Chapter 27 New Beginnings – Luna
Six Months Later
“The Queen-Gallagher Foundation has helped over three hundred survivors in six months.”
The reporter’s voice echoes through the conference room speakers. I watch myself on the screen, seated beside Belle at last week’s press conference. We look professional. Composed. Two survivors who turned their trauma into purpose.
“That’s remarkable progress,” the reporter continues. “What’s next for the foundation?”
On screen, Belle leans forward. “We’re expanding our legal aid program. Too many victims can’t afford the representation needed to prosecute their abusers. We’re changing that.”
I remember that moment. The way cameras flashed. The way Belle’s hand found mine under the table in solidarity and support. Two girls who survived hell and came out fighting.
The video ends. Leyla closes her laptop.
“You two are amazing,” she says from across my living room. “Seriously. The way you’ve built this from nothing.”
“Not nothing.” I gesture to the stack of financial documents on my coffee table. “My parents’ seized assets. Belle’s inheritance. Blood money turned into something good.”
“Still.” Leyla tucks her honey-blonde hair behind her ear. “You could have taken that money and disappeared. Started over somewhere quiet. Instead, you’re out there helping people who are still trapped.”
She’s right. Six months ago, after Selena’s conviction, Belle and I could have walked away. Could have focused on healing. On building normal lives away from the network’s shadow.
Instead, we created the foundation. Hired therapists who specialize in trafficking trauma. Lawyers who take on network cases pro bono. Prevention specialists who teach kids how to recognize grooming tactics.
We turned our pain into protection for others.
“How are the therapy programs going?” I ask.
“Really well.” Leyla pulls up a spreadsheet. She’s been managing our day-to-day operations while Belle and I handle the public advocacy. “We have waitlists for all our counselors. I’m working on hiring three more next month.”
“Good. What about the legal cases?”
“Seventeen active prosecutions. Five convictions so far. Two more trials starting next quarter.” She scrolls through data. “The lawyers say having you and Belle willing to testify has been huge. Other victims see you fighting and find courage to come forward.”
The thought makes my chest tight. Every person who comes forward is someone who might have stayed silent. Someone who might have suffered alone.
Someone like Erik, who gave everything to expose the truth.
“Luna?” Leyla’s voice pulls me back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Just thinking about Erik. How proud he’d be of what we’re doing.”
“He would be.” Her expression softens. “You’re honoring his sacrifice. Making sure it meant something.”
Nine months without him. Nine months of waking up and remembering he’s gone. Nine months of therapy and grief and learning to function around the hole his absence left.
Some days are better than others. Today is harder.
“Dinner tonight,” I say, needing to change the subject. “Belle and Max are coming over. You should join us.”
“Can’t. I have a date.” Leyla grins. “But thank you. Next time.”
After she leaves, I prep dinner. Nothing fancy. Pasta carbonara, salad, and garlic bread. Comfort food for people who’ve earned comfort.
Belle and Max arrive at seven. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that makes her look softer than the power suits she wears to conferences. Max has his arm around her waist, his dark eyes warm with affection.
They look happy. Settled. Like they’ve finally found peace after years of chaos.
“Smells amazing,” Belle says, handing me wine. “What are we having?”
“Carbonara. Your favorite.”
“You remember.”
“Of course I remember.” I pour three glasses. “We’ve been eating together for six months. I know your preferences by now.”
Max accepts his glass. “How was the meeting with potential donors?”
“Exhausting.” Belle sinks onto my couch. “Rich people love feeling charitable. Hate actually giving money to causes that challenge power structures.”
“Did you get any commitments?”
“Three. Small ones. But it’s something.” She sips her wine. “We need to diversify funding. Relying on donors means being vulnerable to their whims.”
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
“Book deal. Speaking fees. Maybe a documentary.” Belle’s mind is already working. Always strategizing. “We use the media attention while we have it. Build an endowment that sustains the foundation long term.”
This is what she does now. Plans, calculates, and ensures every move serves multiple purposes.
Sometimes I wonder if she ever stops thinking strategically. If she ever just exists without plotting three steps ahead.
Then I remember that strategic thinking kept us alive. Kept us fighting. Turned our trauma into something meaningful.
