3. Bianca
BIANCA
High school is over.
The crowd’s noise blurs into background static while I scan black gowns and parents with cameras. The diploma holder feels slick in my sweaty palm.
“Bianca!” Mom waves her camera at me, a smile stretched so wide it looks painful. Dad holds her shoulder.
Winston and Clara hover nearby. His arm loops around her waist with that possessive grip I’ve started noticing everywhere. My brother catches my eye. “Congrats, little sis.”
And then there are the four alphas waiting for me.
Ten days since their mouths branded mine. Ten days of replaying every kiss until my lips burn with the memory.
Weller stands in a charcoal suit, his white shirt perfect against his skin. His dark eyes track me through the crowd like he’s memorizing every detail. When our gazes meet, he tilts his head.
Freddie’s face lights up with that grin that could power the whole town. His golden curls fall across his forehead, messy no matter how much he tries to tame them.
Tristan stands near my parents, looking like a hot professor in glasses I’ve never seen him wear before. He twists his mouth into a knowing smile when he catches me staring.
Owen moves restlessly behind the others, all dark jeans and a black shirt. When his dark eyes find mine, he seems to relax.
My heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s going to burst out.
“Over here, honey!” Dad pulls me into a hug.
I clutch my diploma while the graduation gown billows around my legs. I went with a simple dress underneath. Not the bikini, though I bet they’re wondering.
Freddie breaks rank first when I reach my family. His arms wrap around me, lifting me off the ground.
“Our little graduate!” His scent washes over me—honey and cedar that calms my frayed nerves. “So proud of you, Bumblebee.”
He sets me down. Tristan steps forward, mischief dancing in his eyes. His lips brush my cheek, lingering just long enough to spike my pulse. His mouth grazes behind my ear. “Brava, sweetheart.”
Weller approaches next. His hand touches my arm, his thumb brushing once across the bare skin at my wrist. The contact is feather light, but my skin still tingles beneath the surface. “Congratulations, Bianca.”
I stumble over my gown and crash into Owen’s solid wall of warmth and muscle.
“Easy, Princess.” He steadies me, large hands sliding along my waist. The possessiveness of his touch makes my knees weak. He positions me to face him, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “All grown up. Cap and gown suit you.”
“Everything suits her,” Tristan drawls.
I realize I haven’t said a word. Being so close to them after what happened is making my body go crazy.
Mom claps her hands. “Picture time! Boys, get in with Bianca.”
They position themselves around me. Owen keeps me close, his warmth hugs me, tempting me closer. Weller stands beside him. Freddie slides in on my other side, his arm draped across my shoulders. Tristan stands behind me, his chest brushing my spine.
Their closeness calms the restless feeling I’ve had all week.
“Perfect!” Mom raises her camera. “Now smile!”
Winston lunges into the frame, his hand messing up my carefully styled hair with rough fingers. “Can’t leave me out of the shot!”
The flash captures my startled laugh, Winston’s mischievous grin, and four alphas glowering at the interruption.
“Winston!” I swat at him, fingers combing through tangled strands. “Mom, take another one.”
“That was perfect,” she insists, reviewing the photo. “Candid moments are the best!”
“Don’t worry, Princess,” Owen whispers near my ear. “You look beautiful even with your hair messed up.”
My cheeks go hot. Winston’s eyes narrow, flicking between us. I step away from Owen, but his scent clings to me.
“Can you believe it?” Mom sighs, tucking her camera away. “My baby graduated. Not valedictorian like Winston and I were, but still with honors.”
Ah, yes. Never quite measuring up to the Quinn family standard.
“I ranked fifth,” I remind her.
Mom pats my cheek. “Of course, honey. That’s still wonderful.”
Dad gives me a wink. “A perfect GPA and the best heart by far. Don’t let your mom get to you.”
“Fifth is exceptional,” Weller states, his tone brooking no argument. “Bianca has always excelled in what matters to her.”
Mom’s eyebrows rise, surprised by the defense. Clara jumps in to smooth things over. “I just made the top twenty when I graduated. Fifth is incredible.”
Winston drops his arm around my shoulders. “My sister’s brilliant. She just doesn’t feel the need to show off about it.”
“Says the guy who had his valedictorian medal framed,” I shoot back.
“Mom framed it,” he corrects, grinning. “I just didn’t stop her.”
“Bianca!” Whitney cuts into our conversation as she approaches, immaculate in pale peach, her robe already abandoned. Hair falling in perfect blonde waves, makeup flawless despite the afternoon heat.
