Page 13 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

Now

I open the door to find him leaning against the frame, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Gone is the cocky confidence I remember from chemistry class.

In its place is something rawer, more honest. His usually perfectly styled dark hair is now disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it, and there’s a tension in his shoulders that speaks of sleepless nights.

“We need to talk,” he says without preamble.

I step aside to let him in, hyperaware of how small my dorm room suddenly feels with his presence filling it.

He moves to the window, staring out at the dark campus below.

The moonlight catches the sharp line of his jaw, and I have to force myself to focus on his words rather than the way the shadows play across his features.

“My family’s fucked,” he says bluntly, still not looking at me. “Not as deep as yours, but close enough to drown when this all comes out.”

I settle into my desk chair, maintaining distance between us. “What’s their part in it?”

He turns then, and I see the exhaustion in his eyes. “Money laundering. Mostly. My father’s hedge fund cleaned cash for your parents’ operations, no questions asked. He told himself it was just business—rich families moving money around to avoid taxes. But he knew. Deep down, he fucking knew.”

The admission hangs between us like a confession. I study his face, looking for tells, for signs of deception. But there’s nothing calculated about his posture, nothing rehearsed about the way his voice cracks slightly on the last words.

“Why tell me this?” I ask.

“Because I think we can help each other.” He moves closer, and I catch his scent, something clean and masculine that makes my pulse quicken despite myself.

“You have information about the network’s structure that could save my family.

And I have resources, connections that could help you disappear if things go sideways. ”

“Disappear?”

“New identity. Clean papers. Enough money to start over somewhere your father’s reach can’t find you.” His eyes bore into mine. “I’ve been planning my exit strategy for months, Belle. Ever since I realized what my family was really involved in.”

The offer is tempting—terrifyingly so. But I’ve learned not to trust gifts that seem too perfect. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Just mutual survival.” He sits on the edge of my bed, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. “We pool our resources, share information, watch each other’s backs until this shitstorm blows over.”

I want to believe him. More than that, I want to trust someone—anyone—with the burden I’ve been carrying alone. But trust is a luxury I’ve never been able to afford.

“Show me,” I say. “Show me something that proves you’re serious.”

Without hesitation, Max pulls out his phone, scrolling through what appears to be a secure messaging app. He hands it to me, and my breath catches as I read the conversation between him and someone labeled “Asset Protection.”

Transfer complete. $2.3M clean, offshore accounts activated. Papers ready for pickup.

And the girl?

Working on it. She’s skittish. Needs to believe it’s her idea.

Time is running short. The investigation is accelerating.

I know. I’ll make sure she’s on board.

The phone trembles in my hands as I read the timestamp—three days ago. Before our encounter in Stone’s office. Before his offer of alliance.

“The girl,” I whisper. “That’s me?”

Max’s face is unreadable. “That’s you.”

“You’ve been planning this for weeks.” The betrayal cuts deeper than it should. I barely know him, have no reason to expect loyalty. But something about his apparent sincerity made me want to believe.

“I’ve been planning to save both our asses, if necessary, yes.” He reaches for the phone, but I pull back. “Belle, listen to me. I meant everything I said about working together. But I also meant what I said about getting you out if things go wrong. Those papers, that money—it’s insurance.”

“For both of us?”

“For both of us.”

I stare at the screen, rereading the messages. The clinical efficiency of it should repel me, but instead, I find myself impressed. Max has been three steps ahead while I’ve been playing catch-up.

“Who’s ‘Asset Protection’?” I ask.

“Someone who specializes in making problems disappear.” He takes the phone back, pocketing it carefully. “Someone who’s helped other children of the network start over when their parents’ sins caught up with them.”

The implications hit me like ice water. “How many others have there been?”

“More than you’d think. The Queens and Gallaghers weren’t the only families involved, Belle. They were just the most visible.” Max’s voice drops. “There are others still out there, still operating. Still using children as leverage and commodities.”

My stomach turns. All this time, I thought we were dismantling the entire network. But we’ve only been cutting off tentacles while the head remains hidden.

“That’s why we need to work together,” Max continues. “Share what we know, piece together the bigger picture. Because if we don’t, we’re going to end up as scapegoats for people whose names will never see a courtroom.”

He’s right. The realization settles over me like a shroud. My parents, the Queens—they were middle management. Powerful, yes, but not the architects of this system. Someone higher up the food chain is watching this unfold, calculating which pieces to sacrifice and which to protect.

“What do you want from me? I ask finally.

“Everything you know about the network’s financial structure. Client lists, operational protocols, communication methods.” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “In exchange, I’ll share what my family’s records show about cash flow, offshore accounts, shell companies.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then we both try to survive this alone.” His smile is grim. “And historically, that hasn’t worked out well for people in our position.”

I think of Luna, of how she survived by finding allies. Of Erik, who stood by her despite the danger. Of the isolation I’ve wrapped around myself like armor, and how it’s become more prison than protection.

“I need guarantees,” I say. “Proof that this alliance won’t end with me face-down in the ocean.”

Max reaches into his jacket, pulling out a manila envelope. “Financial records from my father’s firm. Enough to implicate him if I were to turn them over to the authorities.” He sets it on the bed between us. “My insurance becomes your insurance.”

