Page 9 of Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

Now

I stare at the screen until the words blur, my coffee growing cold in my hands.

Recent developments. Such a sanitized way to describe the federal investigation that’s slowly dismantling everything my family built.

The Queens may be behind bars, but their trial has opened floodgates that threaten to drown us all.

I dress with calculated precision—the school’s navy blazer, white shirt, pearls that belonged to my grandmother. The uniform of respectability, of old money breeding and proper upbringing. If I’m walking into an inquisition, I’ll do it looking every inch the Gallagher heiress they expect me to be.

The walk across campus feels like a funeral march. Students part before me like I’m infected with something contagious, which, in a way, I am. The Gallagher name used to open doors; now it empties rooms. I catch fragments of whispered conversations:

“—heard the FBI was here yesterday—”

“—her whole family’s going down—”

“—can’t believe she’s still enrolled—”

The administration building looms before me, its Gothic spires reaching toward gray clouds that mirror my mood.

Inside, the marble floors echo with each click of my heels, the sound unnaturally loud in the hushed corridors.

Past portraits of distinguished alumni watch me with painted eyes that seem to judge, to find me wanting.

Dean Harpsons’ secretary barely glances up when I announce myself. “She’ll be with you shortly,” the woman says, her tone carefully neutral. Professional distance—another sign of how far the Gallagher star has fallen.

I settle into one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs outside the Dean’s office, my posture perfect despite the anxiety clawing at my chest. Through the frosted glass, I can make out shapes moving, voices too muffled to distinguish words.

But one voice carries a familiar cadence that makes my blood run cold.

David Stone. Erik’s older brother, the DA who’s been methodically building cases against everyone connected to our families’ network. What’s he doing here?

The door opens, and Dean Harpsons emerges—a stern woman in her sixties whose reputation for no-nonsense fairness has made her both respected and feared.

Behind her, David Stone’s tall frame fills the doorway.

His eyes meet mine briefly, and I see recognition flicker there.

Not the recognition of a friend, but of a target.

I’m still on his list, even though my testimony helped put the Queens behind bars.

It was my father’s idea. We already knew they were going down, so they might as well save us in any way they can, even if that meant we had to publicly turn our backs on them.

My family thinks I was faking it, but I meant every word of what I said.

If I can, I’ll make sure they end up behind bars too, and I know Luna will help me in any way she can. She’s a better person than I ever was.

“Ms. Gallagher,” the Dean says, her voice carrying the weight of institutional authority. “Please, come in.”

I rise gracefully, every movement calculated to project confidence I don’t feel. The Dean’s office is exactly what you’d expect—mahogany furniture, leather-bound books, diplomas and awards covering every available wall space. A shrine to academic achievement and moral authority.

“Mr. Stone was just leaving,” Dean Harpsons continues as I take the seat across from her massive desk. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Stone. I trust our conversation has been… illuminating.”

David nods, gathering a stack of files that makes my stomach lurch. “Indeed. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call.” His gaze flicks to me one more time before he heads for the door. “Ms. Gallagher.”

The way he says my name carries weight—the weight of evidence, of testimony, of a case being built brick by brick. Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the Dean and the suffocating scent of old leather and older secrets.

“I suppose you can guess why you’re here,” Dean Harpsons begins, settling behind her desk with the air of someone accustomed to difficult conversations.

“I imagine it has something to do with the recent media attention surrounding my family,” I reply carefully. Years of training in deflection and diplomatic non-answers serve me well.

“Media attention.” Her laugh is as dry as autumn leaves. “Is that what we’re calling federal investigations into human trafficking now?”

The words hit like physical blows, but I don’t flinch. Can’t flinch. “My family is cooperating fully with all ongoing investigations. As am I.”

“Are you?” She leans forward, her gray eyes sharp as surgical steel. “Because Mr. Stone seems to think there might be additional information relevant to his cases. Information that certain parties might be… reluctant to share.”

