18. Freddie #2
“Of course,” Weller manages.
“Good boys.” The condescension drips from her voice. “Now, I simply must ask—you haven’t been entertaining any visitors while I’m away, have you? The reports mentioned some... concerning deviations from your usual patterns.”
My vision tunnels.
So she knows about the hospital visits.
But if she knew about the penthouse... we would be talking to a different version of Whitney entirely.
Or she would be home already.
Thank fuck for Tristan’s paranoia. The security feeds for the entire building have been looping old footage for days.
“Visitors?” Tristan asks, his voice steady.
“Oh, you know.” Whitney examines her nails, that smile never faltering. “Old friends. People who might remind you of... inappropriate loyalties.”
The threat is clearer now. But she’s fishing, not accusing. She doesn’t have proof.
“We’ve been to the hospital,” I say, automatically smoothing over the tension. “Checking on Winston Quinn after his accident. You know how close we all were in school.”
“Yes, I heard about that. So tragic. And I’m sure you haven’t encountered anyone who might... confuse your priorities, right?”
She’s probing, not attacking.
“Such as?” Owen’s voice comes out flat.
Whitney’s smile widens, showing teeth. “Well, word travels in our circles. Apparently, Winston’s dear sister has crawled out of whatever hole she’s been hiding in. How... nostalgic that must be for you.”
Fuck . She definitely knows Bianca’s back.
“Haven’t seen her,” Weller lies. His fingers don’t move on the desk, but I catch the slight tension in his shoulders.
“Haven’t you?” Whitney’s laugh could cut. “How disappointing. I was hoping we might have a chance to... reconnect. I do so enjoy reunions. They can be very educational.”
The way she says educational makes my skin crawl.
Does she think we’re following orders, avoiding Bianca like good little alphas? Or is this just another trap?
“Hospitals are busy places,” Tristan says.
“Indeed they are. I’ll review hospital footage when I get home just to be sure.” Whitney leans closer to the camera, that mark on her neck dark. “If you do happen to run into little Bianca, do give her my warmest regards. Tell her I’ve been thinking about her. Quite a lot.”
She pauses, examining her manicure with eerie casualness.
“You know, I’ve always believed in protecting what’s mine.
And I can be… thorough when it comes to those who don’t respect boundaries.
” Her smile never wavers. “I do hope you boys remember who you belong to. It would be such a shame if old... friends… clouded your judgment. I’m quite the problem solver. ”
The threat wraps around my throat like a noose. She’s warning us off. Threatening Bianca if we get too close.
But she doesn’t know we already have.
She doesn’t know she’s sleeping just feet away from us.
She doesn’t know the obsession burning within all of us. The urge to grab her and run—and say fuck the trackers, fuck the bond.
Fuck all of it.
“Speaking of protection,” she continues, voice light as air, “Owen, darling, do give my love to your family. Your sister especially. Such a sweet girl. I do hope she continues to enjoy that art school she loves so much. It would be terrible if any... complications arose for her. Or her safety.”
Owen goes still beside me. Every muscle locks into place.
She’s threatening his sister. Again.
“We understand,” Weller says, the words coming out measured.
“I knew you would.” Whitney’s beam could blind the stars. “You’ve always been such quick learners. All of you.”
She lets that sit, the weight of years of conditioning settling around us like chains.
But I’ve smiled my way through worse than this.
Even if it feels like it’s killing me.
“Now then, I really must dash. Daddy has presentations until noon, but I have a spa appointment. Can’t return looking anything less than perfect for our reunion.” She winks, and the gesture feels like a slap. “I’ll call tomorrow at the same time.”
The screen goes black.
Silence crashes over us like a wave.
The threats linger in the air—not just the performance, or Owen’s sister, who has been used as leverage many times in the past, but the absolute certainty that Whitney will come for Bianca the moment she’s back.
“When she reviews the hospital footage, she’ll know,” Owen says, his voice hollow.
“Yes,” Weller confirms. “But we might buy a little time if we play along and don’t give her a reason to look closer.”
“She doesn’t know about the penthouse. That’s obvious.” My hands won’t stop shaking. “Tristan’s security loops are holding.”
“For now,” Tristan replies, already pulling up feeds on his phone.
We’re not just risking ourselves. We’re putting Bianca in danger every minute we spend with her.
“There might be things we should tell Bianca,” I say carefully. “About what happens if we try to break free. If what Dr. Montgomery claimed is accurate.”
Owen’s jaw ticks. “We don’t know if that’s real.”
“Don’t we?” The words taste bitter. “He seemed pretty confident when he explained the... safeguards.”
Chemical dependency. Biological fail-safes. Bodies turning against themselves if we tamper with the bond or try to avoid our next doses.
Death disguised as freedom.
It’s what they’ve told us for years.
Dr. Montgomery’s insurance policy.
“Could be lies,” Weller says, but his voice lacks conviction. “Fear tactics to keep us compliant.”
“Or it could be real,” Tristan adds quietly. “And we’re one attempt at freedom away from killing ourselves and leaving Bianca to fend for herself.”
The uncertainty is almost worse than the truth. We swing between guarded hope that it’s all a lie and the sick fear that they’re truly that diabolical. Dr. Montgomery and Whitney are capable of anything.
“A few more days,” Tristan murmurs. “Until Whitney returns and finds out we’ve been lying to her face.”
Time is running out faster than blood from a fresh wound.
We’ve put Bianca in considerable danger just by being near her.
The unfairness of it makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
I picture Bianca curled up on the couch while Whitney sharpens the knife behind her back. We need to figure out a way to protect her.
How? No fucking clue.
She’d be better off returning to the woods.
She has no idea how much she’s already saved us just by being here. How much these stolen moments mean when you’ve been counting down to the end for years.
We’ve been ghosts, going through the motions, surviving each day, planning for an escape that never came.
She gives us something worth fighting for, even if we can’t win.
From the living room comes the soft sound of movement—Bianca adjusting in her sleep, unaware of the conversation happening twenty feet away.
She doesn’t know she’s already on Whitney’s radar.
The countdown has begun.
And I’m terrified we’re going to lose her all over again.
But I don’t see an outcome where we don’t.
We’re fucked. She’s fucked.
She just doesn’t know it yet.