Page 7 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

Before

I press my back against the cold marble wall outside Father’s study, my silk nightgown doing nothing to warm the chill that has settled into my bones.

The grandfather clock in the foyer chimes midnight, its deep resonance vibrating through the mansion’s halls.

Three years. Three years of these gatherings, and I’m still here.

Still breathing. Still fighting to find pieces of myself in the wreckage they’ve made of my childhood.

The voices drift through the heavy oak door, muffled but urgent. Father’s tone carries that particular edge it gets when business isn’t going according to plan.

“—The Queen girl is proving more useful than anticipated,” he says, ice clinking against crystal as he pours another drink. “Dominic’s methods are… efficient.”

“She’s not broken yet,” Mother’s voice responds, sharp with disapproval. “Sebastian’s daughter still has too much fire. It makes her unpredictable.”

“Fire can be controlled, channeled. Our girl, on the other hand…”

My breath catches. They’re talking about me.

“Belle is becoming a liability,” Mother continues, and my heart hammers against my ribs. “Tonight was… difficult. Morrison was particularly aggressive, and she fought back. Left scratches on his face.”

The memory crashes over me—Morrison’s sweaty hands pinning my wrists to the velvet sofa, his bourbon-soaked breath hot against my neck as I clawed at his face, desperate to escape. The taste of blood in my mouth where I’d bitten my tongue to keep from screaming.

“She’s fourteen, Olivia. Of course she’s fighting back. We need to adjust our approach.”

“Or find a different use for her,” Mother says, and something in her tone makes my skin crawl. “The Queen girl is perfect for entertainment. Perhaps Belle could be more valuable in a different capacity. Gathering information, perhaps?”

Gathering information. Not entertainment.

The words hit me like lightning, illuminating a path I hadn’t seen before. Luna Queen—the mysterious daughter of the Queens who’s been mentioned in whispered conversations for months. She’s like me, another daughter of the network, but she’s good at entertainment.

I’m not good at that, but gathering information…

I could do that. I’m smart, observant. I notice things others miss—the way Judge Patterson’s wedding ring leaves a tan line when he removes it during gatherings, the way Senator Caldwell’s assistant always carries a second phone, the way certain guests receive special treatment while others are clearly expendable.

“Belle lacks the Queen girl’s… conditioning,” Father agrees. “She’s too emotional, too reactive. Maybe she’d be good as a spy, but the training required to make her useful in that capacity would take years we don’t have.”

“She’s also your daughter,” Mother snaps. “Our blood. That carries weight in certain circles.”

My blood. My inheritance. The Gallagher name that opens doors and commands respect—could that be my salvation instead of my curse?

I slip away from the door before they can discover me, my bare feet silent on the cold marble.

In my room, I curl up in the window seat overlooking the gardens, watching shadows dance across the manicured lawns.

The moon is full tonight, casting everything in silver light that makes the world look like a fairy tale.

But I know better than to believe in fairy tales.

By morning, I’ve made my decision.

I find Father in his study after breakfast, reviewing financial reports with the same cold precision he applies to everything else.

Sunlight streams through the tall windows, highlighting the gray at his temples that’s appeared over the past year.

The pressure of maintaining the network’s operations is aging him, making him more volatile and unpredictable.

“Father?” I knock softly on the doorframe, affecting the demure posture that’s kept me alive this long. “May I speak with you?”

He doesn’t look up from his papers. “If this is about last night, Belle, we’ve already discussed the consequences of fighting back. Morrison was understanding, but others won’t be so forgiving.”

“It’s not about that.” I step into the room, closing the door behind me with deliberate care. “I overheard you and Mother talking about… alternative uses for family assets.”

That gets his attention. His blue eyes—so similar to my own—narrow as he sets down his pen. “Eavesdropping, Belle? That’s not very becoming of a Gallagher daughter.”

“Neither is being mauled by drunk businessmen,” I reply, letting steel creep into my voice. “But observation… intelligence gathering… that seems much more befitting our family’s reputation.”

Father leans back in his leather chair, studying me with new interest. “And what would you know about intelligence gathering?”

“I know that Senator Caldwell’s wife is having an affair with Judge Patterson.

I know that Morrison’s media company is three months from bankruptcy despite his public statements.