The gesture is significant—he’s giving me leverage over his own family. Either he’s exceptionally stupid or exceptionally committed to this partnership.

I took the envelope, feeling the weight of it. “This doesn’t make us friends.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it makes us allies. And right now, that’s worth more than friendship.”

The conversation shifts then, becoming more clinical as we begin mapping out what each of us knows.

Max spreads documents across my bed—financial records, communication logs, organizational charts that reveal the scope of the network’s operations.

I contribute my own intelligence, the secrets I’ve gathered through years of careful observation.

Working together, patterns emerge that neither of us saw alone.

Shell companies that exist solely to transfer money between legitimate businesses and criminal enterprises.

A web of favors and blackmail that extends to every level of government and industry.

Names that repeat across different operations, suggesting a core group of decision-makers who’ve remained hidden while others took the fall.

“Jesus,” Max breathes, staring at a particularly damning series of transactions. “They’ve been operating for decades.”

“Longer,” I murmur, thinking of my grandmother’s letter, of the hints that this system predates even our parents’ involvement. “This is generational, Max. Built over time by people who understood that the key to survival is staying invisible.”

As we work, I become aware of other things. The way Max’s fingers brush mine when we reach for the same document. The warmth of his body as he leans closer to point out details on a chart. The subtle cologne that seems designed to short-circuit rational thought.

When he looks up from a financial record, our faces are inches apart. I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, but also something else—an intensity that has nothing to do with our investigation.

“Belle,” he says quietly, and my name on his lips sounds different than it ever has before. Not calculated or manipulative, but almost… reverent.

The air between us is charged with electricity. I’ve felt attraction before—used it, weaponized it, controlled it. But this is different. Raw and honest and terrifying in its genuineness.

He leans forward, and I know he’s going to kiss me. Part of me wants it desperately—wants to lose myself in physical sensation, to forget for a moment the weight of secrets and betrayals that define my existence.

But as his lips are near mine, panic floods my system. Not fear of him, but fear of myself. Fear of wanting something that isn’t tied to survival or manipulation. Fear of the unfamiliar territory of genuine desire.

I pull back sharply, my chair scraping against the floor as I put distance between us.

“Don’t,” I say, voice shakier than I’d like. “This isn’t… we can’t…”

Max freezes, hands still extended toward me. For a moment, hurt flashes across his features before he carefully masks it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting back. “I misread the situation.”

“No, you didn’t.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “That’s the problem.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. “You’re not ready.”

“I don’t know how to be ready for something like this.” I gesture vaguely between us. “Everything I know about attraction, about desire—it’s all been tied to survival. To get what I need or protect myself from what I don’t want. I’ve never…”

“Never what?”

“Never wanted someone just because I wanted them. I was simply following orders.” The confession feels like stripping naked in public. “I don’t know how to separate genuine attraction from learned behavior.”

Max nods slowly, and I see something shift in his expression. Not disappointment but understanding. Perhaps even respect.

“Then we take it slow,” he says simply. “Figure it out as we go.”

The kindness in his voice nearly undoes me. When was the last time someone offered me patience instead of pressure? When did anyone care about my comfort over their own gratification?

“The alliance still stands?” I ask.

“The alliance still stands.” He begins gathering the documents, careful not to touch me as he works. “Whatever else happens or doesn’t happen between us, Belle, we’re stronger together than apart.”

After Max leaves, I sit alone in my room, surrounded by evidence of our collaboration. For the first time in years, I feel something approaching hope. Not the desperate, clawing hope of a trapped animal, but something steadier. The hope of someone who’s found an ally in the darkness.

My laptop chimes with email notification. Probably more university administration bullshit about my “academic standing” or “disciplinary review.” I’m about to ignore it when I see the sender: “A Friend.”

The same designation from the threatening texts about Janet Wilson.

With shaking fingers, I open the message. It contains a single attachment—a police sketch. The image loads slowly, pixelated at first, then sharpening into clarity.

The breath leaves my lungs in a rush.

The woman in the sketch looks exactly like me. Same bone structure, same eyes, same mouth. It’s so accurate it could have been drawn from a photograph.

The email contains only a brief message: This sketch was circulated five years ago in connection with Janet Wilson’s disappearance. The witness described a young woman, approximately 12-13 years old, seen leaving the party where Janet was last observed alive. Do you remember now?

I stare at the sketch until my eyes water, trying to force memories to surface. But there’s nothing—just the same black void that’s always existed around that night.

The implications are staggering. If this sketch was accurate, if I was truly there that night, then my memory loss isn’t just about protecting me from trauma. It’s about protecting me from the knowledge of my culpability.

Was I merely a witness to Janet Wilson’s murder? Or was I something more—an unwilling accomplice, perhaps, or worse?

My hands shake as I save the image, adding it to the growing collection of evidence in my hidden folder. Tomorrow, I’ll have to show Max. He deserves to know what kind of monster he’s allied himself with.

But tonight, I sit in the darkness of my room, staring at my own face reflected in a police sketch, and wonder if some sins are too great for any alliance to overcome.

The woman in the drawing stares back at me with my own eyes, keeping secrets, I can’t remember and carrying guilt I can’t escape.

And for the first time since this nightmare began, I’m truly afraid of what I might discover about myself.