3. Bianca #2
“Bianca, you’re still the same person. This doesn’t change?—“
“Everything. It changes everything. What alpha would ever want me?”
Why the fuck would they want me? They could have anyone. Their fathers will expect heirs to carry on their legacies. What use am I to them?
Dr. Montgomery’s expression softens. “The right person will value you for who you are, not what your body can provide.”
Empty words. Hollow comfort. We both know the truth. It doesn’t work like that for alphas. Not when they could have their pick of any awakened omega in the area.
“I need to go.”
I flee before he can offer more meaningless platitudes. The hallway blurs as tears spill over. I find the nearest bathroom and lock the door behind me.
My reflection stares back at me—red-rimmed eyes, tear-streaked cheeks, mascara smudged despite Whitney’s “waterproof” claims. I look like what I am: a disaster.
I splash cold water on my face, dabbing away the evidence of my breakdown with paper towels. I fix my makeup as best I can and put on a brave face.
Regardless of what Dr. Montgomery just told me, they deserve to know the truth.
Whitney and I emerge from her bedroom suite after three hours with her styling team. My hair cascades down my back in soft waves. Makeup clings to my face, heavier than I like but not overdone.
The pale blue dress Whitney selected fits as if it were made for me, the off-shoulder neckline showing just enough skin to make me feel exposed.
The fabric hugs my waist before flowing down to my ankles, with a high slit on one side that makes me feel elegant and dangerous at the same time.
The necklace rests perfectly against my collarbone.
My birthday gift. The memory of their hands on my skin makes me touch the charm, but now the gesture feels hollow. A token of possession for someone who can never truly belong to anyone.
I stare at myself in Whitney’s full-length mirror. On the surface, I look normal. I resemble an omega. But it’s a pretty lie.
“Perfect timing,” Whitney declares, smoothing her champagne-colored dress. Crystal embellishments catch the light with each movement. “We should make our grand entrance before everyone’s too wasted to notice.”
“You go ahead,” I say. “I need a minute.”
Whitney rolls her eyes. “Fine. Don’t take too long?—“
Loud footsteps head toward us. The house manager hurries toward us, panic etched into her features.
“Miss Montgomery! Emergency at the dessert station!”
Whitney’s expression freezes. “What kind of emergency, Celia?”
“The cupcakes... they’re white and gold. Not black and gold like you specified.”
Whitney’s jaw tightens, her fingers curling into fists. She smooths her expression into false calm. “Show me.”
We follow Celia downstairs through groups of early arrivals, past the grand foyer where staff arrange favor tables, into the massive catering tent on the back lawn. White-clothed tables stretch with towers of appetizers and sweets.
At the center stands a massive cupcake display, hundreds of white and gold treats arranged in a spiral. It’s stunning.
Not to Whitney.
“Who is responsible for this?” Her voice slices through the bustling tent. Several caterers freeze.
An older beta woman steps forward, clipboard clutched to her chest. “Miss Montgomery?—”
“I was crystal clear about the color scheme. School colors. Black and gold.” Whitney’s voice rises with each word. “These look like they’re for a wedding.”
“There was a mix-up with another event?—”
“Unacceptable. You realize none of you will have jobs tomorrow, right? My father will blacklist your entire company.” Whitney’s composure fractures, rage seeping through.
The catering staff exchange horrified glances.
“Wait.” I position myself between Whitney and the trembling catering manager.
Whitney whirls toward me.
I grab a cupcake, examining the frosting. “The gold is perfect. The white... call it a creative choice. These look stunning.”
The manager nods vigorously. “We could add black sprinkles to the tops or maybe some black frosting details around the edges?”
“Do it,” I tell her. “Five minutes, tops.”
Whitney folds her arms across her chest. “That doesn’t solve?—“
“Everyone’s drinking. Trust me, nobody will care about cupcake colors.”
Her shoulders drop an inch. “Fine. But it better look perfect.”
The catering team scrambles. Whitney strides away, shoulders rigid. I follow, relieved at having saved a dozen people’s jobs over frosting colors.
“What was that about?” I ask. “They made a mistake. It happens.”
Whitney sniffs. “When you pay what Daddy pays, flawless execution is the expectation.”
The party swells around us, and the music thumps louder as the sun disappears.
Where are they? I check my phone. No messages.
Thirty minutes pass. I dance with classmates, accept congratulations, and pick at gourmet appetizers.
Did they change their minds? Decide not to come after all?
Then the air shifts. I sense them before I see them.
