11. Bianca
BIANCA
The makeshift shiv sits warm against my palm, edges sharp enough to punch through skin. I made it on day one from a plastic cafeteria knife, sharpened on concrete in the hospital courtyard until it had a wicked point.
I’m naked without the knife I always carry at home, surrounded by white walls that feel like a cage and the constant threat of them . I needed something that could bite back.
Day three in this fluorescent hellhole. Day three of their bullshit. They’re everywhere. What am I supposed to do? I can’t keep running around this hospital forever while they chase me like wolves.
They’re everywhere. Not together, never together, but always there.
Freddie by the vending machines, pretending to read texts.
Owen in the cafeteria, leaning against a wall.
Tristan waiting for the elevator, casual as anything until our eyes meet for half a second before I bolt.
Weller in the lobby, a book open in his hands, but his attention is nowhere near it.
Why won’t they just leave me the fuck alone? We’re not friends. We’re not anything.
They want to talk. Want to corner me somewhere I can’t run. But I’ve gotten good at running, good at slipping away before they can get close enough to speak. Good at never quite looking at them long enough to see how life with Whitney has changed them.
Not ready for that. Not now, not ever.
But their persistence is wearing me down, making me paranoid and jumpy. Every footstep in the hallway makes me tense. Every whiff of them makes me jittery.
I need to get out of here. Just for an hour or two.
The September sun hits me like I stepped into an oven when I push through the hospital’s main entrance.
Early fall still feels like summer here, air thick and humid even at three in the afternoon.
Downtown stretches across the street—trendy coffee shops and boutiques mixed with the old buildings that have been here since before I was born.
I spot Marigold first, the cafe where Whitney and I used to meet. Where she dropped the bomb about Emma and Tyler. Where everything started unraveling.
Fuck that place. Fuck those memories.
I keep walking until I find a different coffee shop, one that doesn’t come loaded with emotional baggage. The line stretches almost to the door, but I don’t mind waiting. Anything’s better than the hospital’s bitter sludge they try to pass off as coffee.
When I get my dark roast, I head back toward the hospital but detour through the small garden tucked behind the main building.
Patients’ families use it—people who need fresh air and a moment away from the sterile anxiety inside.
Flower beds line winding paths, benches scattered under shade trees. It’s peaceful. Quiet.
Winston’s showing good brain activity. That’s what Dr. Kelty told us this morning. The EEG readings are encouraging—his brain waves indicate normal sleep patterns rather than the deeper unconsciousness they were worried about. Blood flow to his brain looks good. No signs of major damage.
But he’s still not waking up.
It’s a waiting game now, he’d said. His body needs time to heal. These things happen on their own timeline.
Three days. Three days of sitting beside his bed, talking to him, waiting for any sign that he can hear me. Clara rarely leaves his side except when Ben or Matt force her to eat. Mom and Dad take shifts, but I can see the strain wearing on them.
I find an empty bench near a fountain, water trickling over stone in a way that almost drowns out the city noise. I pull out the cell phone Mom pressed into my hand when I arrived— I want a way to reach you, she’d said, like she was afraid I might disappear again—and dial the familiar number.
Ezra picks up on the second ring. “Bianca. How is he?”
“Better. Maybe. The doctors say his brain activity looks good, but he’s still unconscious.” I lean back against the bench, closing my eyes. “How are things there?”
“Quiet. Megan burned dinner last night trying to make that stew you like. Marc had to take over before it was inedible.”
I smile. “Tell her I’ll give her a cooking class when I get back.”
“She misses you. We all do.”
The words hit harder than I expected. “I miss you too, Ezra. All of you. I miss home.”
“How are you holding up? Really?”
I could lie. Tell him I’m fine, handling everything like the strong woman he knows I am. But this is Ezra. He’ll see right through it.
“They’re here.”
Silence on the other end, then a soft exhale. “Remember you’re not the same girl who left...”
“Sometimes I feel like her. Being back has been weird.”
“Then remember your breathing. In for four, hold for four, out for four. Ground yourself. You’re solid. You’re strong. You survived.”
I do what he says, focusing on the rhythm of my breath, the warm weight of the phone in my palm. The fountain keeps trickling, birds chirp somewhere in the hedges.
“Better?”
“Better.”
“Take care of yourself. Eat real food, not hospital vending machine garbage. Sleep when you can. And remember—you don’t owe them anything. Not conversation, not explanations, nothing.”
God, I love this man. Not the way I thought I’d love someone when I was eighteen, but deep, real, and safe. “I know. I just?—”
Their scents slam into me. Honey and cedar. Teakwood and bergamot. Burnt amber with vanilla. Blackcurrant and warm spice. Roses.
Everything stops.
The phone slips from my hand, clattering to the concrete. Every breath feels too small, like my lungs can’t get enough air. The world tilts sideways and I’m eighteen again, dying in a hospital bed while they fucked my best friend.
No. No, no, no.
My hands fly to the soft skin where my scent glands sit dormant beneath the surface. I claw at them desperately, trying to scratch away the omega in me that made me so fucking vulnerable. The skin tears under my nails, but I can’t stop. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.
Get it out. Get it out of me.
The roses. God, the smell of roses mixed with their scents makes bile rise instantly. I stumble toward the trash can and retch, bringing up coffee and acid until there’s nothing left but the taste of betrayal.
“You guys fucking reek,” I gasp between heaves, wiping my mouth with the back of my shaking hand. Blood smears across my fingers from where I clawed my neck.
