Page 11 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

Before

The ferry cuts through gray waters toward Shark Bay, and I stand at the rail watching the Gothic spires of the university emerge from the morning mist like something from a nightmare.

Salt spray stings my face, but I don’t move.

I need to feel something real before I disappear into the performance that will become my life.

Three months have passed since my “career change” from entertainment to intelligence gathering.

Three months of intensive training with the Queen’s PI and enforcer, Dominic—learning to read micro-expressions, memorize conversations verbatim, slip drugs into drinks without detection.

Three months of my father reminding me that this role is my salvation, my protection from returning to the velvet couches and grasping hands.

“Nervous?” Dominic appears beside me, his cologne mixing unpleasantly with the ocean air. Even at thirty-five years old, he carries himself with the predatory grace of someone who’s never known consequences for his actions. Father calls him my supervisor, but I know what he really is: my keeper.

“Excited,” I lie smoothly, the words tasting like ash. “Ready to prove myself useful.”

He smiles, and I suppress a shiver. “Good. Remember, Belle—you’re not their daughter anymore. You’re our eyes and ears. Every friendship you make, every secret you gather, every weakness you discover—it all serves the family.”

The ferry docks with a shudder that vibrates through my bones.

Students emerge from cars driven by uniformed chauffeurs, their laughter bright and careless.

They don’t know they’re walking into a spider’s web.

They don’t know one of the spiders is seventeen years old with blonde hair and blue eyes who’s learned to smile while her soul withers.

***

My suite in Pemberton Hall is pristine—all cream silk and mahogany furniture that screams old money privilege.

My roommate hasn’t arrived yet, giving me time to carefully unpack the tools of my new trade.

Listening devices disguised as jewelry. A camera hidden in my compact mirror.

And at the bottom of my cosmetics case, the small vial Dominic pressed into my palm before I left home.

“Rohypnol?” I’d asked, recognizing the clear liquid from my father’s “business” gatherings.

“Something stronger. Custom blend—causes temporary amnesia without the typical grogginess. Use it only if someone gets too close to the truth.” His hand had closed over mine, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise.

“And Belle? If you have to use it, call me immediately. Some secrets require permanent solutions.”

Now I hide the vial behind my expensive perfumes, my hands trembling slightly. The weight of what I’m expected to do—what I might have to do—settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket.

A soft knock interrupts my dark thoughts. “Belle? Hi, I’m Jessica Yarros—your roommate!”

I take a breath, center myself, and open the door wearing my most charming smile.

Jessica is everything I expected from her file—a petite brunette with intelligent hazel eyes and the kind of effortless beauty that comes from good genes and better cosmetics.

Her family owns a media empire with international reach, making her both a potential asset and a threat.

“Jessica! I’m so excited to meet you.” I pull her into a hug that’s calculated to seem genuine. “I was hoping we’d get along.”

“Oh, I think we will,” she says, returning the embrace with what feels like real warmth. “I heard you’re from the Gallagher family? My parents know yours—they speak so highly of you.”

Of course they do. The Yarroses have been peripheral players in Father’s network for years, useful for their media connections but not trusted with the darker operations. Jessica probably doesn’t know the full extent of her family’s involvement, making her perfect for my purposes.

“Your parents are lovely,” I lie smoothly. “Though I hope we can be friends beyond our families’ connection. It gets exhausting being ‘Richard Gallagher’s daughter’ all the time.”

Jessica’s eyes soften with understanding. “I completely get that. Sometimes I feel like I’m just an extension of Yarros Media rather than my own person.”

Perfect. I’ve found her vulnerability—the desire to be seen as more than her family name. I file the information away for future use while maintaining my expression of sympathetic understanding.

***

Within a week, I’ve established myself as the charming, slightly mysterious new girl who everyone wants to befriend.

Jessica introduces me to her circle—wealthy heirs and heiresses from families across the political and business spectrum.

Each interaction is calculated, every smile a weapon in disguise.

Nicolas Parker approaches me during our first Molecular Biology lecture, his golden hair falling across his forehead in a way that would be appealing if I were capable of genuine attraction anymore.

His file indicated he’s the heir to a French pharmaceutical fortune with suspected ties to illegal drug manufacturing—exactly the kind of “troubled heir” Father wants me to cultivate.

“Belle, right?” He slides into the seat beside me with easy confidence. “I’m Nicolas. Mind if I sit? Professor Schmidt has a reputation for cold-calling, and you look like someone who actually does the readings.”

I let myself blush slightly, as if flattered by his attention. “I do try to stay on top of the coursework. Are you struggling with the material?”

“Struggling? No. Bored out of my mind? Absolutely.” He leans closer, and I catch his scent—expensive cologne masking something medicinal that makes my skin crawl. “This basic chemistry is child’s play when your family owns half the pharmaceutical patents in Europe.”

There it is—arrogance mixed with a need to impress. I widen my eyes with calculated admiration. “That’s incredible. Your family must be so proud of your knowledge.”

“They would be, if they paid attention to anything beyond profit margins.” The bitterness in his voice is real, giving me another opening to exploit.

“Family pressure is the worst,” I murmur, letting my own practiced vulnerability show. “Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in expectations.”

Nicolas’s expression shifts, becoming more interested. “Exactly. People see the money and privilege but not the cost.” He pauses, studying my face. “You’re not what I expected, Belle Gallagher.”

“What did you expect?”

“Another vapid socialite trading on her family name. But there’s something deeper about you. Something almost… dangerous.”

