Page 9 of Bitter Truths

Thunder cracks outside, closer now, and the lights flicker once, then twice, then steady as rain begins hitting the windows harder.

Whitney shrugs, taking a tiny bite of her salad. “Emma should have known better than to pin all her hopes on an alpha when she’s a beta that can’t give him what he needs. Risk Management 101. Her bad.”

“They loved each other. You saw them together.”

“Love isn’t everything.” She watches me closely. “Why are you so upset about this anyway?”

That’s what’s been haunting me for years. Biology is a fickle little bitch.

“Emma is sweet, that’s all.”

She spears another lettuce leaf, sliding it between her perfect teeth. “Speaking of alphas, I saw your brother’s little friends at Daddy’s fundraiser.”

My head snaps up. “What?”

“Last night, all four of them were there with their fathers, and God, they clean up well in suits.” She waves her fork dismissively. “I thought about sneaking a photo for you, but Daddy gets so touchy about phones during his important gatherings.”

Jealousy twists like a serrated knife between my ribs, her assessment of them grating on my nerves. “I didn’t know they were going.”

“Why would you? It was a high-profile medical fundraiser, exclusive as hell.” She shrugs like it’s nothing. “My father wanted me there to answer questions from potential investors about his research.”

Dr. Montgomery—Whitney’s father and my doctor. The man who supposedly revolutionized omega healthcare still can’t figure out what the hell is wrong with me. So much for being the world’s best omega specialist.

“How nice of you to help your father.”

What else can I say? That I’m envious as hell she spent more time with them this week than I have? Missing them hurts like a constant ache in my bones.

“It’s the least I can do. He was generous enough to let me host the graduation party at our estate, which means I get to coordinate a party for hundreds of people.” She sighs dramatically. “Do you know how difficult the logistics are when you’re planning something that massive? Total nightmare.”

I can’t muster any sympathy for her because her dad could hire armies of party planners if he wanted to.

The Montgomery estate sprawls at the edge of the forest like a spread you’d see in a magazine—the main house, all glass and modern lines, rising against the trees, while the original mansion with its white columns sits way back on the property, down a long driveway. When we were kids, Whitney and I found concrete tunnels beneath it and played there for months until we got lost one afternoon. Her dad’s rage when he found us made sure we never went back.

Despite her living in a mansion and me in a suburban house, we were close enough to walk through the woods to each other’s homes, which made us friends before I realized how different we are.

“I’m sure it’ll be perfect. It always is.”

Friendship came easier when we were little, before boys stole our attention and our bodies developed on entirely different timelines. We built fairy houses in the woods between our homes, swapped dog-eared romance novels with whispered promises that we’d find princes of our own someday, and collected heart-shaped rocks we convinced ourselves were ancient love tokens. Everything changed when she started smelling like flowers while I remained as scentless as tap water.

“It will be.” She beams with genuine enthusiasm. “Four more days! Can you believe it? Then we’re free.”

Four days. Great.

Whitney studies me like she’s dissecting a particularly intriguing specimen. “Why did you get so weird when I brought up Emma and Tyler? You’re not still hung up on that ridiculous idea about Winston’s besties, are you?”

My mouth goes dry. “What idea?”

“Oh, come on.” She rolls her eyes. “That fantasy you’ve harbored forever about them being your matches or whatever nonsense you used to ramble about.”

My face burns, and I want to sink through the floor and disappear. I stopped telling Whitney my secrets once I realized they were her favorite form of currency. I wish like hell I had never shared this particular truth with her. She is the only person I ever confided in.

“Now I know you’re hiding something because your face is bright red.” She reaches across the table to capture my fingers, the gesture looking sweet to anyone watching, but her eyes hold that familiar Whitney expression—hungry for gossip. “What are you planning, B?”

For a split second, I want to tell her everything about the waterhole, if only to rub it in her face and prove that they want me too.

But something in her expression stops me cold.

“Nothing’s happening.”