Her perfume floods the space. I stand straighter, fighting the urge to shrink beside her perfection.
Whitney hugs me like we’re in a movie. “We need to go! The hair and makeup team is already at my house.”
Her eyes skim over the alphas. “Hello, boys. You’re coming to the party, right?”
“We’ll be there,” Freddie confirms.
Whitney links her arm through mine. “Perfect! Bianca and I need to get ready. Looking good is a process.”
“Bianca always looks good.” Owen’s focus remains fixed on me.
Whitney’s grip tightens on my arm. “Sweet, but trust me, once the girls work their magic, she’ll look even better.”
I glance back at the alphas as Whitney pulls me away. “I’ll see you all in a bit.”
“Count on it,” Tristan answers.
Dr. Montgomery intercepts us as we enter the estate. His smile looks forced, cold around the edges.
“Whitney, honey, go get ready. The styling team is waiting. Bianca and I need to discuss an important matter first.”
Whitney’s brow furrows. “Daddy, can’t it wait? We have appointments?—“
“Now, Whitney.” His tone shuts down all arguments.
She huffs but complies, kissing my cheek before heading toward the stairs. “I’ll see you upstairs. Don’t take too long.”
Dread builds with every step I take behind Dr. Montgomery. The smell hits me—a hospital smell that clings to him. This is weird. In all my years as his patient, he’s never brought me to his home office for medical discussions. We’ve always met at his clinic.
“Dr. Montgomery, is everything okay?”
He opens the door to his private study. Medical journals line the walls. His desk holds neat stacks of research papers.
“We need privacy for this conversation.” He gestures to the chair across from his mahogany desk. Not the same examination chair from his office, but somehow it feels just as clinical. Just as ominous.
“Your most recent lab work came back.” He opens a thick file, glancing at his watch. “I had planned to call and have you come into the office next week, but...”
“But what?” I fiddle nervously with the edge of my sleeve.
“Whitney mentioned you’ll be unreachable for weeks. I felt this information shouldn’t wait.” He removes his glasses, cleaning them slowly. “The advanced genetic sequencing uncovered significant developmental abnormalities in your omega designation.”
My chest tightens painfully. “What kind of abnormalities?”
Dr. Montgomery replaces his glasses, meeting my gaze steadily. “Your hormone receptors are severely compromised. The neural pathways essential for omega presentation never properly developed.”
A pause. Then the killing blow.
“Bianca, your omega will never awaken. The biological structures required simply aren’t present. The markers are there genetically, but they’re incapable of activation.”
Never? The word echoes in my skull. He’s never said “never” before. Always “give it time,” always “these things happen differently for everyone.” Never this cold, clinical certainty.
The words punch me, knocking the air right out of my lungs.
“But I am an omega. The tests—” My words feel far away, like someone else is talking.
“Confirmed genetic markers, yes.” His tone becomes colder, matter-of-fact, unyielding.
“But genetics don’t always translate into functionality.
Think of it like having all the correct ingredients but lacking the critical element to trigger the necessary reaction.
Without that activation, nothing happens. ”
But it makes no sense. If I’ll never present, why can I sense my omega just beneath my skin? Why does it feel like it’s trapped, clawing desperately to break free? Why do I know, deep in my bones, that Weller, Freddie, Tristan, and Owen are mine if my omega can’t even wake up enough to claim them?
I taste copper. I’ve bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it.
“What does that mean for my future?” Each word hurts coming out.
“No presentation. No scent. No heats.” He lists each impossibility clinically, precisely, like he’s marking off points in a lecture.
“And unfortunately, your reproductive system hasn’t matured adequately.
Ovarian and uterine development are both insufficient.
Bianca, natural conception simply isn’t possible. ”
A broken sound escapes me before I can stop it.
“I’m sterile.” The word tastes like poison.
All my dreams—gone. No scent. No heat. No them.
“Congenital reproductive dysfunction is the medical term, but... essentially, yes.”
This is so fucked up.
Shame floods my body, a prickling heat. How pathetic am I? All these years believing I was special, thinking I shared an incredible bond with four amazing alphas, when really I’m just... defective.
The words echo cruelly—unlovable, unwanted, useless.
My vision blurs. Tears threaten, but I bite them back. “How long have you suspected this?”
“I’ve had concerns your last few appointments. These specialized tests take time to confirm.” He leans forward, false compassion in his eyes. “I wanted to be absolutely certain before?—”
“Before destroying my life?”
Concerns? He always told me to be patient, that late bloomers are common.