Page 17 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

Now

Inside, a single photograph stops my breath.

Jessica sits across from David Stone in what appears to be a coffee shop, leaning forward conspiratorially as she slides a manila folder across the table.

The timestamp shows last Tuesday—the same day she claimed she was sick and missed our study session.

The same day, I confided in her about Max’s alliance proposal.

My hands shake as I study the image, searching for signs of manipulation, desperate to find proof this is some elaborate setup. But the lighting is natural, the angle candid. This isn’t staged surveillance—it’s documentary evidence of betrayal.

A handwritten note falls from the envelope: Your handler has been compromised. Terminate the relationship immediately, or we will.

Handler. The word hits like ice water. All this time, I thought Jessica was my friend—my first and only real friend since I came here.

The girl who brought me soup when I was sick, who held my hair when I threw up after particularly brutal nightmares, who promised she didn’t judge me for my family’s crimes.

She was my keeper all along.

I dress quickly in dark jeans and a black sweater, my movements mechanical as muscle memory takes over.

Years of sneaking through my father’s mansion taught me how to move silently, how to become invisible when necessary.

The skills I learned as his spy serve me well now as I navigate the dormitory’s sleeping halls.

Jessica’s room is two floors down, and I know her schedule by heart—she takes sleeping pills every night at 11 PM, claims they help with anxiety from her family’s corporate empire stress. Another lie, probably. Everything about our friendship has been performance art.

Her door is unlocked, which strikes me as either supremely confident or incredibly stupid. I slip inside, closing it behind me with practiced silence. Jessica sleeps deeply, her breathing even and untroubled. How peaceful she looks for someone living a double life.

I settle into the chair beside her desk, content to wait.

The walls of her room tell a story I never bothered to read before—photographs of family gatherings where her parents pose with political figures I recognize from my father’s files.

Awards from summer camps and debate tournaments.

A scholarship certificate from an organization that, now that I think about it, has always seemed suspiciously well-funded.

The Yarroses weren’t peripheral players in the network—they were embedded deep enough to place their daughter as my monitor.

“Belle?” Jessica’s voice is thick with sleep and confusion. “What are you doing here?”

I hold up the photograph, watching her face transform from drowsy bewilderment to something approaching fear. “I think the better question is what you’ve been doing, Jessica.”

She sits up slowly, pulling her silk sleep shirt closed as if modesty matters now. “I can explain—”

“Can you?” I lean forward, my voice dropping to the dangerous whisper I learned from my father. “Because I’d love to hear how you explain reporting my every move to a federal prosecutor while pretending to be my friend.”

“It’s not what it looks like.” The words tumble out in a rush, desperate and rehearsed. “Belle, you have to understand—my family was already under investigation. David Stone offered us immunity in exchange for information. We didn’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice, Jessica. You chose to lie to me for nearly two years.” I study her face, cataloging the micro-expressions that reveal truth from deception. “How long?”

“How long what?”

“How long have you been my handler?” The word tastes like poison on my tongue. “Because I’m starting to think that us becoming best friends wasn’t a random coincidence.”

Jessica’s silence is answer enough. I feel something cold and sharp crystallize in my chest—not surprise, exactly, but the familiar ache of confirmed betrayal. In my world, trust is a weapon that’s always turned against you eventually.

“Since the beginning,” she whispers finally. “The network assigned me to monitor you when you first arrived at Shark Bay. Make sure you stayed focused on your mission with Luna. Report any signs of… deviation.”

The admission hits harder than expected. Every shared secret, every moment of vulnerability, every time I let my guard down—all of it performed for an audience I never knew existed.

“And after Luna’s parents were arrested?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“David Stone recruited me. Said if I helped build the case against your family, mine would be protected.” She reaches toward me, then thinks better of it. “Belle, I never wanted to hurt you. The friendship became real, even if it started as an assignment.”

I laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut. “Real? You’ve been feeding information to the man trying to destroy my family while pretending to care about my nightmares and panic attacks. Which part of that felt real to you?”

