Page 88 of Bitter Truths

We’re all afraid to break her again.

But we’re going to. Not intentionally.

Never intentionally.

That’s the sick joke of it all.

She told me she wasn’t going to leave.

The words I’ve dreamt of hearing night after night after night.

But still, we’ll walk back into Whitney’s cage like good little pets, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it because the consequences for noncompliance we know all too well.

And now, with Bianca back in the mix, Whitney is going to be extra fucking insane.

So we will leave her. Because there is nowhere we can go that they can’t find us. And if they find us, they find her.

How do you protect someone when you’re the danger?

Tristan appears next, already dressed despite the hour. He looks dead on his feet. Dark circles shadow his eyes—he hasn’t been sleeping either.

None of us have slept properly since she walked back into our lives. Too busy soaking up and memorizing every second.

The wild look in her eyes when she broke our shit. The way she tested that knife like greeting an old friend. How she fits against my chest, everything I’ve wanted and nothing like I remembered.

She’s better than memory.

And I want her more than ever.

Weller’s door opens last. He steps out adjusting his cuffs, every inch the composed businessman except for the way his gaze immediately seeks her sleeping form.

He’s hanging by a thread. We all are.

“Time?” he asks.

“Fifteen minutes.”

We need to get to the study. Whitney’s punctual about her morning check-ins and expects us waiting when she calls. Missing it would raise questions we can’t answer.

But moving around the penthouse risks waking Bianca. And if she wakes up, if she overhears...

“She’s exhausted,” I murmur, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. “Won’t wake up for hours.”

Owen runs both hands through his hair. I can feel his rage simmering just beneath the surface—years of this shit, and he still hasn’t learned to hide it.

“Better not.”

A floorboard creaks as Tristan moves toward the study. We all freeze, eyes snapping to Bianca’s sleeping form. She doesn’t stir.

The paranoia is getting worse. Every sound feels amplified, dangerous. We follow like ghosts haunting our own home.

But none of us want Bianca to witness this.

The study smells like leather and books. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, though none of us have touched those books in years. Too busy surviving to read anything for pleasure.

The video setup waits on the mahogany desk—camera positioned, lighting adjusted to hide the exhaustion eating us alive. The lens stares back at us like a dead eye, waiting to transmit our lies across an ocean. My palms are already damp. Nausea churns in my stomach.

We’ve done this dance so many times, muscle memory takes over.