“I used to wonder if you ever loved me,” I tell her, my voice softening despite myself. “If there was ever a moment when I was your daughter rather than your asset. I may never know the answer to that question. But I’ve learned that I don’t need your love to be whole.”
She covers her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking. My father puts a restraining hand on her arm, his expression hardening.
“I’m not here to ask for your apology. I don’t expect remorse from people who’ve spent decades perfecting the art of manipulation. I’m here for the girls who’ll come after me, the ones you would’ve broken if you hadn’t been stopped.”
The courtroom is completely silent now, hanging on my every word. I turn slightly so I can see Erik, drawing strength from his presence.
“The truth is, you stopped being my parents long ago, if you ever were. A parent protects their child. A parent puts their child’s welfare above their own desires. A parent nurtures, not destroys.”
I fold the paper, no longer needing its guidance. The final words come straight from my heart, raw and unfiltered.
“I’m free now. Free from your control, your manipulation, your toxicity. And in that freedom, I’ve found something you tried to convince me I’d never have: a life worth living, people worth trusting, a future worth fighting for.”
I take another deep breath.
“I don’t hate you. Hate would mean you still have power over me. Instead, I pity you. Because even with all your wealth and influence, you’ll never know what it means to truly love another person. And that makes you the poorest people I’ve ever known.”
The silence that follows feels charged, electric. Then my father does something I’ve never seen before—he lowers his head. The gesture is small, almost imperceptible, but in that moment, I know I’ve won. Not just legally, but fundamentally. They can no longer reach me.
“Thank you, Ms. Queen,” the judge says after a moment. “You may step down.”
My legs tremble as I make my way back to my seat. Erik’s hand finds mine immediately, his grip firm and grounding. “You did it,” he whispers against my hair. “I’m so proud of you.”
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of open letters from some of their victims who needed closure in the same way I did. Each account adds another nail to the coffin of their defense, another piece of evidence that will ensure they never walk free again.
After lunch, David announces, “The People call Isabelle Gallagher to the stand.”
A collective gasp ripples through the courtroom as Belle walks through the double doors. She looks smaller somehow, stripped of her designer clothes and perfect makeup. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her shoulders hunched as if carrying an invisible weight.
Our gazes lock as she walks past me on her way to the stand. Something unspoken passes between us—recognition, perhaps, of a shared trauma that transcends our complicated history.
Belle takes the oath with a trembling voice, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap as she sits. David approaches her with the careful precision of someone handling explosives.
“Ms. Gallagher, you didn’t want to read a letter to the defendants and have instead asked me to put you on the stand and treat you as a witness. We’ve already deposed you, and your testimony has been taken into account, so tell me, why are you doing this?”
Belle clears her throat. “Because if Luna is strong enough to face them, it’s only right I do the same.”
David nods. “What’s your relationship with the defendants?”
“Sebastian and Eleanor Queen are business associates of my father, Richard Gallagher. They’ve known each other for years,” Belle replies.
“And the nature of their business?”
She shifts uncomfortably. “Officially, investment banking and real estate development. Unofficially… influence trading, blackmail, and…” Her voice breaks. “And human trafficking, of a sort.”
Another murmur ripples through the courtroom, louder this time. The judge raps her gavel once, calling for order.
“Ms. Gallagher, were you aware of the defendants’ activities prior to this investigation?”
Belle’s eyes fill with tears. “Yes. I was… I was part of it.”
“Can you elaborate?”
She takes a shuddering breath. “When I was twelve, my father started bringing me to what he called ‘networking events.’ They were actually parties where powerful men would gather to make deals and… and exploit young women, including me.”
My heart stutters in my chest. I knew—of course I knew—that Belle’s hostility at Shark Bay masked something deeper. But this confirmation hits me like a physical blow.
“After nearly eight years of this,” she continues, her voice hollow, “my father offered me a deal. He said if I helped him by spying on Luna Queen at Shark Bay, they would stop… using me at the parties.”
I feel Erik stiffen beside me. I squeeze his hand, silently urging him to wait, to listen.
“So you agreed?” David prompts gently.
Belle nods, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I thought I had no choice. I was told to keep tabs on Luna and report on her activities, especially her interactions with Erik Stone. I was supposed to make sure she remained isolated, to sabotage any genuine connections she might form.”
“And did you do these things?”
“Yes.” Her voice is barely audible. “I did terrible things to her. I showed that video in class, spread rumors, and turned people against her. I even helped them gather compromising photos.”
I struggle to breathe, my chest constricting as memories flood back—Belle’s smirking face as that video played, the calculated cruelty of her attacks, the relentless campaign to isolate me. All this time, she was just another victim, another pawn in my parents’ savage games.
“Why are you testifying today, Ms. Gallagher?” David asks.
Belle looks up, her gaze finding mine across the courtroom. “Because Luna deserves justice. Because what they did to her—what they did to all of us—was monstrous. And because…” She pauses, wiping away tears. “Because I’m sorry. I was a coward. I chose my safety over hers, and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life. I’m not here to face them. I’m here to face her.”
I feel tears sliding down my own cheeks now, hot and unexpected. There’s no satisfaction in seeing Belle broken like this, no vindication in knowing she suffered too. There’s only the raw recognition of our shared trauma, our parallel paths through darkness.
“Did the defendants ever indicate why they were so focused on controlling Luna?” David asks.
“Yes.” Belle’s voice strengthens slightly. “Sebastian once told my father that Luna had become a liability because she was forming real attachments. He said she was their most valuable asset, that her genetic profile was ‘optimal’ for their long-term plans. They were arranging her marriage to cement some sort of business alliance.”
