18. Freddie
FREDDIE
It’s three-thirty in the morning. The city glows beyond the windows, all neon and shadow.
Bianca sleeps curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. The throw blanket twisted around her waist sometime during the night, exposing the long line of her spine. Her breathing comes deep and even, peaceful after hours of tossing.
She is so fucking beautiful.
Part of me still thinks I’m imagining her.
I’ve been watching her for the past twenty minutes. Can’t help myself.
The years away stole everything soft about her face. She’s so guarded now.
But asleep like this, I catch glimpses of the girl who used to fall asleep during movie nights, head pillowed on my shoulder.
That girl trusted us to keep her safe.
This woman learned to keep herself safe because we failed.
Last night, when she crawled into my lap, when her hands framed my face and pulled me back from the edge of panic... I thought I was hallucinating.
All these years of wanting her, needing her… and she came to me. Chose to comfort me when I was breaking apart. I remember the exact weight of her against my thighs, her fingers threading through my hair, the way she whispered my name when I couldn’t breathe.
You’re so good, Freddie.
So perfect.
It’s honestly laughable. Because I’m not.
There’s plenty of video evidence that would prove to her that I’m not good, nor perfect. And definitely not worthy of her.
But last night was more than I ever thought I’d get from her. More than I deserve.
But it’s not enough. And it won’t be.
Until I can keep her forever.
I want all of her.
I want her laugh in the morning, her sleepy voice asking for coffee while I make her breakfast—whatever her heart desires.
I want her arguing with Tristan about anything and everything, rolling her eyes at Owen’s over-the-top possessive tendencies, and melting under Weller’s soft side that is only for her.
I want her choosing us every day for the rest of our lives.
Just like we wanted to choose her.
The way it was supposed to be.
The way we’ve known she was ours since we were kids.
Instead, we get a handful of days. Maybe less if Whitney gets a wild hair up her ass and comes home early.
What the hell are we supposed to do when time runs out? Lock her up? Hide her away? Tell her the truth and watch her try to save us… leading her right into a demon’s lair?
We won’t be able to help her once Whitney returns.
We won’t be able to help ourselves either.
That’s just the way it is.
As far as we know, there is no way out of this… aside from death.
Guilt and desperation war with each other. The knowledge burns me alive—she’s right here, breathing and real and ours, at least in my imagination, and we’re going to destroy her again.
There is no option where Bianca comes out unscathed.
Owen emerges from his room first, moving silently through the space. His eyes find her immediately, his expression softening in ways he’d never allow if he knew I was watching.
We’re all afraid to break her again.
But we’re going to. Not intentionally.
Never intentionally.
That’s the sick joke of it all.
She told me she wasn’t going to leave.
The words I’ve dreamt of hearing night after night after night.
But still, we’ll walk back into Whitney’s cage like good little pets, and there’s nothing any of us can do about it because the consequences for noncompliance we know all too well.
And now, with Bianca back in the mix, Whitney is going to be extra fucking insane.
So we will leave her. Because there is nowhere we can go that they can’t find us. And if they find us, they find her.
How do you protect someone when you’re the danger?
Tristan appears next, already dressed despite the hour. He looks dead on his feet. Dark circles shadow his eyes—he hasn’t been sleeping either.
None of us have slept properly since she walked back into our lives. Too busy soaking up and memorizing every second.
The wild look in her eyes when she broke our shit. The way she tested that knife like greeting an old friend. How she fits against my chest, everything I’ve wanted and nothing like I remembered.
She’s better than memory.
And I want her more than ever.
Weller’s door opens last. He steps out adjusting his cuffs, every inch the composed businessman except for the way his gaze immediately seeks her sleeping form.
He’s hanging by a thread. We all are.
“Time?” he asks.
“Fifteen minutes.”
We need to get to the study. Whitney’s punctual about her morning check-ins and expects us waiting when she calls. Missing it would raise questions we can’t answer.
But moving around the penthouse risks waking Bianca. And if she wakes up, if she overhears...
“She’s exhausted,” I murmur, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. “Won’t wake up for hours.”
Owen runs both hands through his hair. I can feel his rage simmering just beneath the surface—years of this shit, and he still hasn’t learned to hide it.
“Better not.”
