Page 3 of Betray Me
My father’s voice, even now. Even after everything.
I start walking, my pace measured, my face composed. The perfect mask, the perfect performance. Some habits are harder to break than others.
I should talk to DA David Stone, Erik’s older brother. I should warn Luna. I should contact Detective Harper, who’s been building the case against the remaining network members. But I don’t. First, I need to make sure I’m not being followed, that I’m not leading danger straight to the people I care about.
The irony isn’t lost on me—after spending years as my parents’ spy, I’m now using those same skills to protect the very people I once helped target. Life really is full of surprises, as Luna said. Not all of them are good.
I turn a corner, ducking into a crowded department store, losing myself among the racks of clothing. My mind races, calculating possibilities, escape routes, contingency plans. Thetext could be a bluff, a scare tactic. Or it could mean they know—whoever “they” are—that I’ve been lying about that night, that my convenient memory loss might not be as complete as I’ve claimed.
Either way, the message is clear: it’s not over. Despite the trials, the convictions, the supposed dismantling of the entire operation, someone is still out there. Someone who knows what happened that night. Someone who thinks I told Luna about the body.
Someone who’s been watching us both.
I exit through the back of the store, emerge into an alley, and hail a taxi. As it pulls away from the curb, I glance back one last time, searching the crowded sidewalk for the man in the black coat.
He’s not there. But I know he’s watching.
He’s always watching.
And now, he’s done hiding.
Chapter 2: Aftermath
Before
The television’s glow bathes our living room in an eerie blue light, casting long shadows across antique furniture worth more than most people’s homes. I sit perched on the edge of our Italian leather sofa, my back ramrod straight as I’ve been taught, watching Luna Queen destroy my family with nothing but the truth.
“They drugged me,” she says on screen, her voice steady despite the horror in her eyes. “They’d either slip pills into my drinks at these parties or force me to take them. When I resisted, they used injections. Then they’d…” She pauses, swallowing hard, and the camera zooms in on her face. Perfect television drama. “They’d offer me to their business associates. People with power, money, connections. People whose names you’d recognize.”
My father paces behind me, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the marble floor in a frantic rhythm. Seven steps one way, turn, seven steps back. The sound burrows into my skull like a drill.
“Turn that garbage off,” he snaps, but neither my mother nor I move to obey. We’re transfixed by Luna’s testimony, by the calm, measured way she’s dismantling everything our families have built.
On screen, the prosecutor, David Stone, asks, “And what was the purpose of these gatherings?”
Luna’s emerald eyes harden. “Control. Blackmail. They’d record everything, document every interaction. Then, they’d use the evidence to manipulate people. Business deals, political favors, judicial rulings—anything they wanted.”
My father snatches the remote and turns off the TV with enough force to make me flinch. The sudden silence feels suffocating.
“This is your fault,” he says, turning on me. His face is flushed with rage, a vein pulsing at his temple. “You had one job at that school. One fucking job, Belle. Control Luna Queen. Keep her in line. And you failed.”
I stare at my manicured nails, trying to keep my expression neutral. “She was damaged, Father. More than we anticipated.”
“Damaged?” He barks out a laugh. “She was a fucking weapon. Sebastian trained her too well, and you let her slip through your fingers.”
My mother sits beside me, her posture a mirror of my own—perfect, poised, dead inside. “Richard, please. Yelling won’t solve anything.”
“Federal investigators are circling, Olivia.” My father runs a hand through his silver hair, disheveling his usual immaculate appearance. “They’ve already frozen three of our overseas accounts. It’s only a matter of time before they’re knocking on our door.”
A cold weight settles in my stomach. I’ve never seen him this rattled, this close to losing control. My father, Richard Gallagher, the private equity firm leader, whose name opens doors across the fifty states, whose smile has graced the covers offinancial magazines, whose charitable foundation is praised for its “commitment to vulnerable communities”—is afraid.
“What do they know?” I ask quietly.
He turns to me, eyes narrowing with calculation. “Too much, thanks to your incompetence. Though the Queens aren’t saying—they’re too smart for that—the people around them are like canaries, trying to reduce their sentences by implicating everyone they’ve ever seen around the parties or witnessed the Queens doing business with. Including us.”
“But they can’t prove—”
“They have emails, Belle. Financial transactions. Witness testimony.” He slams his fist against the mahogany side table, making the crystal decanter jump. “They have your friend Luna, painting us all as monsters for the whole fucking world to see.”
