Page 94 of Bitter Truths

I have to stop it. There is no other option for me.

Even if it takes me down in the process.

They’re all living together in Westmont.

How quaint. But it makes things easier for me logistically.

Their stories show the same marble countertops, infinity pool, and walk-in closets stuffed with thousands of dollars' worth of designer clothes, shoes, and purses.

Recent posts show they just returned from meeting Whitney in Europe. Brunches, shopping, perfect white smiles.

The rage builds until my vision tunnels. I can’t just lie here, drowning in fury. I need to regain control and tap into the woman I’ve become. I need to move.

The penthouse gym gleams with state-of-the-art equipment when I find it. Still wearing my oversized hoodie and leggings from last night, I attack the heavy bag with focused precision, each strike sending vibrations up my arms, but it’s not enough. Nothing will be enough until I’m watching them pay for what they did.

My movements flow into a rhythm, muscle memory from years of training guiding me while my mind considers every vulnerability I can exploit. Predictable routines. No real security for their neighborhood, not even a gate. That wouldn’t have been enough to stop me anyway.

Easy targets.

Underneath the planning, Freddie’s breakdown keeps replaying. The way his voice cracked when I demanded they tell me everything. How his hands shook against my waist like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go. He’s terrified for me to know the whole truth because of things they forced on him… on them.

The potential scenarios burn through me, mixing with fury until I have to remind myself to breathe.

I’m deep in my assault on the heavy bag when footsteps echo behind me.

“Jesus Christ.”

The words are quiet, but they slice through my concentration like a blade. Owen. I freeze mid-strike, pulse thundering in my ears.

I turn slowly, and my mouth goes dry.

He stands in the doorway, looking like sin in the flesh, wearing nothing but black sweatpants that hang low on his hips. Every tan muscle is defined to perfection, a body broader than I remember, marked with scars that tell stories I wasn’t there to prevent. His dark hair is messy like he’s been running his fingers through it, and those dark eyes are locked on me. My knees feel soft.

He looks exhausted.

But still, he stares at me like I’m naked instead of drowning in an oversized hoodie and leggings. Like he can see straight through the fabric to every inch of skin underneath.

My hoodie feels too warm. The oversized fabric feels like a barrier between us, and I have the insane urge to strip it off just to feel his gaze on my skin.

Get it together, bitch.

“Having trouble sleeping?” I manage.

“Something like that.” His voice is gravelly, like he’s been awake for hours. His gaze travels over me slowly—taking in my sleep-mussed hair, the way my hoodie has slipped off one shoulder, how my breathing comes fast from exertion. “You?”

“Needed to work off some energy.” The words sound more loaded than I meant them to.

Energy. Right. That’s what we’re calling this burning need to destroy everything that hurt them in my absence.

He steps into the gym, and I catch his scent—blackcurrant, warm spice, and musk underneath that awful rose that makes me see red.

Focus. I need to focus on anything except the way his muscles shift beneath his skin as he moves.

“Want some company?” he asks, moving to the weight rack.

“Sure.” The word escapes before my rational mind can object.

He starts with basic curls, and I try to return to the heavy bag. I try to pick up where I left off planning the girls’ destruction.