Page 73 of Bitter Truths

She continues her story, her voice returning to its earlier detachment. “Then came the official announcement in a group message… and the flood of congratulations.”

Her voice trails off, the pause hanging heavy.

“I opened a message from an unknown number. It had the... recording.”

We all flinch.

Weller looks like he’s going to stand, and for a moment I think he might go to her… but he doesn’t.

Montgomery, Whitney, our fathers… I want to make all of them suffer for every second she spent thinking she was nothing to us.

When she’s always been everything.

“Bianca,” Freddie’s hands reach toward her before he catches himself, pulling them back like he’s been burned. “We didn’t know about any of it. We couldn’t even⁠—”

“I know that now,” she says, and for just a moment her mask slips. It shows us a glimpse of the girl who used to trust us with her whole heart. “I believe you. But then...” She touches her throat unconsciously. “Seeing you all like that. Looking so...”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

“We weren’t in control.” Weller’s voice splinters as he presses his fingers against his temples, like he’s trying to hold back a wave of torment he’s kept buried for years.

“Knowing it was forced doesn’t erase how it made me feel at the time… how it changed everything I thought I knew. It replayed in my head hundreds of times, no matter how much I wanted it to stop.” Bianca sounds haunted, her eyes distant as if she’s watching scenes unfold that no one else can see.

I want to drop to my knees in front of her and beg for her forgiveness, but she is not ready for that yet.

“What did it do to you?” I ask, because I need to know.

She stays quiet for a long time. When she speaks again, I have to strain to hear her.

“It broke something inside me.” Her hand drifts back to her throat, fingers pressing into her skin like she’s remembering. “A fundamental part of me… a load-bearing wall in my soul just... collapsed.”

No one says anything. No one moves.

Our girl suffered. Horribly. She had no warning and no defense. She had to live through the aftermath by herself.

“My body shut down. After that, things got... dark. I spent a month in a psychiatric hospital.”

She says it lightly, as if the words mean nothing, but it’s clear to me just how close we came to losing her.

“What happened after the hospital?” Weller’s elbows are braced on his knees, watching her like he’s readying himself for another blow.

“My mom moved me to this tiny little town for outpatient treatment. She rented a place for me… thought maybe group therapy and mountain air would fix whatever was messed up in my head.”

“Did it?” I ask.

Her laugh is sharp enough to draw blood. “No, but I found ways to deal with it.”

The way she says it suggests there’s a story there, but she’s not sharing details. Not yet.

“What ways?” Freddie’s knee bounces, fingers rubbing absently at the side of his thumb—a nervous habit he’s had since we were kids.

“I learned some new skills. Met some interesting people.” She stands abruptly, clearly done with this line of questioning. Her hands smooth down her clothes in a gesture that seems automatic, like armor being adjusted. “Speaking of which, I should get back to the hospital. Winston’s been showing signs of improvement.”

The sudden change of subject gives me whiplash, but I catch the way she uses her brother’s condition to deflect.

“What kind of signs?” Weller asks, straightening abruptly, all of his focus sharpening at once.

“Moving his fingers when we talk to him.” A genuine smile transforms her face for the first time tonight, and the change is breathtaking. Her posture shifts, shoulders relaxing, that control melting away to show emotion that’s real. “The doctors think he might wake up soon.”