Chapter 28
Wyatt
Bastion catches up to me in the foyer. “What the fuck, Wyatt? How long have you had that draft?”
Bastion’s voice echoes up the staircase and into every crevice of the manor.
My head is a rattle of leftover adrenaline.
I try to respond, but my tongue is thick with the aftertaste of the meltdown.
My fingers itch to get online and scour the administration dashboard for Royals Anonymous and find out how this happened and who did it.
“I didn’t write it,” I say. “I mean—I didn’t write that one.”
Bastion’s jaw flexes. His eyes have gone bloodshot at the rims. “Bullshit you didn’t. It’s right there in your queue. Same login, same IP, same goddamn signature you use for every shitpost. You think you’re so fucking clever? ‘Gas station slushie’? That’s you, Whitlock.”
Every word stabs into me. I’ve done a lot of shit. I’ve written loads of gossip trash. But this post was not one of them.
“I haven’t posted in weeks.” My voice shrinks. Fuck, this is so bad. “You know that. Ranier’s had me on lockdown since—”
“Don’t throw him under the bus,” Bastion snarls. “You wrote it. You wanted to see if Emery would break. Well, congrats. She’s gone.”
The words knock the air out of me. I look around the foyer, but Emery is long gone. She’s gone because of me. Because of us.
“It’s not even published.” My voice cracks. “It’s in the drafts. You saw it yourself. I love her, Bastion.”
Bastion closes the distance between us in two steps, crowding me until I’m pinned to the banister.
“Do you think she gives a shit whether it’s posted?
” His voice is a hiss. “She saw it. She read every word. You wrote it about her. That’s all that matters even if you do love her.
The event that post talks about was days ago, Wyatt. ” He hisses. “What the hell changed?”
I want to push him away. I want to apologize, or explain, or say literally anything to make this feel less like the end of the world. Of everything.
I open my mouth to speak but Bastion’s not finished.
“You’re addicted to that fucking phone, Wyatt.
It’s not a toy. You can’t just troll people because you’re scared to say what you mean to their face.
We’re adults now. You’ve been an adult for a long time.
You think just because your brother—” He cuts himself off, but the words hover there, venomous and waiting.
“Say it,” I snap. “Because Christopher what? Died in a car accident because you got him into racing?”
Bastion flinches like I punched him. I feel sick to my stomach, but I’m too far gone to stop now.
“I didn’t write that draft.” My voice and body shake. “But if you want to blame me for everything, go ahead. You always do.”
Bastion steps back, looking suddenly smaller. The next line is supposed to be an apology. Instead, it’s a ricochet of guilt.
“That’s not what I—” Bastion starts, but the words dry up. He rubs his face, like he’s trying to scrub off the entire argument. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. It’s done.”
The room is cold and wide and empty. Even the sunlight streaming through the windows can’t warm it. I want to crawl out of my own skin, or at least break something expensive. But I don’t. I just stand there in the aftermath of everything.
“Where do you think Emery went?” I ask, barely above a whisper.
Bastion laughs, bitter and mean. “Away. We started this whole thing with the plan to oust her, and now that it’s done… I hope you’re happy.”
I can’t look at him. Bastion really thinks I wrote that post. That I would do this after being there for and with Emery for the last few weeks. I don’t know what to do, so I stare at the floor. For a minute, neither of us says anything. There’s nothing left to say.
Then a door slams upstairs, and the tension breaks like a windshield under a cinderblock.
Ranier’s footsteps are sharp, precise, not even bothering to be subtle.
He comes down the stairs in full battle armor: suit, tie, jacket, the works.
He’s already on the phone, arguing with someone—probably his father, or maybe the Council.
Ranier snaps the phone off and turns to us. “Is Emery gone?”
Neither of us answers, but he knows.
“Shit.” Ranier looks almost human for a second. And genuinely worried. A lot more worried than someone who previously wanted this outcome.
Ranier puts the phone on the credenza as if to prevent throwing it at someone in the next five seconds. His hand goes to his jaw, his thumb pressing a line into the bone.
“The Council’s called off Emery’s exhibition,” he says. “There’s a news cycle starting. They’re running stories about her—about all of us. My father called. He wants her gone by tomorrow.”
Bastion grunts. “That’s not happening. They can’t cancel her exhibition whether she’s gone or not.”
