Page 20 of Betray Me
There it is—arrogance mixed with a need to impress. I widen my eyes with calculated admiration. “That’s incredible. Your family must be so proud of your knowledge.”
“They would be, if they paid attention to anything beyond profit margins.” The bitterness in his voice is real, giving me another opening to exploit.
“Family pressure is the worst,” I murmur, letting my own practiced vulnerability show. “Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in expectations.”
Nicolas’s expression shifts, becoming more interested. “Exactly. People see the money and privilege but not the cost.” He pauses, studying my face. “You’re not what I expected, Belle Gallagher.”
“What did you expect?”
“Another vapid socialite trading on her family name. But there’s something deeper about you. Something almost… dangerous.”
I force myself to laugh, the sound light and musical. “Dangerous? Me? I think you’re giving me too much credit.”
But his eyes remain serious, searching my face for secrets I can’t let him find. “Maybe. Or maybe you’re exactly as dangerous as I think you are.”
The words send ice through my veins, but I maintain my smile. If Nicolas suspects what I really am, he could ruin everything. I make a mental note to be more careful around him—and to consider whether he might require the contents of my hidden vial.
***
That evening, I found myself in Professor Austin’s Modern Political Theory seminar, scanning my fellow students withpredatory focus. Austin himself is on Father’s watch list—his research into power structures and exploitation hitting too close to uncomfortable truths. It doesn’t help that his main passion is computer science, which he also teaches, and that he’s really good at coding and getting through all sorts of firewalls if incentivized. I need to identify which students might be susceptible to his influence.
“Miss Gallagher,” Professor Austin’s voice cuts through my observations. “What’s your opinion on Foucault’s analysis of disciplinary power?”
I straighten, calling upon the education that’s made me such an effective weapon. “Foucault argues that modern power operates through surveillance and normalization rather than force. The subject becomes complicit in their own control by internalizing the observer’s gaze.”
“Interesting interpretation. And do you think this applies to our current social structures?”
The question is loaded, a test to see how I’ll respond. I feel the weight of my classmates’ attention, knowing that my answer will position me for the semester.
“I think Foucault’s observations are academically fascinating,” I reply carefully, “but perhaps too theoretical for practical application. Real power structures are far more complex than any single academic framework can encompass.”
Austin’s eyes narrow slightly, but he nods. “A measured response. We’ll revisit this as we explore more contemporary examples.”
I smile blandly, but inside I’m calculating. Austin is fishing for students who might be sympathetic to his research. I need to position myself as intellectually engaged but not politically radical—close enough to monitor him without raising suspicion.
After class, a girl with striking honey-blonde hair and a backpack covered in dolphins approaches me. “That was brilliantly diplomatic,” she says, her school uniform perfectly pressed. “I’m Leyla Clark.”
“Belle Gallagher,” I manage, extending my hand with practiced grace. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
Her brown eyes study me with unsettling intensity, as if she can see through my carefully constructed façade. “No, we haven’t. However, I feel like I should know you. Your name seems familiar.”
“Probably from the financial papers. My father’s always in the news.” I keep my voice light, but my mind races. Does she recognize me from somewhere? Have our paths crossed before?
“Perhaps.” Leyla’s smile is enigmatic. “We should have coffee sometime. I’ll be happy to introduce you to everyone. It’s not easy changing schools in the middle of the year. What did you do? Were you expelled? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Shark Bay is known to be a safe haven for rich troublemakers after all.”
As soon as her flurry of words is out, she shrugs and walks away without even giving me a chance to respond. I’m left with the uncomfortable sensation that she knows something I don’t. I watch her go, noting the way other students seem to ignore her. Maybe she’s not the best person to give me access to the school’s inner circle.
I need to get close to whoever runs the school, and I need to do it very, very carefully.
***
Back in my suite that night, Jessica chatters about her day while I pretend to listen. She’s already become a fount of information about our classmates—who’s sleeping with whom, which professors play favorites, which families are struggling financially despite appearances.
“Oh, and stay away from Leyla Clark,” Jessica says casually while applying her night cream. “She might seem innocent and even silly at times, but there are rumors about her family. Dark stuff.”
“What kind of rumors?” I ask, projecting mild curiosity rather than burning interest.
“The dangerous kind that landed her at Shark Bay,” Jessica’s voice drops to a whisper. “My dad says the Clarks are connected to the Italians from New Jersey. You know, the mafia.”
