Page 23 of Betray Me
Which raises the terrifying question: if she doesn’t remember what we witnessed that night, what else has been taken from her? And more importantly—what happens when those memories start coming back?
I retrieve my encrypted phone and compose a message to Dominic:Luna Queen has arrived at Shark Bay. No apparent recognition of previous contact. Advise on approach.
His response comes within minutes:Monitor closely. Do not engage directly without approval. Report any signs of recovered memory immediately. She’s our highest priority. Status UNSTABLE.
I stare at the phone until the screen goes dark, my mind racing through implications. Luna Queen’s presence here isn’t coincidence—it’s strategy. But whose strategy? And what role am I supposed to play in whatever game is unfolding?
Outside the East Wing’s windows, the ocean crashes against the cliffs with relentless fury. Soon, I know I’ll need to choosebetween the life I’ve built and the truth that’s been buried in my memories. Between the weapon I’ve become and the victim I once was.
But tonight, I have a new variable to account for. Luna Queen is here, and whether she remembers or not, her presence changes everything.
The game has just become infinitely more dangerous.
Chapter 9: Unlikely Alliance
Now
The knock on my door comes at exactly 9:47 PM, soft enough to be mistaken for the old building settling but persistent enough to demand attention. I’ve been expecting this conversation since our encounter in Stone’s office, though I’m surprised it took Max three days to work up the courage.
I open the door to find him leaning against the frame, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Gone is the cocky confidence I remember from chemistry class. In its place is something rawer, more honest. His usually perfectly styled dark hair is now disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it, and there’s a tension in his shoulders that speaks of sleepless nights.
“We need to talk,” he says without preamble.
I step aside to let him in, hyperaware of how small my dorm room suddenly feels with his presence filling it. He moves to the window, staring out at the dark campus below. The moonlight catches the sharp line of his jaw, and I have to force myself to focus on his words rather than the way the shadows play across his features.
“My family’s fucked,” he says bluntly, still not looking at me. “Not as deep as yours, but close enough to drown when this all comes out.”
I settle into my desk chair, maintaining distance between us. “What’s their part in it?”
He turns then, and I see the exhaustion in his eyes. “Money laundering. Mostly. My father’s hedge fund cleaned cash for your parents’ operations, no questions asked. He told himself it was just business—rich families moving money around to avoid taxes. But he knew. Deep down, he fucking knew.”
The admission hangs between us like a confession. I study his face, looking for tells, for signs of deception. But there’s nothing calculated about his posture, nothing rehearsed about the way his voice cracks slightly on the last words.
“Why tell me this?” I ask.
“Because I think we can help each other.” He moves closer, and I catch his scent, something clean and masculine that makes my pulse quicken despite myself. “You have information about the network’s structure that could save my family. And I have resources, connections that could help you disappear if things go sideways.”
“Disappear?”
“New identity. Clean papers. Enough money to start over somewhere your father’s reach can’t find you.” His eyes bore into mine. “I’ve been planning my exit strategy for months, Belle. Ever since I realized what my family was really involved in.”
The offer is tempting—terrifyingly so. But I’ve learned not to trust gifts that seem too perfect. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Just mutual survival.” He sits on the edge of my bed, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. “We pool our resources, share information, watch each other’s backs until this shitstorm blows over.”
I want to believe him. More than that, I want to trust someone—anyone—with the burden I’ve been carrying alone. But trust is a luxury I’ve never been able to afford.
“Show me,” I say. “Show me something that proves you’re serious.”
Without hesitation, Max pulls out his phone, scrolling through what appears to be a secure messaging app. He hands it to me, and my breath catches as I read the conversation between him and someone labeled “Asset Protection.”
Transfer complete. $2.3M clean, offshore accounts activated. Papers ready for pickup.
And the girl?
Working on it. She’s skittish. Needs to believe it’s her idea.
Time is running short. The investigation is accelerating.