A floorboard creaks as Tristan moves toward the study. We all freeze, eyes snapping to Bianca’s sleeping form. She doesn’t stir.
The paranoia is getting worse. Every sound feels amplified, dangerous. We follow like ghosts haunting our own home.
But none of us want Bianca to witness this.
The study smells like leather and books. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, though none of us have touched those books in years. Too busy surviving to read anything for pleasure.
The video setup waits on the mahogany desk—camera positioned, lighting adjusted to hide the exhaustion eating us alive. The lens stares back at us like a dead eye, waiting to transmit our lies across an ocean. My palms are already damp. Nausea churns in my stomach.
We’ve done this dance so many times, muscle memory takes over.
Weller settles behind the desk. The leather chair creaks under his weight.
I take position to his left, close enough to seem united without blocking the camera.
Tristan leans against the bookshelf behind Weller, and Owen hovers near the window on his other side, all restless and one impulsive move away from creating a problem we can’t fix.
“Standard responses,” Weller says quietly, making adjustments to his shirt. “Pleasant but not enthusiastic.”
Right. Can’t seem too happy without her. That will just make any punishments coming our way worse.
But we can’t show the current state of our misery either. That raises different questions.
I’m the one who smooths things over.
Always have been.
Charm my way through crisis, make everyone laugh until they forget how fucked we are.
Twenty-five years of being the golden boy, the peacemaker, the one who makes everything okay.
But there’s no charming our way out of this.
“What if she asks about the hospital this time?” I keep my voice low.
“We’ve been supporting Winston… old friend. Nothing more.”
Weller’s fingers hover over the keyboard. “Remember. We’re managing without her. Minding our duties.”
The screen flickers to life.
Whitney’s face fills the monitor, perfectly made up despite it being early morning in Europe. Her blonde hair falls in smooth waves, lips painted coral pink. The smile she gives us could power half the city—fake, bright, and absolutely ruthless.
A dark mark blooms just below her left ear. Fresh enough for us to know she’s found someone to share her bed while she’s been gone. The sight makes bile rise in my throat, but it’s nothing new.
She’s not even trying to hide it.
She never does.
It’s just another slap in the face.
Do as I say, not as I do.
“Good morning, darlings,” she purrs, that megawatt smile never wavering. “How are my boys holding up without me?”
Sweat beads along my hairline despite how cool it is in the room.
It’s time to put on a show.
“Managing,” I say, allowing the smile I’ve perfected to transform my face. The one that used to make teachers forget I hadn’t done my homework.
I’ve been successfully charming my way out of trouble for twenty-five years.
Well, any trouble that doesn’t involve the business of being Whitney’s bitch.
Now the smile feels like a mask about to melt off my face at any moment and expose the true horror underneath.
“I’m sure you are.” Her laugh tinkles like a wind chime. “It seems like you’ve been productive while I’ve been gone. The reports from your fathers have been thorough.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach.
The reports. What the fuck do the reports say?
“Yes. We’ve been busy,” Weller says, his voice perfectly neutral. “We will provide a full report when you get home.”
“Wonderful.” Whitney’s smile brightens. “Because the day after I return, we’ll be hosting a gathering. Investors, board members, some of Daddy’s colleagues. A live demonstration of how effectively the bond works.”
Another demonstration with an audience.
My throat closes up.
I can feel the others tense around me. Owen’s hands curl into fists where they hang at his sides. Tristan goes still as a statue. Weller inhales sharply before he catches himself.
Whitney sees it all. She always does. Her smile sharpens.
“Oh, don’t look so glum. You’ve performed so beautifully before. Remember the pharmaceutical conference last spring? Our guests were quite impressed.”
I want to vomit. The memory of that night—being forced to?—
I can feel Owen about to say something stupid that will make Whitney dig deeper. Time to redirect.
“We understand the importance,” I jump in before Owen can respond. “Of supporting your father’s work.”
The lie burns in my throat, but it gets the result I need. Whitney’s attention shifts to me, and Owen settles.
“Excellent.” She claps her hands together, the way a little girl does when she’s gotten what she wants.
“It’ll be such an educational evening for everyone.
I’m already deep in planning for the show.
The attendees are so looking forward to it.
Let’s make sure we dazzle them… Daddy is counting on it. ”
My skin crawls.