Page 93 of Bitter Truths

The penthouse. I fell asleep on their couch.

My phone glows beside me—5:07 AM. The space sits silent except for the distant hum of the city below. They must all be asleep, leaving me alone with every horrible truth they poured into my mind last night.

Whitney’s been abusing men who were supposed to be mine for years…

I would’ve never dreamed of hurting them.

My stomach churns as the memories flood back. Freddie breaking down in my arms, his whole body shaking as he panicked about things too horrible for him to speak aloud. The way they all looked—hollowed out, desperate, clinging to control by their fingertips.

They’ve suffered in her hell while I played survivor in the woods.

The guilt eats at me. While I was busy learning to hunt and building walls around my heart, they were trapped. Suffering. Being used as entertainment by a psychopath and her friends.

I need to move. Need to channel this fury into something productive.

I need to fuck someone up.

My phone screen is too bright as I open social media apps, fingers already typing names I remember from Whitney’s circle. Girls who think they’ll never face any consequences.

They’ll find out soon enough how very fucking wrong they are. I’m not the same mild-mannered girl who left.

There’s rage that still lives tamped down inside me from the day on the mountain ridge that has never found an adequate outlet.

It looks like several opportunities to purge it just fell into my lap.

To start…

Katie Preston. Verified account, two million followers.

Her social media feed makes my stomach turn. Endless makeup tutorials, product reviews, followers hanging on her every contouring tip and skincare routine. How would they feel if they knew she raped men for fun? Her stories show expensive dinners with mystery men, private gifts that go way beyond brand partnerships.

This fake, vapid bitch. She touched them. She fucked them. No doubt she laughed about it with the others.

The visual of stabbing the obscenely large tits she just recently upgraded, based on her posts, pops into my head.

I push my murdery daydreams away and screenshot everything.

I need to focus.

Next: Rebecca Wells. Another verified account, but this one’s different. Professional headshots, corporate events, posed photos at Barrett Pharmaceuticals galas. She’s climbed impossibly high in Tristan’s father’s company—some VP position that raises serious questions. Did Whitney pull strings to get her friend a plush little job? Or is Rebecca fucking the boss?

Fucking parasites, all of them.

Liz Martinez. The serial dater with expensive taste. Post after post with different wealthy alphas—yacht parties, private jets, luxury shopping sprees. She’s perfected the art of being pampered by powerful… and married men who clearly expect more than just her company.

And still feels the need to take advantage of unwilling alphas.

I envision strangling her, her eyes begging me for air frantically… and denying her just like she denied them the choice.

I need to play this right, though. A murder spree would land me in prison… and unable to continue my mission.

There are bigger fish to fry.

I consider calling Ezra and getting his advice. But I know he’s going to give me some calming mantra lecture bullshit and try to talk me out of it.

No.

I fucking need this.