I know that the Davidson twins aren’t actually twins—the boy was adopted after his real parents died in a convenient car accident.

” I meet his gaze steadily. “I know things, Father. I watch, I listen, I remember. Isn’t that more valuable than… the alternative?”

Silence stretches between us, thick with possibility and danger. Father’s expression reveals nothing, but I can practically hear the calculations running behind his eyes.

“Prove it,” he says finally.

“What?”

“Tonight, we’re having a small gathering. Judge Patterson, the Caldwells, and a few others. If you’re truly as observant as you claim, you should be able to gather useful information without being detected.” His smile is sharp enough to cut. “Think of it as an audition.”

My stomach lurches, but I force my voice to remain steady. “And if I succeed?”

“Then perhaps we can discuss a… career change.”

***

The gathering that evening is smaller than usual—only eight guests instead of the usual two dozen. I dress carefully in a pale blue dress that makes me look younger, more innocent. The perfect camouflage for a spy.

As the guests arrive, I position myself in the corners, the shadows, the spaces where important men forget that fourteen-year-old girls have ears. I serve drinks with downcast eyes and listen to everything.

Judge Patterson is being blackmailed by someone outside the network—photos of him with underage boys that could destroy his career.

Senator Caldwell’s affair isn’t just personal; his wife is feeding information to a rival political faction.

Morrison’s financial troubles run deeper than I suspected—he’s been using network resources to cover his losses, putting the entire operation at risk.

But it’s the conversation between Father and a man I don’t recognize that makes my blood run cold.

“The Queen situation is escalating,” the stranger says, his accent carrying hints of Eastern Europe. “Sebastian’s daughter is proving more resilient than anticipated. Dominic may need to employ more… permanent solutions.”

“Luna Queen is a valuable asset,” Father replies carefully. “Eliminating her would be wasteful.”

“Not elimination. Transformation. There are buyers who prefer their acquisitions to be completely broken, completely compliant. The Queen girl’s spirit could be… redistributed to more cooperative vessels.”

My hands shake as I refill their glasses, the crystal decanter trembling against the rim. They’re talking about destroying Luna Queen’s mind, turning her into some kind of living doll. And if I prove useful as a spy, will I eventually meet the same fate?

“Belle.”

Father’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. Both men are looking at me expectantly.

“Yes, Father?”

“Mr. Wagner was asking about your education. Tell him about your studies.”

It’s a test. I can feel it in the weight of their stares, the way the stranger—Wagner—tilts his head like a predator evaluating prey.

“I attend St. Margaret’s Academy,” I say, falling into the role of dutiful daughter. “Advanced placement in mathematics, literature, and languages. I speak French, Italian, and I’m learning German.”

Wagner’s eyebrows rise. “Impressive. And what do you think of tonight’s… educational opportunities?”

Another test. More dangerous this time.

“I think education comes in many forms,” I reply carefully. “Some lessons are taught in classrooms. Others are learned through observation and experience. Both have their value.”

“Indeed.” Wagner’s smile is all teeth. “And what have you observed tonight?”

My mouth goes dry. This is it—the moment that will determine whether I become a spy or remain a victim. I glance at Father, seeing the expectation in his eyes, the threat beneath his composed exterior.

“I’ve observed that Judge Patterson drinks more when he’s nervous, and he’s been very nervous tonight. I’ve observed that Senator Caldwell keeps checking his phone—seventeen times in the past hour. And I’ve observed that you’re not actually interested in my education at all.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Wagner’s expression shifts from amusement to something sharper, more calculating.

“Perceptive,” he murmurs. “Perhaps too perceptive.”

“Intelligence is only dangerous when it’s uncontrolled,” Father intervenes smoothly. “Belle understands the importance of discretion. Don’t you, darling?”

“Of course, Father.” I curtsey slightly, the picture of obedience. “Knowledge is power, but only when properly directed.”

Wagner studies me for another long moment before nodding. “Sebastian was right. The Gallagher bloodline produces exceptional specimens.”

The word ‘specimens’ makes my skin crawl, but I maintain my composure. I’ve passed the test, but at what cost?

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of careful observation and strategic positioning. I catalog conversations, memorize faces, file away details that might prove useful later. By the time the last guest leaves, my mental notebook is full of secrets and leverage.