Page 24 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)
Now
Federal agents escort me from the unmarked sedan like I’m radioactive material, their hands hovering near their weapons despite the fact that I just handed them enough evidence to dismantle what remains of my family’s empire.
“Ms. Gallagher,” Agent Smith says, her voice professionally neutral as she guides me toward the safe house’s front door. “You’ll be staying here until we can ensure your safety. The location is classified, and you’ll have limited contact with the outside world.”
I nod, too exhausted to argue. The sting operation at my family’s mansion feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
The memory of my father’s face when the FBI burst through the doors—shock transforming into cold calculation as he realized I’d betrayed him—will haunt me forever.
But not as much as the memory of his hand reaching for that crystal glass, the one meant to erase whatever inconvenient memories I might have recovered.
The interior of the safe house is as bland as its exterior—beige walls, government-issued furniture, the lingering scent of industrial cleaning products.
It’s the kind of place designed to be forgotten, to disappear into the background of memory.
Perfect for hiding federal witnesses who’ve outlived their usefulness to powerful enemies.
“There’s food in the kitchen, basic necessities in the bedroom,” Agent Smith continues, handing me a key card. “Someone will check on you every twelve hours. Don’t leave the premises without authorization.”
The door closes behind her with a finality that echoes through my bones. For the first time in my life, I’m truly alone—no family obligations, no handlers pulling my strings, no performance to maintain. The silence is deafening.
I collapse onto the generic gray couch, still wearing the designer dress I’d chosen for what I thought might be my last family dinner.
The weight of what I’ve done crashes over me like a tsunami. I’ve destroyed my family. Ended generations of Gallagher power and influence. Burned every bridge, severed every connection, obliterated every safety net I’ve ever known.
And I feel… nothing.
Not relief. Not guilt. Not triumph. Just a vast, echoing emptiness where my identity used to be. Without the Gallagher name, without my role as the perfect daughter or the willing spy, who am I? What am I?
Before I can process my thoughts, footsteps echo on the front porch.
I freeze, every instinct screaming danger despite the federal protection supposedly surrounding this place.
The doorknob turns slowly, and I grab a letter opener from the coffee table, Dominic’s training taking over even as my conscious mind struggles to catch up.
“Easy, Belle. It’s just me.”
Max Brooks steps through the doorway like he belongs here, his dark hair disheveled and his expensive clothes rumpled. But it’s the exhaustion in his eyes that catches my attention—the same bone-deep weariness I see in my own reflection.
“Max?” I set down the letter opener, confusion replacing panic. “What are you doing here? How did you even find this place?”
He closes the door behind him, engaging what looks like a high-tech security system. “Because I’m in the same program as you are. Protective custody for children of the network who’ve decided to cooperate with federal authorities.”
The words hit like ice water. “Your family—”
“Is fucked, just like yours.” He moves to the kitchen, opening cabinets with the familiarity of someone who’s been here before.
“Turns out my father’s hedge fund wasn’t just laundering money for your parents.
He was financing operations across three countries, facilitating the movement of girls as young as twelve. ”
My stomach lurches. “Jesus, Max.”
“Yeah. He’s an even bigger bastard than I thought.
” He pulls out a bottle of whiskey—expensive stuff that definitely wasn’t part of the government’s care package.
“Stone told me during our last meeting and got me to wear a wire. They raided my father’s compound three nights ago.
They got some big players off the board. ”
He’s been playing this game for a lot longer than I have.
He’s been playing it while I stumbled around in the dark, thinking I was protecting myself by keeping secrets.
The scope of his deception—of his planning—should terrify me.
Instead, I find it oddly comforting. Someone else has been carrying the weight of betrayal, of choosing justice over family loyalty.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth? The full truth?” I ask as he pours two generous glasses.
“Same reason you didn’t agree to run away with me when I offered.” He hands me a glass, his fingers brushing mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm despite everything. “We were both protecting ourselves the only way we knew how.”
