Release Me (Devastation Game #3)

Chapter 1 Fractured Trust – Belle

The chalk squeaks against the blackboard as Professor Austin scrawls something about encryption algorithms, but the sound barely registers.

My hands are clasped together in my lap, knuckles white, nails digging crescents into my palms hard enough that I’ll have marks for hours.

It’s the only thing keeping me grounded right now, the only proof that I’m still here, still breathing, still somehow functioning when my entire world just shattered into a thousand jagged pieces.

Janet Wilson’s body in a shallow grave.

My mother’s hands guiding mine, pressing my fingers against cold, dead skin.

And behind them all, directing the scene like some twisted theatrical production—Selena Harpsons.

The memory won’t stop playing. It loops endlessly.

It’s like a horror film on repeat, each viewing revealing new details I’d buried so deep I convinced myself they never existed.

Selena’s voice, calm and authoritative, saying, “Make sure Belle’s DNA is all over her.

” The way my father nodded, obedient. The Queens, standing off to the side like this was just another Tuesday.

And James Harper—Detective fucking Harper—helping to arrange the crime scene.

They made me touch a corpse. They made me complicit in murder. And I was too drugged, too young, too fucking broken to understand what was happening until now.

“Miss Gallagher?”

Professor Austin’s voice cuts through the fog. I blink, realizing the entire class is staring at me. How long have I been sitting here, frozen?

“Yes?” My voice comes out steadier than I expect. Years of playing the perfect daughter have given me a talent for masking trauma.

“I asked if you could explain the difference between symmetric and asymmetric encryption.”

I force my brain to work, to pull from the part of my mind that isn’t screaming.

“Symmetric encryption uses the same key for both encryption and decryption. It’s faster but requires secure key distribution.

Asymmetric encryption uses a public-private key pair—what’s encrypted with one can only be decrypted with the other.

It’s slower but more secure for key exchange. ”

“Very good.” He turns back to the board, and I exhale slowly.

Max glances at me from two seats over, concern creasing his forehead. I can’t look at him. If I meet his eyes right now, I’ll break, and I can’t afford to break. Not here. Not where Selena can see.

Because she’s watching. She has to be. This entire goddamn island is her kingdom, her hunting ground, her carefully constructed trap.

The Gothic architecture isn’t just aesthetic—it’s strategic.

All these corridors, these hidden passages that the founders built, these rooms with their antique furniture and portraits of stern-faced Harpsons ancestors staring down at us.

She knows every inch of this place. She probably knows exactly where we are at any given moment.

The classroom feels suddenly smaller, the walls pressing in.

I catalog the exits—one door at the front, two windows that overlook a three-story drop, and a supply closet that definitely doesn’t lead anywhere useful.

Professor Austin’s desk sits near the door, positioned so he can see everyone.

There’s a security camera in the corner, its red light blinking steadily. Watching. Recording.

My throat tightens.

Does he know? Professor Austin helped Luna before, gave her information, and supported her testimony. But that was against my parents, against the Queens. Does he know that the woman who signs his paychecks, who hired him, who runs this entire institution, is the puppet master behind it all?

I study him as he continues the lecture, noting the way his fingers occasionally tap against his leg in an erratic pattern, how his eyes keep darting to the camera in the corner.

He’s nervous. That could mean anything. Maybe he knows we’re in danger.

Maybe he’s part of it. Maybe he’s just stressed about tenure or grading or any of the thousand mundane problems normal people worry about.

The memory of Janet Wilson’s dead eyes stares back at me from behind my eyelids every time I blink.

I need proof. I need to be absolutely certain before I tell Max, before I tell Luna and Erik, before I do anything that might tip Selena off.

Because if I’m wrong—if this recovered memory is just another implanted false narrative meant to make me paranoid—then I’m about to destroy the one sanctuary we thought we had. But if I’m right…

If I’m right, we walked willingly into The Architect’s arms, and she’s been playing us this entire time.

My stomach churns. The breakfast I forced down this morning threatens to make a reappearance. I swallow hard, breathing through my nose, counting backwards from ten like my psychiatrist taught me. Dr. Specter. God, was she part of this, too? How deep does Selena’s network go?

