Page 38 of Betray Me
My pulse quickens as I gather more photos, tracing his presence through weeks of surveillance. He’s there when Luna walks to class, when she meets Erik at the library, when she sits alone on the cliffs. Always watching, never approaching.
It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t be possible. Shark Bay is on a private island belonging to the school and no one else.
Who is he? How did he get access to the island?
My blood turns to ice as I realize where I’ve seen him before. I stumble to my closet, pulling out a shoebox filled with childhood photographs—the few personal items I was allowed to keep when I came to Shark Bay. My hands shake as I flip through family pictures, looking for something I pray I won’t find.
There. A photo from my thirteenth birthday party, taken in our mansion’s grand ballroom. Mother stands beside the cake, elegant in her emerald gown, smiling for the camera. And in thebackground, barely visible behind a pillar, stands the same man. The same dark coat, the same predatory stillness.
He was watching us then, too. Watching me.
I grab more photos, my heart hammering against my ribs. There he is again at a family gathering when I was eleven. And again at a charity gala when I was fourteen. Always in the background, always observing, always ready to disappear if anyone looked too closely.
My laptop screen flickers as I scan the photos, enhancing the images to see his face more clearly. But he’s too careful, too practiced at avoiding direct camera angles. All I can make out is a strong jawline, dark hair, and eyes that seem to miss nothing.
Who is he? And why has he been watching my family for years?
I reach for my encrypted phone, intending to contact Dominic for more information. But something stops me. A voice in my head—not quite conscience, but something close to it—whispering that some knowledge is too dangerous to seek.
Instead, I open my laptop and begin cross-referencing the dates from the photographs with my family’s social calendar, looking for connections. The pattern that emerges makes my stomach lurch.
Every major family decision over the past five years can be traced to periods when this man appeared in our surveillance. When Father decided to send me to Shark Bay. When Mother’s business partnerships shifted. When certain “problems” disappeared from our lives.
We’re not just being watched. We’re being managed.
I thought Sebastian Queen to be my father’s puppet master, but what if the master is just another puppet? One more in the sea of many.
My wineglass slips from my numb fingers, shattering against the hardwood floor. Red liquid spreads like blood across the pristine surface, staining the Persian rug Father bought me for my sixteenth birthday.
The investigation folders suddenly feel like evidence of something far more sinister than I understood. I thought I was gathering intelligence on Luna Queen, thought I was playing chess in a game where I understood the rules. But what if I’m just another piece being moved around the board by someone whose identity I don’t even know?
My hands shake as I gather the photographs, hiding them beneath layers of innocuous school papers. The wine makes everything feel surreal, like I’m watching someone else’s life unfold in horrifying slow motion. But even through the alcohol, the implications are crystal clear.
My family—powerful, influential, seemingly untouchable by all but the Queens—has been under surveillance for years. Which means whatever network we’re part of, whatever system gave us our wealth and status, isn’t controlled by us at all.
We’re employees, not employers. Products, not producers.
I think of Luna, of the way she moves through the world like someone who knows exactly how dangerous it is. Of the calculated risks she takes, the alliances she forms, the carefulway she never fully trusts anyone. Maybe her paranoia isn’t psychological damage.
Maybe it’s intelligence.
My phone buzzes again. Another message from Dominic:Meeting tomorrow. 2 PM. Bring complete files.
I stare at the text, my mind racing through possibilities. If I show him these photographs, if I reveal what I’ve discovered about our mysterious observer, what happens then? Does the information protect me or damn me? Does it make me more valuable to the organization or more dangerous to keep alive?
The smart play would be to bury this discovery, pretend I never noticed the pattern. Continue my supervision of Luna without revealing that I’ve stumbled onto something bigger. Keep playing the role of dutiful spy while quietly gathering evidence of the forces really controlling our lives.
But some truths can be too dangerous to ignore, even when uncovering them might destroy everything I think I know about my place in the world.
I pour another glass of wine, my movements steady despite the chaos in my mind. Tomorrow, I’ll meet with Dominic, deliver a carefully edited version of my findings. I’ll continue gathering surveillance information on Luna Queen while secretly investigating the forces that have been shaping our lives from the shadows.
But tonight, surrounded by photographs and wine and the weight of terrible knowledge, I allow myself one moment of honesty.
Luna Queen isn’t my enemy. She’s my mirror.
And somewhere in the darkness, someone far more dangerous than either of us is watching, waiting, planning our next moves in a game where the rules have never been explained to the players.
The Gothic spires outside my window no longer look like shelter. They look like prison bars, elegant and imposing but ultimately designed to keep us contained.