“All of it.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and for a moment, I almost believe her. Almost. “When I saw what those bastards did to you, what they turned you into—Belle, you were a child. They made you into a weapon and convinced you it was protection.”

“Spare me the sympathy.” I stand, pacing to her window where dawn light creeps across the campus. “What did you tell Stone? What does he know?”

“Everything I knew. Your family’s structure, your role as an informant, the files you kept instead of destroying.” Jessica’s voice breaks slightly. “I’m sorry, Belle. I thought if I helped him build the case, you might finally be free.”

Free. The word is almost laughable. People like me don’t get freedom—we get traded from one prison to another, from one master to the next. Jessica’s betrayal is just another transaction in the marketplace of my existence.

“There’s something else,” she continues, and the change in her tone makes me turn. “Something I’ve never told anyone. Not Stone, not the investigators. Something that could destroy you completely.”

My blood turns to ice. “What?”

“The night Senator Wilson’s daughter disappeared.” Jessica’s hands tremble as she reaches for something in her nightstand drawer. “I was there. At the party. It was the first time I saw you. You were completely incoherent.”

She pulls out a small digital camera, the kind we used for journalism class last year. “I was in your house when your parents brought you in. You were wearing a white dress that was… God, Belle, it was covered in blood. Your hands, your arms—there was so much blood.”

The room spins slightly. I grip the windowsill for support as fragments of sensation assault me—the taste of copper, the feeling of something sticky under my fingernails, the sound of my own sobbing. Memories that shouldn’t exist, couldn’t exist, because I have no recollection of that night.

“Our parents made me promise never to tell anyone,” Jessica continues, her voice barely a whisper.

“Said people would think you did something terrible, that your parents would destroy my family if word got out. I agreed to be quiet because I had no choice. And also because I saw your face. You were so scared, Belle. Shaking and crying and completely broken.”

She turns on the camera, scrolling through old photos until she finds what she’s looking for. The image that appears makes my knees buckle.

It’s me, exactly as she described. Standing in my family’s living room, my white dress stained crimson, my hands pressed against my face in despair. My hair is matted with what looks like blood, my makeup is smeared beyond recognition. I look like a survivor of something unspeakable.

Or the perpetrator of it.

“What did I tell you?” I ask, though part of me doesn’t want to know. “What did I say happened?”

“You didn’t talk to me, but the next day, I heard your parents tell mine that you said you couldn’t remember anything. It was clear you were drugged.” Jessica’s eyes search my face desperately. “I always believed it wasn’t your fault, Belle. You were clearly a victim of something horrible.”

“You think I did it.” It’s not a question.

“Your family’s capable of anything. I know they used you in ways I can’t even imagine.” She sets the camera aside, leaning forward earnestly. “Belle, what if they made you do something terrible? What if they drugged you and used you as a weapon, then erased your memory to protect themselves?”

The possibility sits like lead in my stomach.

It would explain the blood evidence at Janet Wilson’s crime scene, the gaps in my memory, the way my father’s expression changed to fear when I mentioned remembering those nights.

It would explain why I’ve always felt like I’m carrying guilt for sins I can’t remember committing.

“Did you tell Stone about this?” I ask, and she shakes her head. “Why?

“Because I was protecting you.” Jessica’s voice is fierce now, her usual timidity replaced by something sharper.

“Whatever happened that night, you were as much a victim as anyone else. Your family destroyed your childhood, stole your autonomy, turned you into something you never chose to be. I wasn’t going to hand Stone more ammunition to destroy what little life you’ve managed to build. ”

For a moment, I feel something close to gratitude. Then reality crashes back down.

“How noble of you,” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Protecting me while feeding him everything else he needed to dismantle my family’s empire.”

“Your family’s empire is built on the bones of children, Belle.” Jessica stands, her anger finally surfacing. “How many other girls suffered while you played the perfect spy? How many Janet Wilsons died while you gathered secrets and reported back to your handlers?”

The accusation hits like a physical blow. Because she’s not wrong. Every piece of intelligence I gathered, every weakness I exploited, every secret I uncovered—it all fed into a machine that devoured innocence and called it business.

