Betray Me (Devastation Game #2)

Chapter 1 The Present Day

Now

Steam rises from my cappuccino, swirling in the air between us like the ghosts of our past. I check my watch again—Luna is late, as usual.

Some habits never change, even after everything we’ve been through.

The café buzzes with the mundane chatter of normal people living normal lives, a symphony of mediocrity that once would’ve made me sneer. Now, I find comfort in its banality.

The bell above the door chimes, and there she is—Luna Queen, striding in with that unmistakable confidence that even a year of trauma couldn’t diminish.

Her black hair is shorter now, cut into a sleek bob that frames her emerald eyes.

Eyes that have seen the same horrors mine have, though from a different vantage point.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, sliding into the chair across from me.

No excuses, no elaborate explanations. That’s new.

The old Luna would’ve crafted a perfect lie, and the old Belle would’ve pretended to believe it while silently judging.

Well, if I’m being perfectly honest, the old Belle wouldn’t be caught dead sharing a cup of coffee with Luna Queen.

“I ordered for you.” I push the second cup toward her—black coffee, no sugar. “Figured you’d need the caffeine after your morning class.”

She raises an eyebrow, surprised by my thoughtfulness. “Thanks.”

An awkward silence settles between us, thick with unspoken history.

This is our ritual now—Thursday coffee, forced conversation, the tentative building of something that resembles trust. Not friendship, exactly.

Something more complicated. Something born of shared trauma and mutual understanding that no one else could possibly comprehend.

“Professor Austin sent me an advance copy of his book,” Luna says finally, pulling a thick manuscript from her bag. The title catches the light: Power Structures and Systemic Exploitation: Inside the Queen Network. “It’s good. Unflinching.”

I take a sip of my cappuccino to hide my grimace. “I’m sure it paints a lovely picture of our families.”

“It paints the truth, Belle.” Luna’s voice is steady, her gaze unwavering. “Our parents created a system of trafficking, blackmail, and exploitation that lasted decades. They drugged us, used us, and were prepared to sell us to the highest bidder. Austin doesn’t shy away from any of it.”

The bluntness of her words makes my skin prickle. A year ago, I would’ve defended my family reflexively, would’ve twisted the narrative to protect the Gallagher name. Now the truth sits between us, ugly and undeniable.

“He asked me to write the foreword,” Luna continues, her finger tracing the edge of the manuscript. “I said yes.”

I nod, unsurprised. “You were always braver than me.”

“That’s not true.” Luna leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper even though no one is listening. “You testified against your own parents, Belle. You wore a wire. You risked everything.”

“After years of being their perfect little spy,” I counter, the bitterness seeping through despite my best efforts. “After helping them track you, manipulate you. After setting up Dougie and Max to humiliate you. Let’s not rewrite history to make me the hero.”

Luna’s eyes darken with memories. “We both did what we had to survive. Different methods, same goal.”

She’s right, of course. We were both pawns, moved across a chessboard by powers we didn’t understand until it was almost too late.

The difference is that I embraced my role, clung to it as protection.

I became the perfect daughter, the willing informant, the collector of secrets—anything to avoid becoming what Luna was: the bait, the offering, the sacrifice.

“Austin wants me to contribute to the sequel,” I admit, staring into my coffee. “My perspective as both victim and enabler.”

“Are you going to do it?”

I look up, meeting her gaze. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think telling my story would be cathartic. Other times, I’m terrified of putting it all down on paper, making it permanent.”

“I get that.” Luna takes a careful sip of her coffee.

“After the trial, when the media wanted interviews, I couldn’t do it.

Couldn’t face strangers picking apart my trauma for entertainment.

But this book… it’s different. It’s not sensationalism.

It’s documentation. Evidence that what happened to us was real. ”

“As if the prison sentences weren’t proof enough,” I mutter.

Luna’s mouth curves into a small, grim smile. “Twenty-five years for my mother. Thirty for Father. Not nearly enough for what they did.”

“Mine are still waiting for the date of the trial,” I add unnecessarily.

We both know the only ones who’d been sentenced so far are Luna’s parents.

We both sat in that courtroom, day after day, listening to the parade of witnesses, the mountains of evidence, the meticulously documented horror of our childhoods laid bare for the world to judge.

And we will do it again and again, until all the accomplices meet the same fate as the Queens.

“Do you visit them?” Luna asks, surprising me. It’s the first time she’s asked anything so personal in our Thursday meetings.

“No.” The answer comes quickly, definitively. “They send letters. I burn them.”

“My mother writes too. Twice a week, like clockwork.” Luna’s voice is distant. “I read them sometimes. Looking for an apology that never comes.”

“They’re incapable of remorse,” I say. “That’s what the psychiatrist told me. Clinically incapable.”

Luna nods, her eyes drifting to the window. “Erik says I should stop hoping for closure from them. That I need to find it within myself.”

Erik Stone—the boy who changed everything.

The one who loved Luna so fiercely he risked his life for her, who never wavered during the investigation, the trial, and everything that came after.

I used to envy what they had, that unshakable bond.

But therapy with Dr. Specter has helped me start untangling my own trauma, shifting envy into healing.

“Dr. Specter says the same thing,” I admit. “That expecting them to understand what they did to us is like expecting a shark to feel bad about eating fish. It’s just not in their nature.”

