Page 22 of Betray Me
My mind races through possibilities, each more disturbing than the last. Luna Queen isn’t supposed to be here. According to my father’s intelligence, she was being groomed for the network’s most exclusive role—the crown jewel of their entertainment division. Her presence at Shark Bay can only mean one thing: something has gone catastrophically wrong.
“This way! The East Wing has the best views of the ocean,” Leyla chatters nervously, clearly unsettled by Luna’s glacial demeanor. “And wait until you see the common room—we just got new furniture last semester, and there’s this amazing window seat where you can watch the storms roll in…”
With growing dread, I watch them walk up three flights of stairs, the camera following them until they approach my door. Surely they’re not—
“Home sweet home!” Leyla produces a key card with a flourish. “Well, for the next year at least. I know it seems a bit old-fashioned, but—”
I hang up the call and focus on the door, waiting for Leyla to open it while the pieces fall into place with sickening clarity. The new roommate Dean Harpsons mentioned. The mid-semester transfer. The “rich girl problems” that Jessica gossiped about.
Luna Queen is my new roommate.
My mind frantically calculates damage control strategies. If Luna recognizes me, if she remembers what we both witnessed that night…
The front door swings open before I can fully process the implications.
“You must be the new girl,” I drawl from my position on the bed, forcing every muscle to remain relaxed despite the adrenaline flooding my system. “I’m Belle Gallagher.”
Luna’s emerald gaze finds mine across the room, and I hold my breath, waiting for recognition to dawn. Waiting for her to scream, to accuse, to remember the blood and the terror and the things we were forced to witness.
Instead, her eyes remain cold but blank. No flicker of familiarity. No acknowledgment of shared trauma.
“Luna Queen,” she replies, her voice giving nothing away. “But you already knew that.”
I study her face with the intensity Dominic trained into me, searching for any crack in her composure. The surveillance photographs in my father’s files never captured the predatory confidence she radiates now, the way she holds herself like someone who’s learned to bite back.
This isn’t the broken victim I expected. This is someone who’s survived the same crucible I have and emerged as a weapon.
“Of course I did,” I say, a slight smile curving my lips. Still nothing. Either her memory has been as thoroughly scrambled as mine, or she’s an even better actress than I am. “Your… departure from Ebonridge University caused quite a stir in certain circles.”
Leyla’s head swivels between us like she’s watching a tennis match. “Oh, you two know each other?”
“Not exactly,” I reply, examining my French manicure to hide my intense focus on Luna’s micro-expressions. “But everyone knows about the Queen family’s black sheep daughter. Tell me, Luna, did Daddy finally get tired of cleaning up your messes?”
It’s a calculated provocation—public enough for Leyla to hear, cutting enough to establish dominance, but vague enough to maintain plausible deniability. I need to see how she responds to direct confrontation.
“Careful, Belle. Your desperation to prove yourself relevant is showing.”
I narrow my eyes. “Did you just threaten me?”
“Take it however you like. But tell me, how does it feel knowing you’ll never actually earn anything in your life?”
It’s a cruel cut, designed to probe at my deepest insecurities. In my experience, network daughters fall into two categories: those who embrace their roles as commodities, and those who desperately try to prove their worth beyond their bodies. I need to know which type Luna is.
My posture shifts, becoming more predatory. “You might want to watch yourself, Queen. You’re not at Ebonridge anymore. Things work differently here.”
“Is that what you call a threat?” An amusement colors her tone. “How quaint.”
“More like a friendly warning. Shark Bay has a very specific pecking order, and right now, you’re at the bottom of it.” I brush a nonexistent piece of lint from my skirt as I stand. “Try not to become a problem we’ll be forced to fix.”
She laughs, sharp enough to make Leyla flinch. “Oh, sweetie. If you think your little high school power games scare me, you clearly haven’t done your research.”
The verbal sparring continues, each exchange a test of boundaries and capabilities. But underneath my calculated provocations, I’m analyzing every detail. The way she moves like a predator despite her apparent youth. The calculated precision of her insults. The complete absence of recognition when she looks at me.
Most disturbing of all is how familiar this feels—not her face or voice, but the dynamic itself. The careful dance of threatand counter-threat, the unspoken understanding that we’re both dangerous in ways ordinary people can’t comprehend.
When I’m finally done, I sweep out of the room, ignoring Leyla, who seems unsettled by the tension. I want to laugh at the absurdity. If only sweet, naïve Leyla knew what she’d just witnessed—two weapons forged in the same hellish crucible, meeting for what might be the second time.
Because the more I replay our interaction, the more certain I become that Luna Queen has no memory of our shared trauma. Either her parents’ conditioning was more thorough than mine, or someone very skilled has selectively edited her memories.
