Page 56 of Bitter Truths

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs.

“I’m not your anything.” I adjust my grip on the shiv, ready to use it again if he keeps pushing. “And if you call me Princess one more time, I’ll aim higher.”

“Enough,” Weller commands. “All of you, step back. Now.”

To my surprise and relief, they do. Even Owen takes a limping step backward, though he keeps his eyes on mine.

Weller reaches into his jacket slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. He pulls out a business card and extends it toward me.

“Tomorrow at six,” he says seriously. “One hour. Let us explain what happened. Then if you still want us gone, we’ll leave you alone.”

“You mean that?”

“I give you my word.”

Owen scoffs, blood still seeping from his leg. “Like hell we will.”

The other three turn on him with fury in their eyes.

“Perfect.” I laugh, sharp and bitter. “You can’t even lie convincingly.”

“Owen doesn’t speak for all of us,” Weller says firmly. “I do. And I’m telling you that if you give us one hour tomorrow, we’ll respect whatever decision you make after that.”

I look at the card in his hand. Clean white cardstock with an address written in precise handwriting. Part of me wants to take it. Part of me wants to know—the version of me who wanted answers. Needed them.

But the bigger part of me, the part that remembers the taste of blood in my mouth and the sound of my own screaming, knows better.

All they can do is hurt me more.

I snatch the card from his hand.

“Fine.” I take a step backward. “I’ll think about it.” Another step. “Right now I’m thinking you’re all certifiably fucking insane.”

I turn and bolt.

Through the garden, through the lobby, up three flights of stairs because I can’t stand the thought of being trapped in an elevator. I don’t stop until I’m locked in a bathroom stall, hyperventilating into my bloody hands.

The scratches burn. The taste of roses lingers in my mouth.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny, traitorous thought:

What if they’re telling the truth?

But I know what I saw. I know who they chose.

And I know I’m going to need a much bigger weapon if they keep this shit up.

12

WELLER

Blood soaks through Owen’s jeans, spreading dark and wet down his thigh. He studies the wound with the focus of a man cataloging treasure, pupils blown wide, breathing shallow. His fingers hover over the torn fabric without touching, like he’s memorizing the exact placement.

“She marked me.” Owen’s voice drops to that particular gravel pitch he only gets when he’s fighting for control. “Perfect angle. Just deep enough to bleed without hitting anything vital.”

None of us have felt anything genuine since Bianca’s graduation that didn’t come wrapped in Whitney’s manipulation. And now Bianca’s makeshift blade has cracked him open, reminded him what it feels like to exist instead of merely perform.

But then the implications hit me. The video she mentioned. The one someone sent her while we were incapacitated.