Page 14 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

Before

I sit between Jessica and Nicolas in Professor Austin’s Computer Science classroom, my laptop open to what appears to be class notes but actually contains a detailed behavioral analysis of Luna Queen.

The morning light filters through Gothic windows, casting long shadows across rows of gleaming monitors as I document every micro-expression, every tell, every crack in her carefully constructed armor.

Luna enters late, slipping into a seat near the back while whispers follow her like faithful pets. News of her encounter with Dougie at last night’s party has already spread through Shark Bay’s gossip network with viral efficiency. Perfect. A destabilized target is easier to manipulate.

My fingers move silently across the keyboard: Subject appears increasingly isolated. Public reputation damaged. Optimal window for psychological attack identified.

“Okay, let’s begin.” Professor Austin stands at the center of the room, his unruly dark curls catching the light as he paces between equations scribbled on the whiteboard.

“You’ve all grown up in a world where your devices are extensions of yourselves,” he begins, his voice carrying that particular enthusiasm of academics who still believe in transformation.

“Your phones know everything about you and your habits. A long time ago, people only knew about modern technology, but things aren’t as simple anymore. ”

I suppress a smile. Poor bastard has no idea he’s about to become an unwitting weapon in my psychological warfare.

“Our ability to manipulate the environment that surrounds us has taken quantum leaps,” Austin continues, typing something on his computer.

The projector flickers to life. “Every moment of your life is traceable and recorded, and using some very basic knowledge, one can track and predict where you will go next, who you talk to, and what type of music you like to listen to while procrastinating. Digital media has changed us, and we can no longer avoid those changes.”

The irony isn’t lost on me. Here he is, lecturing about digital surveillance while I’ve spent weeks infiltrating his computer systems, uploading carefully crafted malware disguised as routine file transfers.

“In case I haven’t made it clear, today we’ll be discussing network security and digital footprints,” he says, clicking through his presentation. “In today’s world, everything we do online leaves a trace. The question is: who has access to those traces, and what can they do with them?”

A series of codes flash across the screen, breaking apart until they form a clear photograph. My breath catches as Alex’s image materializes—the boy from Luna’s past, the one whose safety my father uses as leverage. The timing is perfect, designed to destabilize her before the main event.

I glance back at Luna, noting how her entire body goes rigid. Even from this distance, I can see her pulse jumping in her throat. The photograph isn’t random—it’s a message from my handlers, a reminder of what’s at stake.

My phone buzzes with an encrypted message from Dominic: Your father expects results today. Execute phase two immediately.

The pressure sits like a stone in my chest, but I maintain my expression of casual interest. Nicolas leans over to whisper something about weekend plans, and I respond with appropriate enthusiasm while my mind counts down to the moment that will change everything.

The corrupted file I uploaded to Austin’s presentation folder sits waiting like a loaded weapon, perfectly positioned to detonate Luna’s reputation in the most public way possible.

Jessica touches my arm, pointing to her laptop screen where she’s pulled up social media. “Have you seen the posts about Luna from last night?” she whispers. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

I affect mild interest while scanning the comments—a mixture of slut-shaming and adolescent fascination. “Boys will be boys,” I murmur. “And girls like Luna will always give them what they want.”

It’s exactly the kind of dismissive cruelty that reinforces my position as queen bee while positioning Luna as the school’s newest scandal. Every interaction is calculated, every word a move in the larger game.

Austin advances through his slides with academic precision, and I feel my pulse quicken as he approaches the corrupted file. Three more slides. Two. One.

This is it.

I raise my hand with practiced timing, affecting the coy smile that’s taken years to perfect. “What’s that icon on your desktop?” I ask, tilting my head toward the projection screen with calculated curiosity. “It looks important.”

Austin’s eyebrows furrow in confusion as he follows my gaze. “I’ve no idea. Let’s check.”

Perfect. He’s playing his role exactly as anticipated.

He moves the cursor toward the icon—the one I placed there during my late-night infiltration of his system. My pulse remains steady despite the magnitude of what I’m orchestrating. When he clicks, the room falls into anticipatory silence.

The video loads automatically, filling the projection screen with crystal-clear footage of Luna and Dougie in his dorm room. The angle is perfect, clearly from a hidden camera; the quality is professional enough to leave no doubt about what’s happening.