“You don’t think I know that?” The words explode out of me with enough force to make Jessica flinch. “You think I chose any of this? You think I wanted to be their weapon, their accomplice, their perfect little spy?”

“No,” she says quietly. “I think you were a child who did what she had to do to survive. Just like Luna was. Just like all of us were.”

The parallel to Luna stops me cold. Because Jessica is right—Luna and I are more alike than different.

We both found ways to survive our families’ exploitation, both developed masks and manipulations to protect whatever remained of our souls.

The only difference is that Luna escaped before she could be used to destroy others.

I was not so lucky.

My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: Your handler’s been compromised. Eliminate the security risk or we will handle it permanently.

Ice floods my veins as I show Jessica the message. Her face goes pale as she reads it, understanding the implication immediately.

“They’re going to kill me,” she whispers.

“Probably.” I’m surprised by how calm my voice sounds. “The question is whether I let them, or find another solution.”

“Belle, please.” Jessica grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my skin. “I know I betrayed you, but I was trying to help. Your family, the network—they’re monsters. You deserve better than being their puppet.”

“Maybe.” I gently remove her hand from my arm. “But I’m not sure I’m capable of better anymore.”

Another text arrives: You have 12 hours. Make it look accidental.

Twelve hours. Enough time to plan, to arrange something plausible. I’ve been trained for this—how to eliminate problems quietly, how to make murders look like accidents or suicides. The skills Dominic taught me during those long summer months when I was learning to be the perfect weapon.

I could slip something into Jessica’s coffee, make it look like she took too many sleeping pills.

Could arrange for her to have a tragic accident on the cliffs during one of her morning jogs.

Could make her disappear entirely, another missing student who couldn’t handle the pressure of elite academic life.

The options scroll through my mind with clinical precision, each one perfectly feasible. I have the skills, the access, the training. All I need is the will to use them.

“Belle?” Jessica’s voice is small, frightened. “What are you thinking?”

I look at her—really look at her. Beneath the fear and guilt, I see something I recognize: another girl caught in a web of family expectations and survival mechanisms. Someone who made terrible choices in the service of protecting people she loved.

Someone not so different from me.

“I’m thinking,” I say slowly, “that maybe it’s time to stop being what they made me.”

Her eyes widen with hope and confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe instead of eliminating you, I eliminate the threat to you.” I pick up the camera, staring at the photo of my blood-soaked younger self. “You said Stone offered your family immunity in exchange for information. What would he offer me?”

“Belle—”

“I have files, Jessica. Documents my father ordered me to destroy, but I kept them instead. Financial records, correspondence, operational details spanning decades.” I meet her gaze steadily. “I have enough evidence to bury everyone who’s still breathing.”

“Including yourself?”

“Maybe. Probably.” I shrug, surprised by how little the prospect frightens me. “But if I’m going down anyway, I might as well take them all with me.”

Jessica stares at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “David Stone is meeting with federal prosecutors tomorrow morning. If you’re serious about this—”

“I’m serious.” The words feel like stepping off a cliff, irrevocable and terrifying. “Set up the meeting. And Jessica?”

“Yes?”

“If you try to play me again, if you feed anyone information about what I just told you, I will end you myself.” My voice is soft, conversational, which somehow makes the threat more menacing. “Handler or not, friend or not—cross me again, and I’ll show you exactly what my family trained me to do.”

She nods, and I see the moment she truly understands what I am beneath the designer clothes and perfect manners. Not just a victim or a spy, but something more dangerous: a weapon that’s finally chosen its own target.

As I leave her room, my phone buzzes with another message: Time is running out. The girl dies at sunset unless you handle it.

I delete the text without responding. Let them think I’m planning Jessica’s death. Let them believe their perfect weapon is still under their control.

By the time they realize the truth, it will be too late to stop what I’ve set in motion.

I have twelve hours to become something I’ve never been before: not my father’s spy, not my family’s weapon, not even Luna’s rival.

Just Belle Gallagher, choosing her own path for the first time in her life.

Even if that path leads straight through hell.