Page 20 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

Before

The manila folders spread across my desk like tarot cards predicting doom, each one thick with surveillance photographs, financial records, and behavioral analyses.

Three months of obsessive documentation fill my dorm room—every movement Luna Queen has made since arriving at Shark Bay University, cataloged with the precision of a scientist studying a particularly dangerous specimen.

With Luna being called away to attend her parents’ party, I use the opportunity to go over my findings.

I lift another photo to the lamplight, studying Luna’s face as she exits the library.

Even in grainy surveillance footage, she radiates that predatory confidence that both fascinates and terrifies me.

The extra help I manipulated from my classmates—people would do just about anything for a moment of my attention—have proven to be very beneficial.

Every conversation, every interaction, every moment of vulnerability has been captured and filed away.

What started as a simple assignment from Father has become something else entirely. Something darker.

I pour myself another glass of wine—a vintage Bordeaux that costs more than most students’ monthly allowances—and settle back into my desk chair.

The Gothic spires of Shark Bay loom outside my window, their shadows stretching across moonlit grounds like grasping fingers.

Perfect atmosphere for the kind of work that requires embracing one’s inner monster.

“Subject continues to display erratic behavioral patterns,” I dictate into my digital recorder, my voice steady despite the wine warming my veins. “Increased sexual activity with multiple partners suggests psychological destabilization. Recommend escalating pressure tactics.”

The words feel hollow as they leave my mouth. In truth, Luna’s “erratic behavior” looks suspiciously like survival. The same kind of desperate self-protection I recognize in my own mirror.

I flip to the next photograph—Luna and Erik Stone walking along the cliffs, his hand gentle on her lower back.

The intimacy in their body language makes something twist in my chest. Not jealousy, exactly, but recognition.

The way she leans into his touch, lets herself be vulnerable for just a moment—it’s something I’ve never allowed myself.

Never been able to allow myself.

My phone buzzes with an encrypted message from Dominic: Status report overdue. Father growing impatient. Mr. Queen requires results.

I stare at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

The truth is that Luna Queen is stronger than any of us anticipated.

Every trap I’ve set, every psychological pressure point I’ve applied—she’s either evaded or transformed into her own weapon.

The video incident in Austin’s class should have destroyed her.

Instead, she used it to build her reputation as someone not to be underestimated.

I type back: Subject more resilient than initial assessment suggested. Require additional time for comprehensive analysis.

Time is a luxury we lack. We need her under control. Deliver actionable intelligence or face consequences.

The threat is subtle but unmistakable. My hands shake slightly as I set the phone aside, reaching for another photograph.

This one shows Luna in the campus dining hall, laughing at something Erik said.

Her smile is genuine—not the practiced perfection I’ve learned to wear, but something real and unguarded.

When was the last time I smiled like that? When was the last time I felt safe enough to let my guard down completely?

The answer comes too easily: never.

I return to my recorder, but the clinical detachment I’ve maintained begins to crack.

“Subject demonstrates remarkable adaptability in high-stress situations. Psychological profile suggests extensive trauma conditioning, possibly from childhood. Methods of resistance indicate prior experience with manipulation tactics.”

I stop recording, the words echoing in the quiet room. Extensive trauma conditioning. Prior experience with manipulation tactics. I could be describing myself.

Luna and I aren’t just products of the same system—we’re variations on the same theme.

Two girls molded by powerful families into weapons, just pointed in different directions.

She was trained to be the perfect victim, the ultimate bait.

I was shaped into the perfect spy, the invisible collector of secrets.

But underneath the training, underneath the carefully constructed masks, we’re both just survivors trying to navigate a world that views us as commodities.

My wineglass trembles in my hand. The investigation into Luna started as a professional necessity, but it’s become a personal obsession. Because the more I learn about her, the more I understand about myself. The more I realize how similar our damage really is.

I spread out the surveillance photos chronologically, looking for patterns and for insights that might help me understand her next move.

As I examine them under the magnifying glass, something catches my attention.

A figure in the background of several images—always distant, always partially obscured, but unmistakably the same person.

A man in a dark coat is watching Luna from the shadows.

My pulse quickens as I gather more photos, tracing his presence through weeks of surveillance. He’s there when Luna walks to class, when she meets Erik at the library, when she sits alone on the cliffs. Always watching, never approaching.

It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t be possible. Shark Bay is on a private island belonging to the school and no one else.

Who is he? How did he get access to the island?

My blood turns to ice as I realize where I’ve seen him before.

I stumble to my closet, pulling out a shoebox filled with childhood photographs—the few personal items I was allowed to keep when I came to Shark Bay.