“Jesus, Bianca—” Freddie’s voice sounds thick with desperation. His eyes are locked on my bleeding throat, hands twitching like he wants to reach for me but doesn’t dare.
“Stay back!” I whip around, backing away from them, one hand still pressed to my bleeding throat. “Don’t you dare come any closer.”
But they’re already there. Surrounding me.
Four faces that look like they’re witnessing their worst nightmare come to life.
Freddie’s eyes are glassy, like he’s about to cry.
Owen’s jaw is clenched so tight I can hear his teeth grinding.
Tristan’s composure has cracked, and Weller looks like someone just ripped his heart out.
“Breathe,” Weller says, in that calm, controlled tone he uses in crisis situations. “You need to breathe.”
“Don’t tell me what to do!” The words tear out of me, raw and jagged.
Freddie takes a small step forward, hands shaking as he reaches out instinctively before stopping himself. “Bianca, please. You’re hurting yourself, and it’s killing me to watch.” His eyes are still fixed on the blood seeping from the scratches.
I look down at my hands and the blood under my fingernails. Just like in the hospital when they had to put mittens on me to stop me from clawing myself apart.
“Good,” I spit. “Maybe if I hurt myself enough, you’ll leave me alone.”
“Fuck, no.” Owen says raggedly. “Don’t say that. Don’t fucking say that.”
The pain that flickers across their faces would be satisfying if I could feel anything other than panic and rage. Freddie looks like he’s about to fall apart.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Owen promises.
“You need to,” my words are quiet. “You need to leave me alone.”
“We did,” Tristan takes a careful step closer. “For five years, Bianca.”
“Because I was hiding in the fucking woods! From you!” I’m hyperventilating now, black spots dancing at the edges of my vision. “Because I never wanted to see you again!”
“We need to explain,” Weller insists. “What you think happened?—”
“I don’t think anything,” I spit back. “I know what happened.”
They exchange concerned glances.
“Bianca,” Freddie says desperately, “there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” The laugh that escapes me is high. “I saw you. I saw all of you. There’s no misunderstanding when I received a copy of your sex tape for my own personal viewing.”
“Fuck,” Tristan breathes.
Owen looks like someone punched him in the gut. “What sex tape?”
“What did you see?” Weller asks carefully, his voice strained.
“Don’t.” I shake my head violently, fresh tears starting to fall. “Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know. Someone sent it to me. Whitney, I guess. Or maybe one of you wanted to make sure I got the message loud and clear.”
“Jesus Christ,” Freddie swears, and I think he is crying… “Bianca, we never?—”
“We didn’t know,” Tristan confirms.
“You’re all liars.” The words come out cold, slicing.
“We need to have this conversation,” Weller says, his voice rougher than I’ve ever heard it. “This isn’t optional.”
“No.” I’m backing away again, my whole body screaming at me to run. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. I don’t want to hear how it ‘just happened’ or how you ‘couldn’t help yourselves.’”
“It’s not an excuse,” Owen says, and he takes a step toward me. “It’s the truth.”
“Stay away from me.” I reach for the shiv in my pocket, muscle memory taking over. “I’m not the same stupid girl who believed your bullshit.”
But Owen doesn’t stop. He keeps walking toward me, slow and deliberate, like he’s stalking prey.
“I mean it, Owen.” The familiar weight of the weapon in my hand grounds me, reminds me who I am now. “Back off.”
He takes another step. Then another.
“You’re not going to hurt me, Princess.”
The nickname makes me snap.
Before I can think, the shiv is out and moving, sliding into his thigh. Not deep enough to hit anything vital, but deep enough to make him remember that I’m not his fucking princess anymore.
Owen hisses through his teeth, looking down at the blood spreading across his jeans. When he looks back up at me, he’s smiling.
“There’s my girl,” he murmurs.
“I’m not your anything.” I adjust my grip on the shiv, ready to use it again if he keeps pushing. “And if you call me Princess one more time, I’ll aim higher.”
“Enough,” Weller commands. “All of you, step back. Now.”
To my surprise and relief, they do. Even Owen takes a limping step backward, though he keeps his eyes on mine.
Weller reaches into his jacket slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. He pulls out a business card and extends it toward me.
“Tomorrow at six,” he says seriously. “One hour. Let us explain what happened. Then if you still want us gone, we’ll leave you alone.”
“You mean that?”
“I give you my word.”
Owen scoffs, blood still seeping from his leg. “Like hell we will.”
The other three turn on him with fury in their eyes.
“Perfect.” I laugh, sharp and bitter. “You can’t even lie convincingly.”
“Owen doesn’t speak for all of us,” Weller says firmly. “I do. And I’m telling you that if you give us one hour tomorrow, we’ll respect whatever decision you make after that.”
I look at the card in his hand. Clean white cardstock with an address written in precise handwriting. Part of me wants to take it. Part of me wants to know—the version of me who wanted answers. Needed them.
But the bigger part of me, the part that remembers the taste of blood in my mouth and the sound of my own screaming, knows better.
All they can do is hurt me more.
I snatch the card from his hand.
“Fine.” I take a step backward. “I’ll think about it.” Another step. “Right now I’m thinking you’re all certifiably fucking insane.”
I turn and bolt.
Through the garden, through the lobby, up three flights of stairs because I can’t stand the thought of being trapped in an elevator. I don’t stop until I’m locked in a bathroom stall, hyperventilating into my bloody hands.
The scratches burn. The taste of roses lingers in my mouth.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a tiny, traitorous thought:
What if they’re telling the truth?
But I know what I saw. I know who they chose.
And I know I’m going to need a much bigger weapon if they keep this shit up.