The whiskey burns as it goes down, but it’s a clean burn. Honest. Unlike everything else in my life. “So what happens now?”
“Now we wait. Give testimony when needed. Try to build lives that aren’t built on other people’s suffering.
” He settles on the couch beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne—something expensive and familiar that reminds me of better times.
“Try to figure out who we are when we’re not performing roles our families and our government assigned us. ”
The question hangs between us like a bridge I’m not sure I’m brave enough to cross. Without the network, without the constant performance of being Belle Gallagher, the perfect daughter and willing accomplice, I don’t know who I am. The thought terrifies me more than any threat my father could make.
“I don’t remember how to be normal,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Everything I know about connecting with people is tied to survival or manipulation. Even this conversation—part of me is cataloging your tells, looking for weaknesses to exploit.”
Max’s laugh is bitter but understanding. “You think I’m not doing the same thing? I’ve been trained since childhood to see relationships as transactions, people as assets to be leveraged.” He takes another sip of whiskey. “The difference is that tonight, for the first time, I don’t have to.”
The possibility he’s offering—connection without agenda, conversation without calculation—makes my chest tight with something that might be hope.
When was the last time I talked to someone just to talk?
When did I last feel genuine curiosity about another person’s thoughts rather than strategic interest in their secrets?
“Tell me something real,” I say suddenly. “Something you’ve never told anyone else.”
His dark eyes study my face, searching for hidden motives.
Finding none, his expression softens. “I used to have a dog. When I was seven. A golden retriever named Charlie.” His voice drops to almost a whisper.
“He was the only thing in my life that loved me without conditions, without expecting performance or compliance. When my father found out I was getting ‘too attached,’ he had Charlie put down. Told me it was a lesson about the dangers of emotional vulnerability.”
The cruelty of it steals my breath. “God, Max.”
“Your turn,” he says, and there’s challenge in his voice. “Something real.”
I close my eyes, sifting through decades of carefully curated memories for something genuine.
“I wanted to be a teacher. When I was little, before I understood what my family really was, I used to line up my dolls and teach them math and history. I thought… I thought I could help other children learn to think for themselves.”
“What happened to that dream?”
“The same thing that happened to your dog.” I finish my whiskey in one burning gulp. “They taught me that helping others think for themselves was dangerous. That my value came from being useful to them, not from any inherent worth.”
The admission leaves me feeling raw, exposed. But Max doesn’t recoil or judge. Instead, he refills my glass with steady hands.
“Maybe it’s not too late,” he says quietly. “To be who we were supposed to be before they broke us.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undoes me. When was the last time someone offered me hope instead of expectation? When did anyone suggest that I might be worth saving rather than just useful?
The emotions I’ve been suppressing all day—terror, grief, rage, desperate loneliness—crash over me like a dam bursting.
But underneath it all is something more dangerous: want.
Not the calculated desire I’ve weaponized my entire life, but genuine attraction to this man who’s proven himself capable of sacrifice, of choosing righteousness over safety.
I set down my glass and move closer to him on the couch, close enough to see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. “Max.”
His name comes out rougher than intended, thick with invitation. I see the moment he recognizes what I’m offering, the way his pupils dilate, and his breathing changes.
“Belle,” he warns, but his voice lacks conviction.
I lean forward, bringing my lips close to his ear. “I need to feel something other than empty. I need to remember what it’s like to want someone instead of just using them.”
My hand finds his thigh, fingers tracing patterns through the expensive fabric of his pants. He’s solid, warm, real—everything my life has lacked for so long. When I kiss his neck, he tastes like whiskey and safety and the possibility of being known instead of just needed.
“Please,” I whisper against his skin. “Help me feel human again.”
For a moment, he responds. His hands find my waist, pulling me closer as his mouth finds mine.
The kiss is desperate, hungry, full of shared trauma and mutual understanding.
I lose myself in the heat of it, in the way his fingers tangle in my hair, in the proof that someone wants me for reasons that have nothing to do with strategy or survival.