Page 21 of Bitter Truths

I move toward them, and they close the distance.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming.”

“Said we would, didn’t we?” Owen takes me in shamelessly.

“You clean up nice, Bumblebee.” Freddie grins, adjusting the bee necklace so it’s centered.

The nickname that used to make me melt now feels like a cruel joke.

“That dress...” Tristan circles me like I’m artwork. “On you, exquisite.”

“You look beautiful, Bianca.” Weller’s gaze lingers on the necklace.

Their praise should warm me. Instead, it cuts deep. Beautiful, broken, barren. The three B’s of my existence.

I’ll never be able to give them what they need.

“Thanks.” I smooth the fabric of my dress nervously. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you all...”

Their faces turn serious, curiosity replacing casual conversation.

“About?” Weller places his hand on my lower back, guiding me toward the door.

His touch crackles across my skin like static, leaving goosebumps in its wake. My traitor body hums in response, nerve endings lighting up despite everything I know. The bitter taste of irony fills my mouth—how perfectly I respond to them when I’m so fundamentally flawed in every way that counts.

“Not here. Too many people,” I hedge.

Owen’s brow furrows. “Are you okay?”

No. Nothing is okay. “Let’s find somewhere quiet.”

“The gazebo near the woods,” Tristan suggests.

I used to be excited about this moment. Now I just want to dig a hole and bury myself.

Will they let me down easy? Want to be friends?

“Bianca!” Whitney materializes, breathless and flushed. “There you are!” She registers the alphas with a bright smile. “Oh good, you all made it.”

“Whitney.” Weller nods at her briefly.

“Can I steal Bianca for just one minute?” She tugs at my arm.

Part of me wants to resist, to get this over with. But another part feels grateful for the delay. Maybe I can work up the courage to go through with it.

I look back at them. “Five minutes?”

“We’ll be by the pool,” Freddie calls after me.

Whitney drags me upstairs to her bedroom and kicks the door shut.

“What do you need, Whit?”

“I wanted to make us a graduation cocktail. My own creation.”

“I don’t⁠—“

“One drink,” she insists. “To celebrate properly. Daddy’s been having security confiscate drinks. Too much risk, he said.”