Page 89 of Bitter Truths

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.”