Luna’s expression softens at the mention of my psychiatrist, another change from a year ago when she would’ve mocked me for getting help. “How’s therapy going?”

“Good. I’ve been having fewer nightmares.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Luna’s smile fades as she glances at her watch. “Speaking of therapy, I should go. I have therapy at two.”

“Still seeing Dr. Marshall?”

She nods. “Twice a week.”

“I found her to be too… gentle. I needed someone willing to push harder, and I have to say that I’m quite happy with Dr. Specter.”

Something like understanding flashes in Luna’s eyes. “Sometimes the gentle approach isn’t enough to break through the walls we’ve built.”

“Exactly.” The word hangs between us, a small bridge across the chasm of our shared past.

Luna gathers her things, slinging her bag over her shoulder with practiced grace. “Same time next week?”

“I’ll be here.” The routine answer, the one I give every Thursday.

She hesitates, then leans down, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I’ve been thinking about telling Erik more details about my nightmares. The ones about the parties, about what they made me do.”

The confession catches me off guard. Luna never volunteers personal information, especially not about her trauma. “Are you afraid of how he’ll react?”

“He already knows a lot, and what he doesn’t know, I’m pretty sure even his wildest imagination can’t conjure. That’s just it—I’m afraid of changing how he sees me. Of tainting what we have with the filth of my past.”

I recognize the fear in her eyes, have felt it myself countless times with Nicolas, my ex-boyfriend. “If he loves you—really loves you—nothing you tell him will change that.”

Luna straightens, surprise flickering across her features at my sincerity. “Thanks, Belle.”

As she walks away, I notice how her shoulders straighten, her chin lifts. She’s healing, finding her strength again. We both are, in our own ways.

I watch her through the window as she crosses the street, her dark hair catching the sunlight.

And that’s when I see him—the man in the black coat, leaning against a lamppost, pretending to read a newspaper.

His gaze follows Luna with a predatory focus, then shifts to me.

Our eyes meet through the glass, and a chill races down my spine.

It’s him again. The same man I’ve glimpsed outside my apartment, near campus, in the background of my life for weeks now.

Always watching, never approaching. I’ve told myself I’m being paranoid, that the trial made me see threats everywhere.

But this is the third time this week, and now he’s not even trying to hide.

I consider calling out to Luna, warning her.

But what would I say? That I’m being followed by a mysterious man who may or may not be connected to our parents’ network?

That, despite the convictions, the testimonies, the supposed dismantling of the entire operation, I still feel the tentacles of their influence reaching for us?

No. She’s been through enough. We’ve all been through enough. I’ll handle this myself. Find out who he is, what he wants. Protect what little peace we’ve managed to carve out of the wreckage of our lives.

I finish my coffee, leave a generous tip, and gather my things. By the time I exit the café, the man is gone. Vanished like the ghost he might well be—a specter of my guilt, my fear, my inability to fully believe that the nightmare is over.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from an unknown number flashes across the screen:

“Did you tell her about the body?”

My blood turns to ice, my fingers suddenly numb as I stare at the seven words glowing against the black screen.

The body. Senator Wilson’s daughter. The girl who disappeared five years ago, whose bloated remains were found in a shallow grave during the investigation.

The girl whose blood was under my fingernails the morning after one of my blackouts.

The girl I have no memory of killing, but whose murder has my fingerprints all over it.

I look up, scanning the street frantically, but there’s no sign of the man in the black coat.

Just ordinary people going about their ordinary lives, oblivious to the darkness that still swirls around Luna and me, that threatens to pull us back under just when we thought we might be learning to swim.

With trembling fingers, I delete the text, then turn off my phone completely. Panic crawls up my throat, threatening to choke me. I force it down, falling back on years of training. Control yourself. Assess the situation. Identify the threat. Neutralize it.

My father’s voice, even now. Even after everything.

I start walking, my pace measured, my face composed. The perfect mask, the perfect performance. Some habits are harder to break than others.

I should talk to DA David Stone, Erik’s older brother.

I should warn Luna. I should contact Detective Harper, who’s been building the case against the remaining network members.

But I don’t. First, I need to make sure I’m not being followed, that I’m not leading danger straight to the people I care about.

The irony isn’t lost on me—after spending years as my parents’ spy, I’m now using those same skills to protect the very people I once helped target. Life really is full of surprises, as Luna said. Not all of them are good.

I turn a corner, ducking into a crowded department store, losing myself among the racks of clothing.

My mind races, calculating possibilities, escape routes, contingency plans.

The text could be a bluff, a scare tactic.

Or it could mean they know—whoever “they” are—that I’ve been lying about that night, that my convenient memory loss might not be as complete as I’ve claimed.

Either way, the message is clear: it’s not over. Despite the trials, the convictions, the supposed dismantling of the entire operation, someone is still out there. Someone who knows what happened that night. Someone who thinks I told Luna about the body.

Someone who’s been watching us both.

I exit through the back of the store, emerge into an alley, and hail a taxi. As it pulls away from the curb, I glance back one last time, searching the crowded sidewalk for the man in the black coat.

He’s not there. But I know he’s watching.

He’s always watching.

And now, he’s done hiding.