“A documentary could be powerful,” Max says. “Erik’s footage is already public. Adding context, survivor stories, expert analysis. It could reach millions.”
The mention of Erik makes my chest ache. But Max is right. Erik’s final act was making sure the truth went viral. A documentary would honor that.
“I’ll make some calls,” Belle says. “See who’s interested.”
We move to the table and eat dinner. The conversation flows easily. Six months of working together has made us comfortable. We’re not just survivors anymore. We’re colleagues. Friends. Family forged in fire.
“Remember the first time we tried to coordinate?” I say. “You wanted to organize a resistance, and I thought you were insane.”
“You thought I was controlling,” Belle corrects. “Which was fair. I was controlling.”
“You kept us alive.” Max’s hand finds hers. “Your planning saved all of us.”
“Erik’s courage saved us.” Belle’s voice goes quiet. “His willingness to risk everything. Without that footage, Selena would have walked free. The network would have continued. We would have accomplished nothing.”
The table falls silent. We’ve all thought it. Erik gave his life so the rest of us could be free. So hundreds of students could escape. So the network could be exposed.
“To Erik,” I raise my glass.
“To Erik,” they echo.
We drink. The wine tastes bitter, which feels appropriate.
“He’d hate this,” I say. “Us being sad. He’d want us celebrating what we’ve built.”
“He’d want to be here building it with us.” Max’s voice is rough.
“He is here.” Belle looks at both of us. “Every person we help. Every case we win. Every kid who learns to recognize danger before it’s too late. That’s Erik’s legacy. That’s what he died for.”
She’s right. The foundation is Erik’s monument. Better than any statue or plaque. A living testament to what he believed in.
“Selena’s sentencing was six months ago today,” I say.
“And we’re still standing.” Belle lifts her glass again. “Still fighting. Still winning.”
We toast and eat. The conversation shifts to lighter topics. Max’s business classes. My attempts at dating again. Belle’s ongoing battle with our temperamental coffee maker at the foundation office.
Normal things. Normal lives. The kind we never thought we’d have.
My phone buzzes. Text from David. Just a check in. He does that sometimes. Makes sure I’m okay. That grief hasn’t swallowed me whole.
I’m good , I reply. Having dinner with Belle and Max. Foundation is thriving.
His response is immediate. Erik would be proud. I’m proud.
The words make my eyes burn. I excuse myself to the bathroom. Splash cold water on my face. Breathe.
Nine months. It doesn’t feel like enough time. Doesn’t feel like nearly enough time to process losing him.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe grief doesn’t have a timeline. Maybe I’ll carry this ache forever and learn to live around it.
When I return, Belle’s phone is ringing. She glances at the screen, her expression shifting. “I need to take this. Sorry.”
She steps onto my small balcony. Through the glass door, I watch her pace. Her posture changes. Straightens. Becomes rigid. Authoritative.
Her voice carries faintly. I can’t make out words, but the tone is unmistakable. Cold and hard. Nothing like the warm friend who was laughing at my table minutes ago.
Max is loading the dishwasher. He doesn’t notice. Doesn’t see the transformation.
But I do. I watch Belle’s face through the glass. Watch her expression become calculating. Almost cruel. She’s giving orders. Demanding something. Her free hand gestures sharply, emphasizing points.
This isn’t Belle the advocate, Belle the friend, Belle the survivor.
This is someone else entirely. Someone I don’t recognize.
The call ends. Belle’s expression smooths immediately. By the time she opens the door, she’s smiling warmly again. All traces of that cold authority, gone.
“Sorry about that,” she says, rejoining us. “Foundation business. A donor being difficult.”
“Everything okay?” Max asks.
“Fine. Just needed to remind someone of their commitment.” She picks up her wineglass. “Where were we?”
The conversation resumes. Belle is attentive, warm, and engaged. Everything she was before the call.
But I can’t shake what I saw. That cold expression, the authoritative tone, and the way she transformed, and then, transformed back.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe grief is making me see things that aren’t there. Maybe I’m projecting my own darkness onto someone who’s just trying to help people.
Or maybe Belle is more complicated than I want to believe. Maybe surviving what we survived leaves marks that don’t heal cleanly. Maybe we’re all a little broken in ways that don’t show until you look closely.
