Chapter 17 Coordinated Strike – Belle #2
I turn to the others. “Tyler, Maisy, Ellie. You’re on recruitment. Find students we can trust. Students who’ve been hurt. But be careful. Selena has spies everywhere. People who are loyal to her. People who report everything they see.”
“How do we tell the difference?” Tyler asks.
“You watch them. Study their patterns. See who reports to Victoria Charlson regularly. Who gets special privileges. Who seems a little too interested in others’ business.
” I think about Dominic’s lessons. How he taught me to identify weaknesses.
To exploit them. “Everyone has tells. You just need to know what to look for.”
The meeting breaks up slowly. Students leaving in pairs at five minute intervals. We can’t all leave together. Can’t risk someone noticing a pattern.
Leyla stays behind after the others have gone.
“Are you sure about this?” she asks. “Building a resistance? Trying to take down Selena from inside her own institution?”
“No. I’m not sure about anything.” I lean against one of the old lab tables. “But what choice do we have? Run individually and get picked off? Wait for The Harvest and hope we’re not selected for removal? Do nothing and let more students disappear?”
“You seem different.” Leyla studies my face. “When I first started watching you, you seemed scared. Broken even. But now…”
“Now I’m angry.” I meet her gaze. “And I’m using that anger. Channeling it into something productive.”
“It’s more than that. The way you talked to them just now. The way you organized everything. You sounded like…” She trails off.
“Like what?”
“Like someone in charge. Like someone who enjoys being in charge.”
She’s not wrong. I felt it during the meeting. That familiar thrill of moving pieces on a board. Of seeing people respond to my words. My plans. My vision.
It’s the same feeling I had when I was gathering intelligence for my father. When I was manipulating classmates to get information. When I was using people as tools to achieve objectives.
The realization should disturb me. Should make me question whether I’m becoming the thing I’m trying to destroy.
But it doesn’t.
Because this time, I’m using these skills for something good. Something right. I’m not manipulating people to hurt them. I’m organizing them to fight back.
“Is that a problem?” I ask Leyla. “Me being in charge?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” She wraps her arms around herself. “You remind me of Dominic sometimes. The way he would plan things. Coordinate people. He always seemed to be three steps ahead of everyone else.”
Dominic. My family’s enforcer. The man who taught me how to read people. How to find leverage. How to exploit weaknesses.
The man Selena killed on the cliffs to gain our trust.
“Dominic was a monster,” I say quietly. “But he was an effective monster. He understood systems. Strategy. How to make people do what he wanted.”
“And you learned from him.”
“I had to. It was survive or be destroyed.” I push away from the table. “I’m not proud of what I became under my family’s control. But I’m not ashamed of using those skills now. Not when they might be the only thing that saves us.”
Leyla is quiet for a moment. Then she nods. “Okay. I trust you. Just… don’t become her. Don’t become Selena.”
“I won’t.”
But even as I say it, I wonder if it’s true. If fighting monsters long enough changes you into one. If using their tactics makes you indistinguishable from them.
I think about the meeting. About how easily I identified each student’s usefulness. How quickly I assigned them roles. How naturally I took command.
About how good it felt.
Not just the satisfaction of having a plan. But the pure thrill of control. Of seeing people look to me for direction. Of knowing I’m the one pulling strings now instead of being the puppet.
Is that wrong? Is it evil to enjoy having power when you’re using it for good?
I don’t know. And right now, I don’t have time to figure it out.
Three weeks until The Harvest. Three weeks to build our resistance. To sabotage Selena’s systems. To gather enough evidence to destroy her completely.
Three weeks until we either escape this island or die trying.
I leave the basement and make my way back to the main campus. Students pass me in the corridors. Laughing. Gossiping. Complaining about homework. Normal university life continues around me while I orchestrate a rebellion in the shadows.
Max is waiting in our room. He looks up as I enter. “How did it go?”
“Better than expected. We have seven committed members. Maybe more soon if recruitment goes well.” I lock the door behind me. “Tucker is going to work on the security system. Jack is getting access to his father’s keys. Raegan is mapping camera blind spots.”
“And you?” Max studies my face. “How are you handling all this?”
“I’m fine.”
“Belle.” He stands and crosses to me. His hands frame my face. “You organized a resistance movement. Convinced seven scared students to risk everything. Assigned roles like you were running a military operation. That’s not nothing.”
“It’s what needed to be done.”
“I know. But it’s also the kind of thing your father would have done. The kind of strategic thinking Dominic specialized in.” His thumbs brush my cheekbones. “I’m worried you’re enjoying this a little too much.”
“Is that a crime? To enjoy finally having some control over my own life?”
“No. But there’s a difference between taking control and becoming controlling.” His eyes search mine. “Promise me you won’t lose yourself in this. Won’t become so focused on winning that you forget why we’re fighting.”
“I won’t.” I pull him closer. “I’m not my father. I’m not Dominic. I’m not Selena.”
“Then who are you?”
“I’m Belle Gallagher. Survivor. Fighter. Someone who’s done being anyone’s victim.” I kiss him hard. “And someone who’s going to burn this entire network to the ground.”
When he pulls back, there’s heat in his eyes. And something else. Pride, maybe. Or fear. Possibly both.
“Okay,” he says. “Then let’s burn it down together.”
That night, I lie awake long after Max falls asleep. My mind races through plans. Contingencies. Ways to move pieces more effectively.
I think about Tyler and his missing sister. About using his anger as motivation. About how easily I identified his pain and weaponized it.
About how that realization doesn’t bother me the way it probably should.
Dominic taught me well. Too well, maybe.
But the difference is I’m using these skills to help people. To free them. Not to trap them deeper in cages.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
As I finally drift off to sleep, I dream of chessboards and puppet strings. Of being the player instead of the piece.
And in my dream, I’m smiling.