My hands shake as I flip through family pictures, looking for something I pray I won’t find.

There. A photo from my thirteenth birthday party, taken in our mansion’s grand ballroom. Mother stands beside the cake, elegant in her emerald gown, smiling for the camera. And in the background, barely visible behind a pillar, stands the same man. The same dark coat, the same predatory stillness.

He was watching us then, too. Watching me.

I grab more photos, my heart hammering against my ribs. There he is again at a family gathering when I was eleven. And again at a charity gala when I was fourteen. Always in the background, always observing, always ready to disappear if anyone looked too closely.

My laptop screen flickers as I scan the photos, enhancing the images to see his face more clearly. But he’s too careful, too practiced at avoiding direct camera angles. All I can make out is a strong jawline, dark hair, and eyes that seem to miss nothing.

Who is he? And why has he been watching my family for years?

I reach for my encrypted phone, intending to contact Dominic for more information. But something stops me. A voice in my head—not quite conscience, but something close to it—whispering that some knowledge is too dangerous to seek.

Instead, I open my laptop and begin cross-referencing the dates from the photographs with my family’s social calendar, looking for connections. The pattern that emerges makes my stomach lurch.

Every major family decision over the past five years can be traced to periods when this man appeared in our surveillance. When Father decided to send me to Shark Bay. When Mother’s business partnerships shifted. When certain “problems” disappeared from our lives.

We’re not just being watched. We’re being managed.

I thought Sebastian Queen to be my father’s puppet master, but what if the master is just another puppet? One more in the sea of many.

My wineglass slips from my numb fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. Red liquid spreads like blood across the pristine surface, staining the Persian rug Father bought me for my sixteenth birthday.

The investigation folders suddenly feel like evidence of something far more sinister than I understood.

I thought I was gathering intelligence on Luna Queen, thought I was playing chess in a game where I understood the rules.

But what if I’m just another piece being moved around the board by someone whose identity I don’t even know?

My hands shake as I gather the photographs, hiding them beneath layers of innocuous school papers. The wine makes everything feel surreal, like I’m watching someone else’s life unfold in horrifying slow motion. But even through the alcohol, the implications are crystal clear.

My family—powerful, influential, seemingly untouchable by all but the Queens—has been under surveillance for years. Which means whatever network we’re part of, whatever system gave us our wealth and status, isn’t controlled by us at all.

We’re employees, not employers. Products, not producers.

I think of Luna, of the way she moves through the world like someone who knows exactly how dangerous it is. Of the calculated risks she takes, the alliances she forms, the careful way she never fully trusts anyone. Maybe her paranoia isn’t psychological damage.

Maybe it’s intelligence.

My phone buzzes again. Another message from Dominic: Meeting tomorrow. 2 PM. Bring complete files.

I stare at the text, my mind racing through possibilities.

If I show him these photographs, if I reveal what I’ve discovered about our mysterious observer, what happens then?

Does the information protect me or damn me?

Does it make me more valuable to the organization or more dangerous to keep alive?

The smart play would be to bury this discovery, pretend I never noticed the pattern. Continue my supervision of Luna without revealing that I’ve stumbled onto something bigger. Keep playing the role of dutiful spy while quietly gathering evidence of the forces really controlling our lives.

But some truths can be too dangerous to ignore, even when uncovering them might destroy everything I think I know about my place in the world.

I pour another glass of wine, my movements steady despite the chaos in my mind.

Tomorrow, I’ll meet with Dominic, deliver a carefully edited version of my findings.

I’ll continue gathering surveillance information on Luna Queen while secretly investigating the forces that have been shaping our lives from the shadows.

But tonight, surrounded by photographs and wine and the weight of terrible knowledge, I allow myself one moment of honesty.

Luna Queen isn’t my enemy. She’s my mirror.

And somewhere in the darkness, someone far more dangerous than either of us is watching, waiting, planning our next moves in a game where the rules have never been explained to the players.

The Gothic spires outside my window no longer look like shelter. They look like prison bars, elegant and imposing but ultimately designed to keep us contained.

I reach for my recorder one final time, my voice steady despite everything I’ve learned: “Investigation ongoing. The subject remains a high priority for continued surveillance. Recommend maintaining current protocols while expanding the scope of operation.”

The lies come easily now. They always have.

But as I hide the evidence of our mysterious watcher among my school papers, I make myself a promise. Whatever game we’re really playing, whatever forces are really in control, I’m going to find out the truth.

Even if that truth destroys everything I’ve been taught to believe about power, family, and survival.

Even if it destroys me.