The revelation shouldn’t shock me—I saw the emails, I knew their plans—but hearing it stated so baldly makes my stomach turn. I was never a daughter to them; I was only inventory.
“And Erik Stone? What were their plans for him?”
Belle’s gaze flickers to Erik. “They saw him as leverage. His father’s position on the Congressional Oversight Committee made him valuable. They wanted to compromise him, use him to control Luna, then use them both to influence his father.”
David nods, pacing slightly. “Ms. Gallagher, are you aware of a facility called Munich?”
Belle pales visibly. “Yes. It’s where they send people who need to be ‘recalibrated,’ as they call it. I was threatened with it several times. It’s a place where they break you down completely, using drugs and psychological techniques. People come back… different.”
“Were you ever sent there?”
“No.” Her voice cracks. “But I was terrified of it. Everyone was.”
David continues with a few more technical questions before turning Belle over to the defense. My parents’ lawyer—a shark in an expensive suit—rises slowly, his expression carefully neutral.
“Ms. Gallagher, you’ve admitted to participating in what amounts to criminal harassment of Ms. Queen. Why should this court believe your testimony isn’t simply an attempt to secure leniency for yourself?”
Belle flinches but holds steady. “I’ve been granted immunity in exchange for my testimony. I’m not here to save myself. I’m here because it’s the right thing to do.”
“How convenient,” the lawyer drawls. “And these alleged ‘parties’ you claim to have attended—can you provide any evidence beyond your word that they occurred as you’ve described?”
“I provided investigators with dates, locations, names of people present. I’ve turned over photos, messages, everything I had.” Belle’s chin rises slightly. “I have nothing left to hide.”
The cross-examination continues for another thirty minutes, the defense attorney trying to undermine Belle’s credibility and painting her as a jealous rival seeking revenge. But Belle stands firm, her testimony unshaken despite his increasingly aggressive questioning.
When she’s finally dismissed, our eyes meet again as she passes. I see it as clear as day: a silent apology, a recognition of shared pain. I give her the slightest nod, neither forgiveness nor rejection, just acknowledgment of the truth between us.
The judge calls a recess until later in the afternoon, when the lawyers will give their closing speeches. As we file out of the courtroom, Erik keeps me close, shielding me from the press clamoring at the barriers. David joins us, his expression grave but satisfied.
“That went better than expected,” he says quietly as he escorts us to a private conference room. “Belle’s testimony in person was more compelling than when her deposition was being read. The jury couldn’t take their eyes off her.”
“I had no idea,” I murmur, still processing the revelation. “All this time, I thought she hated me because…”
“Because that’s what they wanted you to think,” Erik finishes for me, his arm tightening around my waist. “They isolated both of you, turned you against each other. It’s what they do.”
I sink into a chair, exhaustion washing over me. “How many others do you think there are? Girls like us, used and discarded when we became inconvenient?”
David and Erik exchange glances. “The investigation is ongoing,” David says carefully. “But based on the evidence we’ve uncovered, dozens at least, possibly more.”
The weight of it settles over me, a heavy mantle of responsibility. I’m not just fighting for myself anymore, or even for Erik. I’m fighting for all of them—the named and unnamed victims of my parents’ machinations.
“Will it be enough?” I ask. “The testimonies, the evidence—will it be enough to put them away for good?”
“It has to be,” Erik says fiercely. “After everything they’ve done, it has to be.”
David nods, his expression mirroring his brother’s determination. “We have an incredibly strong case. Their lawyers are fighting tooth and nail, but the evidence is overwhelming. We should have a guilty verdict by the end of the week the latest.”
I lean into Erik’s solid presence, drawing strength from his unwavering support.
“Belle wants to speak with you,” David says after a moment. “Privately. I told her it was your choice.”
Erik tenses beside me. “Is that a good idea?”
I consider the question, remembering Belle’s tears on the stand, the raw honesty in her voice when she apologized. “Yes,” I decide. “I’ll talk to her.”
“Are you sure?” Erik asks, concern etched on his features.
I nod, squeezing his hand. “We were both pawns in the same game. Maybe it’s time we compared notes on how to stop playing by their rules.”
David arranges for Belle to meet me in the conference room while he and Erik wait outside. When she enters, she looks even more fragile up close, the dark circles under her eyes a testament to sleepless nights that mirror my own.
We stand in silence for a long moment, the weight of our shared history hanging between us like a living thing.
“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Belle finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. “What I did to you was unforgivable.”
“They manipulated you,” I reply, surprising myself with the lack of anger in my voice. “Just like they manipulated me.”
“That doesn’t excuse it.” Her hands twist together nervously. “I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I was so scared of going back to those parties, of being sent to Munich. I convinced myself you could handle it, that you were stronger than me.”
“I wasn’t,” I admit. “I was just better at pretending.”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “Weren’t we all?”
We fall silent again, but it’s different now—less tense, more understanding.
“Your testimony will help put them away,” I tell her. “It matters.”
Belle nods, wiping away a stray tear. “I should’ve come forward sooner. Should’ve trusted you when you tried to warn me about getting too deep into the investigation.”
“We can’t change the past,” I say, the words as much for myself as for her. “We can only move forward.”
She looks at me for a long moment, searching my face for something. “How do you do it? How do you face them day after day without breaking?”
I think about Erik waiting outside, about David’s unwavering commitment to justice, about Professor Austin, who risked everything to help us, about all the unexpected allies who’ve emerged from the shadows.
“I’m not alone anymore,” I tell her simply. “Neither are you.”
And in that moment, standing in the sterile conference room with the girl who was once my enemy, I feel something unexpected unfurl in my chest—not forgiveness exactly, but understanding. We are survivors of the same storm, navigating the same treacherous waters toward something that might, someday, resemble healing.