I force myself to laugh, the sound light and musical. “Dangerous? Me? I think you’re giving me too much credit.”

But his eyes remain serious, searching my face for secrets I can’t let him find. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re exactly as dangerous as I think you are.”

The words send ice through my veins, but I maintain my smile. If Nicolas suspects what I really am, he could ruin everything. I make a mental note to be more careful around him—and to consider whether he might require the contents of my hidden vial.

***

That evening, I found myself in Professor Austin’s Modern Political Theory seminar, scanning my fellow students with predatory focus.

Austin himself is on Father’s watch list—his research into power structures and exploitation hitting too close to uncomfortable truths.

It doesn’t help that his main passion is computer science, which he also teaches, and that he’s really good at coding and getting through all sorts of firewalls if incentivized.

I need to identify which students might be susceptible to his influence.

“Miss Gallagher,” Professor Austin’s voice cuts through my observations. “What’s your opinion on Foucault’s analysis of disciplinary power?”

I straighten, calling upon the education that’s made me such an effective weapon. “Foucault argues that modern power operates through surveillance and normalization rather than force. The subject becomes complicit in their own control by internalizing the observer’s gaze.”

“Interesting interpretation. And do you think this applies to our current social structures?”

The question is loaded, a test to see how I’ll respond. I feel the weight of my classmates’ attention, knowing that my answer will position me for the semester.

“I think Foucault’s observations are academically fascinating,” I reply carefully, “but perhaps too theoretical for practical application. Real power structures are far more complex than any single academic framework can encompass.”

Austin’s eyes narrow slightly, but he nods. “A measured response. We’ll revisit this as we explore more contemporary examples.”

I smile blandly, but inside I’m calculating. Austin is fishing for students who might be sympathetic to his research. I need to position myself as intellectually engaged but not politically radical—close enough to monitor him without raising suspicion.

After class, a girl with striking honey-blonde hair and a backpack covered in dolphins approaches me. “That was brilliantly diplomatic,” she says, her school uniform perfectly pressed. “I’m Leyla Clark.”

“Belle Gallagher,” I manage, extending my hand with practiced grace. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

Her brown eyes study me with unsettling intensity, as if she can see through my carefully constructed facade. “No, we haven’t. However, I feel like I should know you. Your name seems familiar.”

“Probably from the financial papers. My father’s always in the news.” I keep my voice light, but my mind races. Does she recognize me from somewhere? Have our paths crossed before?

“Perhaps.” Leyla’s smile is enigmatic. “We should have coffee sometime. I’ll be happy to introduce you to everyone.

It’s not easy changing schools in the middle of the year.

What did you do? Were you expelled? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

Shark Bay is known to be a safe haven for rich troublemakers after all. ”

As soon as her flurry of words is out, she shrugs and walks away without even giving me a chance to respond.

I’m left with the uncomfortable sensation that she knows something I don’t.

I watch her go, noting the way other students seem to ignore her.

Maybe she’s not the best person to give me access to the school’s inner circle.

I need to get close to whoever runs the school, and I need to do it very, very carefully.

***

Back in my suite that night, Jessica chatters about her day while I pretend to listen. She’s already become a fount of information about our classmates—who’s sleeping with whom, which professors play favorites, which families are struggling financially despite appearances.

“Oh, and stay away from Leyla Clark,” Jessica says casually while applying her night cream. “She might seem innocent and even silly at times, but there are rumors about her family. Dark stuff.”

“What kind of rumors?” I ask, projecting mild curiosity rather than burning interest.

“The dangerous kind that landed her at Shark Bay,” Jessica’s voice drops to a whisper. “My dad says the Clarks are connected to the Italians from New Jersey. You know, the mafia.”

I make appropriate shocked noises while mentally cataloging this information. If Jessica’s family knows about the Clarks’ activities, they’re more involved than their files indicated. Father wants to know about this breach in operational security.

“That’s horrible,” I say with convincing sincerity.

“Leyla’s family has enough to make the administration very deaf to rumors.

I’d bet my favorite green dress that she’ll be offered the head girl position next year.

” Jessica climbs into bed, pulling her silk sheets up to her chin.

“Just promise me you’ll be careful, Belle.

I like you too much to see you get hurt. ”

“I promise,” I lie, knowing that being careful isn’t an option in my world. I have a job to do, no matter what the cost.

After Jessica falls asleep, I retrieve my encrypted phone and compose a message to Dominic: Clark girl seems suspicious. Look into her family. Yarros family knows more than files indicate. Require guidance on approach.

His response comes within minutes: Proceed with caution. I’ll look into Clark to see if she can be an asset. Do not engage directly without approval. Monitor only.

I stared at the phone, frustration building in my chest. Monitor only. As if I’m some amateur who can’t handle a complex target. I’ve been trained for this, molded into the perfect spy. I can handle Leyla Clark.

But as I lie in the darkness, listening to Jessica’s peaceful breathing, I can’t shake the memory of Leyla’s penetrating brown eyes. Something about her recognition, her claim that my name seemed familiar, suggests there’s more to our connection than coincidence.

I fell asleep thinking about the vial hidden among my cosmetics, wondering if I’ll need to use it sooner than expected. The thought should terrify me—the idea of drugging someone, erasing their memories to protect my cover.

Instead, it brings a cold sort of comfort. I have options now, tools to use against anyone who threatens my position. I’m not the helpless girl who survived those early gatherings through submission and silence.

I’m Belle Gallagher, an intelligence operative. And I’ll do whatever it takes to never be powerless again.

Even if it means becoming the monster I once feared.