Page 74 of Bitter Truths

Relief sweeps through all of us in a single, collective exhale.

“That’s incredible news,” Freddie breathes, shifting like he’s about to stand and hug her before thinking better of it.

“Yeah.” She’s already moving toward the door, and I feel panicked by it. Her movements are quick, efficient, like she’s escaping rather than simply leaving. “Which is why I need to be there.”

“I’ll arrange a car,” Weller stands and grabs his phone.

“I don’t need–“

“Humor us,” I interrupt, letting firmness slip into my tone to show I’m not leaving room for argument. “We spent years having no idea if you were safe, hurt, or worse. Forgive us for being protective.”

“Fine,” she says after a moment.

“I’ll walk you down,” I volunteer before anyone else can claim the privilege.

She looks at me suspiciously but nods.

Owen’s gaze drills into me, possessive jealousy flaring in his eyes, clearly resenting me for stepping in and taking away his chance to be alone with her.

The elevator doors slide shut, trapping us together. Bianca presses herself against the mirrored wall, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her fingertips dig hard into her own skin, like she’s fighting to stay in control. Her scent invades my senses—warm, sweet, achingly familiar. Every muscle in my body goes tight with the sudden need to move closer.

I take one deliberate step forward, then another, closing the distance until there’s almost no space left between us. Her breathing quickens, pulse fluttering visibly at the base of her throat. I want to taste it, feel it under my tongue.

“Personal space, Tristan,” she murmurs quietly, eyes fixed steadily on mine.

I lift one hand, placing my palm flat against the elevator wall just beside her head, boxing her in without touching her. I lean closer, crowding her further into the wall, until there’s only a breath between us. “Is this better?” The words come out rough and low, carrying an unspoken challenge.

Instantly, her hands lift, pressing firmly against my chest to stop my advance. The sudden contact burns straight through my shirt, igniting a desperate need to put my hands on her. I swallow hard, my heart slamming against my ribs.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she challenges, eyes never leaving mine.

“Getting a closer look,” I whisper, lowering my face toward hers, my mouth just inches from those soft, parted lips.

Her eyes narrow as her fingers curl slowly into my shirt. “Did I give you permission?”

The words sink deep beneath my skin, locking every muscle into place, leaving me desperate and on edge. I’m frozen, inches from tasting her again, from reclaiming the mouth that’s haunted me night after night. Every instinct demands I beg her to let me close the distance, erase the boundary she’s placed between us, but before I can respond, the elevator doors open with a quiet chime.

She lets go abruptly, ducking under my arm and moving out into the lobby, taking all her delicious warmth with her. I’m left with nothing but the ghost of her hands still burning where she touched me.

She pauses, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Goodnight, Tristan.”

Then she walks to the waiting car without another look, leaving me alone, breathing raggedly and needing more.

Just like that, she’s gone again.

16

BIANCA

I slouch in the uncomfortable chair beside Winston’s bed, watching his face for any sign of change. His responsiveness today is reassuring, but we’re still waiting for him to fully wake up.

One, two, three, four. In through my nose. Hold. One, two, three, four. Out through my mouth.

My fingers tremble. I press them against my thighs, feeling the rough denim under my palms. Focus on that texture.

Whitney drugged them. Bonded them. Used them. Hurt them.