Page 14 of Betray Me
“I think education comes in many forms,” I reply carefully. “Some lessons are taught in classrooms. Others are learned through observation and experience. Both have their value.”
“Indeed.” Wagner’s smile is all teeth. “And what have you observed tonight?”
My mouth goes dry. This is it—the moment that will determine whether I become a spy or remain a victim. I glance at Father, seeing the expectation in his eyes, the threat beneath his composed exterior.
“I’ve observed that Judge Patterson drinks more when he’s nervous, and he’s been very nervous tonight. I’ve observed that Senator Caldwell keeps checking his phone—seventeen times in the past hour. And I’ve observed that you’re not actually interested in my education at all.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Wagner’s expression shifts from amusement to something sharper, more calculating.
“Perceptive,” he murmurs. “Perhaps too perceptive.”
“Intelligence is only dangerous when it’s uncontrolled,” Father intervenes smoothly. “Belle understands the importance of discretion. Don’t you, darling?”
“Of course, Father.” I curtsey slightly, the picture of obedience. “Knowledge is power, but only when properly directed.”
Wagner studies me for another long moment before nodding. “Sebastian was right. The Gallagher bloodline produces exceptional specimens.”
The word ‘specimens’ makes my skin crawl, but I maintain my composure. I’ve passed the test, but at what cost?
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of careful observation and strategic positioning. I catalog conversations, memorize faces, file away details that might prove useful later. By the time the last guest leaves, my mental notebook is full of secrets and leverage.
Father finds me in the library afterward, where I’m pretending to read while processing everything I’ve learned.
“Well?” he asks, settling into the chair across from me.
I close the book—Machiavelli’sThe Prince, how fitting—and meet his gaze. “Judge Patterson is being blackmailed, but not by you. Someone has photos of him with boys from the private school scandal three years ago. Senator Caldwell’s wife is pregnant, but not with his child—the timeline doesn’t match his travel schedule. And Morrison is embezzling from the network to cover his media company’s losses.”
Father’s poker face slips for just a moment, surprise flickering across his features. “How did you—”
“Patterson keeps touching his phone like it’s burning him, and he mentioned ‘St. Andrew’s Academy’ twice—that’s where the scandal broke. Mrs. Caldwell hasn’t touched alcohol all evening and keeps pressing her hand to her stomach. As for Morrison...” I shrug. “His Rolex is a fake. A very good fake, but the weight is wrong. A man doesn’t replace a fifty-thousand-dollar watch with a replica unless he’s desperate.”
Pride and something darker war in Father’s expression. “Impressive. Truly impressive.”
“Does this mean I’ve earned my career change?”
“It means you’ve earned a trial period.” He stands, moving to pour himself a brandy from the crystal decanter. “There will be training, of course. Proper techniques for information gathering, memory retention, behavioral analysis. You’ll need to learn to be invisible, to make people forget you’re in the room while you catalog their secrets.”
Relief floods through me so powerfully that I nearly collapse. “Thank you, Father. I won’t disappoint you.”
“No,” he agrees, his voice carrying an odd note. “I don’t believe you will.”
He raises his glass in a mock toast. “To Belle Gallagher—my newest intelligence asset.”
I should feel victorious. I’ve negotiated my way out of the worst aspects of my situation, found a path that might lead to something resembling survival. But as Father hands me a small crystal glass filled with champagne—champagne I’m too young to be drinking—something cold settles in my stomach.
“A toast to celebrate your new role,” he says, raising his glass. “Drink up, darling. This calls for a proper celebration.”
The champagne tastes wrong—too sweet, with an underlying bitterness that makes my tongue tingle. But Father is watching expectantly, so I drain the glass, forcing a smile as the liquid burns down my throat.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and there’s something almost pitying in his tone. “Now, there’s one final lesson you need to learn about your new position.”
The room starts to blur around the edges, sounds becoming muffled and distant. My limbs feel heavy, disconnected from my body.
“Father?” The word slurs as it leaves my lips. “What’s happening?”
“Insurance, Belle. You’ve proven you can gather information, but can you keep secrets? Can you forget when forgetting serves the family’s interests?”
Panic claws at my chest as I realize what’s happening. The champagne was drugged—the same cocktail of chemicals they use on the other girls, the ones who need their memories adjusted.