They leave around ten. Belle hugs me at the door. “Thank you for dinner. For everything. I don’t say it enough, but I’m grateful we’re doing this together.”
“Me too.”
After they’re gone, I clean up. Wash the remaining dishes. Put away leftovers. Normal domestic tasks that ground me in the present.
But my mind keeps returning to that phone call. To Belle’s expression. To the person I glimpsed through the glass who wasn’t the person I know.
I’m being paranoid. I have to be. Belle has done nothing but fight beside me for months. She’s dedicated her inheritance to helping survivors. She testifies at trials. She speaks at conferences. She’s everything a partner in this work should be.
That moment on the balcony was nothing. Stress and frustration with a difficult donor. Something totally innocuous that my trauma-trained brain turned into a threat.
I’m seeing monsters where none exist because I’m used to being surrounded by them.
That’s what therapy is for. Working through these patterns. Learning to trust again. Distinguishing between real danger and echoes of past trauma.
I text my therapist. Beth Marshall, the woman who’s been helping me process Erik’s death. Can we add a session this week? Having some intrusive thoughts.
Her response comes quickly. Of course. Thursday at 2?
Perfect. Thank you.
I get ready for bed. The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. I’ve gotten used to living alone, but some nights the silence feels oppressive.
Some nights I miss Erik so much it’s hard to breathe.
I pull out the box I keep in my nightstand. Photos of us. The few we managed to take during our brief time together. Erik, smiling at the camera. Erik, with his arm around me. Erik, looking at me like I’m the only person in his world.
“I’m trying,” I whisper to the photos. “I’m trying to make your sacrifice mean something. To help people the way you wanted to help people.”
The photos don’t answer. Of course they don’t.
But somewhere, I have to believe he knows. Has to believe his spirit or memory or whatever exists after death can see what we’ve built in his name.
The foundation is saving lives. Every person we help is someone Erik died to protect. Every abuser we prosecute is justice he fought for.
His death wasn’t meaningless. I won’t let it be meaningless.
I put the photos away. Turn off the light. Lie in the dark thinking about the future.
Nine months ago, I didn’t think I had a future. Didn’t think I could survive without Erik. Didn’t think anything could fill the void his absence left.
I was wrong. The void is still there. Still aches. But I’ve learned to function around it. To build a life that honors his memory while still moving forward.
The foundation gives me purpose. Belle gives me partnership. The work gives me meaning.
It’s not the life I imagined. Not the future Erik and I planned together. But it’s a life worth living. A future worth fighting for.
I close my eyes. Let exhaustion pull me under. Tomorrow I have three survivor intake meetings. A conference call with potential donors. A planning session with Belle about expanding our legal aid program.
The work continues. The fight continues. We’re winning. Slowly. Incrementally. But winning.
Selena is in prison. Dozens of network members are prosecuted. Hundreds of survivors are getting help. Children are learning to protect themselves.
Erik didn’t die for nothing. None of us suffered for nothing. We’re turning our pain into protection. Our trauma into triumph.
It has to be enough. It has to be.
Because if it’s not, if all of this work and sacrifice and grief amounts to nothing, then the monsters win. Then Selena was right. Then the network continues, and we’ve accomplished nothing.
I won’t accept that. Can’t accept that. So I keep fighting. Keep building. Keep hoping that every person we help is another victory over the system that tried to destroy us.
Sleep comes eventually, dreamless and peaceful. A small mercy after months of nightmares.
When I wake, sunlight streams through my window. A new day. New opportunities to make a difference. New chances to honor Erik’s memory.
I get up. Make coffee. Check foundation emails. Two new survivors reaching out for help. Three lawyers offering pro bono services. One journalist wanting to interview us about the documentary idea.
The work continues. The fight continues. And despite everything, despite the grief and trauma and darkness we’ve survived, I’m grateful.
Grateful to be alive. Grateful to have purpose. Grateful that Erik’s sacrifice wasn’t in vain.
This is healing. This is moving forward. This is how we win. Not by forgetting what happened. Not by pretending we’re not scarred. But by using those scars to help others. By turning our worst experiences into protection for people who are still trapped.
It’s not perfect. It’s not easy. But it’s enough. For now, it’s enough.