Ranier glares. “Not up to you.”
“It is,” Bastion fires back. “We also claimed her, even you. She’s one of us. We’re all Everhart Pack.”
Ranier’s eyes narrow. His gaze flicks from me to Bastion and back again. The muscle in his jaw twitches once, twice, and his fingers drum against his thigh in that precise three-beat rhythm he uses when weighing outcomes he doesn’t like. “Where is Emery?”
I want to lie. I want to protect her, or myself, or both. But I don’t even know where she went. I just shrug, helpless.
“Emery saw a draft on Wyatt’s phone,” Bastion says, voice heavy. “Some post trashing her. She lost it.”
Ranier’s eyes flick to me. But there’s something else besides surprise hidden there. “You wrote it?”
“No. I didn’t.” I get the feeling that no matter how much I protest, no one will ever listen. I guess that’s what you get for years of earning anonymous fame by spilling rumors and opinions online.
Bastion snorts. “Liar.”
“I didn’t. I’ve been off the site. The admin queue—anyone could’ve—”
“Anyone?” Ranier cuts in, tone sharp. “Who else has access?”
I think, fast. “Only moderators. I mean, technically—”
Ranier closes his eyes and sighs heavily. His fists clench tight at his sides. “I wrote it.”
Every one of those three words feels like a gunshot.
Bastion and I freeze.
“What?” Bastion hisses.
Ranier clears his throat. “I was pissed off. After the Council meeting, after the press called. I picked up your phone, Wyatt, and I drafted it. Didn’t post. Didn’t even think about it again. I just… wanted to say what everyone else was thinking. But I didn’t mean for her to see it.”
He looks at me, and there’s nothing but exhaustion in his face. “You really have to put a shorter timer on your lock screen. I know you’re addicted, but… Or at least, don’t leave your phone lying around especially when you’ve got a long lock out timer and run a gossip blog.”
I shake my head. I don’t have the capacity to process losing Emery and Ranier’s lack of respect for my privacy at the same time.
So I lock up the latter betrayal before it guts me raw.
“It still doesn’t make sense. The press is quoting stuff from Royals Anonymous like it’s gospel. But if it wasn’t published—”
Bastion snaps his fingers. “It was Charlotte. Had to be.”
Ranier frowns. “Charlotte?”
“Charlotte used to be a moderator,” Bastion says, voice tight. “She had the password. She always had the password. You never changed it, did you, Wyatt?”
The blood drains from my face. Oh fuck. Charlotte would have never even needed to draft a single word. If she saw what she assumed I had written in my drafts, all she’d need to do to ruin us is hit post.
It’s so… simple. Just as simple as ruining Bastion’s life had been before.
Charlotte’s never changed. And I’ve never learned.
And now that might cost us all Emery, the omega of our dreams.
My mouth is so dry. “She promised she’d delete her access.”
“Yeah?” Bastion sneers. “She also promised she’d never fuck me over, and look how that turned out.”
I feel my stomach turn, slow and nauseous.
“So she just… posted it? From the draft?” This is insane. Please, someone tell me I’m wrong.
Bastion shakes his head. “She didn’t need to. She just sent it to the press. Or posted it under another name. She’s always two steps ahead.”
“Why would she do that?” Ranier asks.
“Because she can’t stand to see us happy,” says Bastion. “Because she can’t stand to see Wyatt with anyone else.”
The air gets thin. I reach for the wall to steady myself. “This is my fault.”
Bastion doesn’t disagree. “Fix it.”
Ranier grabs his phone. “We need to get to her before the Council does. And before the press does. Wyatt, you find Charlotte. Get her to retract or apologize, or something.”
Bastion’s eyes flick to me, full of old hurts and something darker. “You’d better hurry,” he says. “Because if you don’t, I will.”
Ranier gives me a look, all command and zero patience. “Go.”
I bolt. Out the front door, down the steps, and into the street. The world is gray and spinning, but I don’t stop. I text Charlotte, then call, then text again, thumbs blurring on the screen. She doesn’t answer. I keep moving, running and hoping the ground will open up and swallow me whole.
I hear the bike start up behind me—Bastion, roaring out of the garage. The noise is pure rage.
I don’t know where Emery is, but I know I have to find Charlotte first. I know I have to make this right, even if it kills me.
Especially if it kills me.