Page 19 of Bitter Truths

“I’m sterile.” The word tastes like poison.

All my dreams—gone. No scent. No heat. No them.

“Congenital reproductive dysfunction is the medical term, but... essentially, yes.”

This is so fucked up.

Shame floods my body, a prickling heat. How pathetic am I? All these years believing I was special, thinking I shared an incredible bond with four amazing alphas, when really I’m just... defective.

The words echo cruelly—unlovable, unwanted, useless.

My vision blurs. Tears threaten, but I bite them back. “How long have you suspected this?”

“I’ve had concerns your last few appointments. These specialized tests take time to confirm.” He leans forward, false compassion in his eyes. “I wanted to be absolutely certain before⁠—”

“Before destroying my life?”

Concerns? He always told me to be patient, that late bloomers are common.

“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?”