My pulse quickens, but I keep my expression placid. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Let me be more direct, Ms. Gallagher. Your tuition here is paid through a trust established by your father. Your family has donated millions to this institution over the years. The Gallagher name is on a building, for Christ’s sake.

” She gestures toward the window, where I know the Gallagher Center for Economic Studies sits like a monument to our legacy.

“But money can’t buy immunity from justice.

If there’s evidence that you’ve been complicit in your family’s activities—”

“There isn’t.” The words come out sharper than intended, a crack in my carefully maintained facade. “I was as much a victim as anyone else. More so, in some ways.”

The Dean’s expression softens marginally.

“I’m not unsympathetic to your situation, Belle.

I can’t imagine what it must have been like, growing up in that environment.

But the board is asking difficult questions.

About your continued enrollment, about the university’s liability in harboring someone potentially connected to these crimes. ”

Harboring. Like I’m a fugitive hiding in plain sight. Which, perhaps, I am.

“What exactly are you asking of me?” I meet her gaze steadily, calling on every lesson in composure my mother ever taught me.

“Transparency. Full cooperation with ongoing investigations. And perhaps… consideration of a voluntary leave of absence until these matters are resolved.”

The suggestion lands like a death sentence. Leaving Shark Bay means losing what little protection the secure island’s campus provides, facing the world without even the thin veneer of normalcy that student life offers. It means admitting defeat.

“I understand your position,” I say finally. “But I haven’t been charged with anything. I’ve answered every question the authorities have asked. And I deserve the same presumption of innocence that any other student would receive.”

Dean Harpsons sighs, suddenly looking at every one of her sixty-plus years. I try not to stare at her slightly smudged red-colored lipstick when she speaks. “This isn’t about innocence or guilt, Belle. It’s about perception. About protecting this institution’s reputation.”

“Of course it is.” I stand, smoothing down my skirt with hands that want to tremble. “Well, I appreciate your… directness. I’ll consider your suggestion.”

“Belle.” Her voice stops me at the door. “For what it’s worth, I hope you find a way through this. You’re a bright young woman with tremendous potential. Don’t let your family’s sins destroy your future.”

I nod, not trusting my voice, and flee.

The hallway feels like a tunnel, my vision narrowing with each step. I need to get out of here, need to think, need to process what just happened. But first, I need to know what David Stone was really doing here. What files was he carrying? What students has he been interviewing?

The thought strikes me with sudden clarity: if Stone is building a case against my family, he’ll have records. Interview notes, evidence lists, and maybe even witness statements. Information that could help me understand just how precarious my position really is.

I know where the administrative offices keep their sensitive files—Father’s position on the board gave me access to areas most students never see. If I can just get to some of Stone’s notes before they’re transferred back to the mainland…

The plan forms as I walk, each step more determined than the last. The afternoon shift change happens at 3 PM. Security is lighter then, focus divided between departing day staff and arriving evening crews. I’ll have maybe fifteen minutes before someone notices I’m somewhere I shouldn’t be.

But first, I need an alibi. A reason to be in the building at that time.

***

At 2:55 PM, I approach the administration building carrying a stack of legitimate forms—transcript requests, course change petitions, anything that gives me a valid reason to be here. The afternoon security guard barely glances at my student ID as I swipe through the main entrance.

I take the elevator to the third floor, where the more sensitive administrative functions are housed. The hallway is quiet, most staff either gone for the day or focused on end-of-shift procedures. Perfect.

Stone’s temporary office is marked with a simple placard: District Attorney – Visiting Investigator. The door is locked, but years of navigating my father’s compound taught me basic lock-picking skills. The tumblers give way with minimal resistance.

Inside, the office is spartanly furnished but packed with evidence.

File boxes line the walls, labeled with names I recognize—former associates of my parents, other families in the network, peripheral players who thought they were safe.

My name appears on several labels, along with Luna’s and others I don’t immediately recognize.