“Now, as you all know,” Professor Austin says, closing his laptop, “your final projects are due in two weeks. I expect to see practical applications of the encryption methods we’ve discussed. Partner work is acceptable, but each person needs to submit their own code.”

Students around me start packing up their things.

I haven’t taken a single note. My notebook sits open in front of me, the page blank except for a small sketch I don’t remember drawing—a shark’s tooth, the same symbol that marked Max, that marked me, that we’ve been following like breadcrumbs through this nightmare.

“Belle.”

I flinch. Professor Austin is standing beside my desk, and I didn’t even hear him approach. The classroom has mostly emptied. Max lingers near the door, clearly reluctant to leave me alone.

“Are you all right?” Professor Austin asks quietly. There’s genuine concern in his eyes, but I’ve learned the hard way that genuine-looking concern can hide the sharpest knives.

“Fine,” I say, shoving my blank notebook into my bag. “Just tired.”

He glances toward the door, then back at me. His voice drops even lower. “If you need to talk about anything—about what you went through before, about the trial, about any concerns you might have—my office is always open. Confidentially.”

There’s something in the way he emphasizes that last word. A weight to it. An offering, maybe. Or a trap.

“Thank you, Professor.” I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

As I move past him, he catches my wrist. Not roughly, but firmly enough to stop me. Max tenses by the door, ready to intervene.

“Luna trusted me once,” Professor Austin murmurs, so quietly I almost don’t hear him. “I hope you know that some of us never stopped trying to help, even when it became dangerous to do so.”

He releases my wrist and walks back to his desk without another word.

I make it to the hallway before my legs start shaking. Max is beside me instantly, his hand on my lower back, steadying me.

“What did he say to you?”

“Later.” I can barely get the word out. “Not here.”

We walk through the corridors in silence.

Students pass us, laughing and gossiping and complaining about assignments like this is a normal school, like people haven’t died, like we’re not all trapped on an island with a monster wearing a respectable mask.

A few of them stare—Belle Gallagher, the disgraced heiress, daughter of criminals, walking with Max Brooks, son of another tainted family.

We’re the scandal that everyone whispers about.

If only they knew the real scandal sleeping in the administrative building, planning God knows what behind her antique desk.

The morning is still a blur. I remember waking up in Max’s arms in our dorm room, the sunlight streaming through the window making everything seem almost peaceful.

I remember getting dressed, pulling on the uniform that feels more like a costume now—navy blazer, pleated skirt, white blouse.

I remember Max kissing me goodbye because we had different first period classes.

But I don’t remember walking to class. Don’t remember the route I took, don’t remember passing anyone in the hallways, don’t remember sitting down at my desk. It’s like someone hit fast-forward and I just… appeared in Professor Austin’s classroom, already seated, already spiraling.

The gap in my memory sends ice water through my veins.

“Max,” I say, stopping in an empty corridor near the library. “What time did I leave the room this morning?”

He looks at me strangely. “Around eight-fifteen? You said you wanted to grab coffee before class.”

Coffee. Right. Did I get coffee? I don’t remember. I don’t taste it in my mouth, don’t feel the familiar caffeine buzz. My hands go to my bag, searching for a to-go cup, but there’s nothing.

“Belle, what’s wrong?” Max cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. Those dark brown eyes with their gold flecks, the ones that saw me at my worst and didn’t run. “You’re scaring me.”

“I can’t remember.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “I can’t remember getting to class. I can’t remember the walk, or getting coffee, or anything between leaving you and sitting in that classroom.”

His expression shifts from concern to alarm. “What do you mean you can’t remember?”

“I mean there’s a gap. Like someone edited out a chunk of time.” My voice is rising, panic threading through every syllable. “Max, what if they drugged me again? What if—”

“Okay, breathe.” He pulls me against his chest, one hand in my hair, the other rubbing circles on my back. “Breathe. We’ll figure this out.”

But how? How do we figure any of this out when we’re trapped here, when the person who’s supposed to be protecting us is the one we need protection from, when my own memories can’t be trusted, when every corner of this island could hide another nightmare?