They move as a unit. Heads swivel as they enter. Everyone notices when they walk in… people stand up straighter. The sons of the most powerful men in town don’t exactly blend into crowds.
Even knowing what I know now, seeing them steals my breath. The way Freddie’s face lights up when he spots me. How Owen’s gaze sweeps the crowd before settling on me with relief. Tristan surveys the party, and Weller navigates through the crowd like he owns the place.
They came. For me.
I move toward them, and they close the distance.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming.”
“Said we would, didn’t we?” Owen takes me in shamelessly.
“You clean up nice, Bumblebee.” Freddie grins, adjusting the bee necklace so it’s centered.
The nickname that used to make me melt now feels like a cruel joke.
“That dress...” Tristan circles me like I’m artwork. “On you, exquisite.”
“You look beautiful, Bianca.” Weller’s gaze lingers on the necklace.
Their praise should warm me. Instead, it cuts deep. Beautiful, broken, barren. The three B’s of my existence.
I’ll never be able to give them what they need.
“Thanks.” I smooth the fabric of my dress nervously. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you all...”
Their faces turn serious, curiosity replacing casual conversation.
“About?” Weller places his hand on my lower back, guiding me toward the door.
His touch crackles across my skin like static, leaving goosebumps in its wake. My traitor body hums in response, nerve endings lighting up despite everything I know. The bitter taste of irony fills my mouth—how perfectly I respond to them when I’m so fundamentally flawed in every way that counts.
“Not here. Too many people,” I hedge.
Owen’s brow furrows. “Are you okay?”
No. Nothing is okay. “Let’s find somewhere quiet.”
“The gazebo near the woods,” Tristan suggests.
I used to be excited about this moment. Now I just want to dig a hole and bury myself.
Will they let me down easy? Want to be friends?
“Bianca!” Whitney materializes, breathless and flushed. “There you are!” She registers the alphas with a bright smile. “Oh good, you all made it.”
“Whitney.” Weller nods at her briefly.
“Can I steal Bianca for just one minute?” She tugs at my arm.
Part of me wants to resist, to get this over with. But another part feels grateful for the delay. Maybe I can work up the courage to go through with it.
I look back at them. “Five minutes?”
“We’ll be by the pool,” Freddie calls after me.
Whitney drags me upstairs to her bedroom and kicks the door shut.
“What do you need, Whit?”
“I wanted to make us a graduation cocktail. My own creation.”
“I don’t?—“
“One drink,” she insists. “To celebrate properly. Daddy’s been having security confiscate drinks. Too much risk, he said.”
Whitney turns her back to mix drinks on her dresser. “Premium vodka, fresh lime, and pomegranate. You’ll love it.”
She hands me one of the crystal glasses. The liquid glows ruby red in the dim light.
“To us,” she toasts, her perfect smile wide. “To the future.”
A future that just got a lot bleaker. I clink my glass against hers and take a sip. Sweet tartness explodes on my tongue, masking the bite of alcohol.
“Good, right?” she beams.
I drain the glass, eager to escape back downstairs. The vodka burns a warm trail all the way down.
We return to the party, now loud and pulsing. The dance floor is packed, and everyone’s shouting over the music. Groups of classmates sprawl across lounge chairs, sneaking drinks despite security.
“I’m going to make sure the party’s running smoothly,” Whitney says, already drifting away. “Have fun!”
I weave through the revelers toward the pool area. The music fades to a dull thump as I reach the quieter section of the yard. The Olympic-sized pool glows royal blue, the surface rippling.
There they are, sitting by the pool, with the underwater lights making them glow blue.
Waiting for me to break their hearts. Or maybe for them to break mine. Hard to tell which way this will go.
“She returns,” Tristan drawls.
“Sorry about that.”
“So,” Owen leans forward, elbows propped on his knees, “what did you want to talk about?”
My throat goes tight. I’ve waited forever to say this, and now I can’t get the words out.
“Tomorrow,” I begin, “I leave for three weeks.”
Coward. But I need to ease into this somehow.
“Don’t remind us,” Freddie sighs.
“You better keep in touch.” Tristan shoots me a pointed look. “You don’t want us to have to come looking for you in the woods.”
I smile despite my nerves. “I’ll try, but cell service will be spotty. My mom already warned me. That’s part of why I wanted to talk tonight.”
Before I chicken out and spend the next three weeks in the mountains, pretending this conversation never needs to happen.
Weller studies me with that look that sees so much. “Go on.”