The reaction is immediate and explosive. Gasps erupt around the classroom, followed by nervous laughter and frantic whispers. I study my nails with practiced indifference, every gesture calculated to project casual confidence while my mind catalogs every response.

Luna goes absolutely still—not the reaction I anticipated. Most people would flee, break down, or explode in defensive anger. But she transforms potential humiliation into something else entirely, her spine straightening as shame transmutes into cold rage.

Nicolas smirks beside me, leaning over to whisper, “Looks like the Queen isn’t as royal as she pretends.”

I offer a slight smile in response, but my attention remains focused on Luna’s reflection in the window beside her. She’s not crumbling. If anything, she’s becoming more dangerous.

Austin fumbles with his computer, face burning red as he struggles to stop the video. “I… I apologize for that inappropriate content. Someone seems to have gained access to my computer. Rest assured, we will find out who’s responsible.”

This is the moment that determines everything. Will Luna crumble under the weight of public exposure, or will she—

“No need,” her voice cuts through the chaos, clear and commanding. She stands slowly, gathering her things with deliberate precision. “We all know who did it. The question is—what are they going to do when it backfires?”

Her emerald gaze sweeps the room before landing directly on me. Something cold crawls down my spine as recognition flashes in her eyes. She knows. Somehow, impossibly, she knows this was orchestrated.

The look she gives me isn’t accusation—it’s acknowledgment. One predator recognizing another.

“Thanks for the free publicity,” Luna continues, her voice carrying clearly across the shocked silence. “Now everyone knows what they’re missing.”

My carefully maintained smile falters for just a moment as she transforms my attack into her advantage. This isn’t shame or defeat—it’s a declaration of war. The other students aren’t laughing at her anymore; they’re looking at her with new interest, new respect.

As she stalks from the classroom, head high and smile sharp enough to cut, I feel something shift in my chest. Not quite admiration—I can’t afford such luxuries—but recognition. She’s playing the same game I am, using the same weapons of manipulation and control.

The difference is that she’s doing it instinctively, without years of training or handlers pulling her strings.

She’s a natural predator, just like me.

“Damn,” Jessica breathes beside me. “She’s kind of badass.”

Nicolas laughs, but there’s something uncertain in the sound. “She’s psychotic, is what she is.”

I remain silent, my mind racing through implications. Luna Queen has just turned my carefully orchestrated attack into a triumph. She’s not the broken victim, my intelligence suggested—she’s something far more dangerous.

My phone buzzes with an urgent message from Dominic: Footage shows public humiliation backfired. Subject gained sympathy and status. Explain immediately.

My fingers tremble slightly as I type back: Miscalculation. Subject more resilient than anticipated. Require new strategy.

The response comes within seconds: No more miscalculations. Your father is displeased. Escalate to direct psychological warfare. Use any means necessary.

Any means necessary. The phrase sends ice through my veins as I think of the small vial hidden in my cosmetics case, the one designed to erase inconvenient memories.

That afternoon, I compose my report with clinical precision, each word carefully chosen to buy time while I process what just happened:

Subject demonstrates advanced psychological warfare capabilities. Direct confrontation inadvisable without additional intelligence. Recommend deep cover approach to gain trust before exploitation.

It’s a lie, of course. Luna isn’t someone to be manipulated through friendship or false trust. She’s too smart, too experienced in the games people like us play. But the report gives me breathing room to understand what I’m really dealing with.

Because for the first time since becoming Belle Gallagher, intelligence operative, I’m questioning whether the girl I was sent to destroy might actually be someone worth studying rather than breaking.

The thought terrifies me more than any threat my father could make. But as I sit in Professor Austin’s classroom, watching him frantically try to regain control while students whisper about Luna’s defiant exit, I can’t shake the image of her emerald eyes blazing with recognition.

She saw right through me. Saw the calculation behind my innocent question, the orchestration behind the “accident.” And instead of being intimidated, she declared war.

Luna Queen is stronger than they anticipated. Stronger than I anticipated.

And perhaps—just perhaps—strong enough to survive what’s coming for both of us.

The game has just become infinitely more dangerous. The question is whether I’m still playing for my father’s team, or if I’ve unconsciously found myself respecting the enemy.

Time will tell which instinct wins: the predator I was trained to be, or the girl who’s beginning to question everything she’s been taught about power, control, and survival.