Rallying Garretts Bitches

In Miranda’s apartment, Bree Morgan and Latoya Harris stood at attention, both dressed in their maid outfits, carefully pouring wine and arranging files. They had spent the evening ensuring Miranda’s comfort, their movements deliberate and precise.

When Miranda’s phone rang, her expression changed immediately, her usual composure replaced by a sharp focus. She answered briskly, and as she listened to Moana’s explanation, her gaze flicked toward Bree and Latoya.

"Get ready," she snapped, cutting the call short. "You’re coming with me."

Bree and Latoya exchanged a brief glance before nodding in unison. Bree felt a flicker of unease at the urgency in Miranda’s tone but tamped it down, determined to seize this chance to prove her worth. Her mind raced with the possibilities—this could be her moment to solidify her place in Miranda’s inner circle. The fear of failure gnawed at her, a constant whisper that she wasn’t good enough. But Bree pushed it aside, clinging to the belief that unwavering loyalty and competence would secure her place. "If I can show Miranda she can depend on me now, I’ll finally have what I’ve been working toward," she thought, her resolve hardening with each step. To Bree, Miranda’s authority represented both an opportunity and a test, one she couldn’t afford to fail. Latoya, meanwhile, relished the moment with quiet excitement. She saw Miranda’s command as validation of her loyalty, a chance to elevate her standing and show she could be trusted with more. Together, their contrasting emotions fueled their swift movements, anticipation driving them forward.

The ride to White Hollow was tense. Miranda sat in the back of the sleek black vehicle, her fingers tapping rhythmically against her knee. Bree and Latoya exchanged glances but said nothing, aware that any disruption would only draw Miranda’s ire. As they approached the facility, Miranda’s phone buzzed again, a message flashing across the screen: "Status unchanged. Garrett is in surgery."

"Stay close," Miranda instructed as they exited the vehicle. The cold night air bit at their exposed skin, but neither Bree nor Latoya flinched. They followed Miranda through the shadowed corridors of White Hollow, the tension thick as they approached the infirmary.

The scene inside was grim. Red Elk stood near the infirmary entrance, her petite frame a stark contrast to the heavy burden she carried. Normally sharp and sadistic, her demeanor now reflected a quiet devastation. Her calm exterior barely masked the turmoil brewing beneath as she struggled to reconcile her helplessness with Garrett’s condition. Each passing moment felt like a lifetime, her composed mask threatening to crack under the weight of her emotions. "He’s stable for now," she said, her voice measured. "They took him to surgery about twenty minutes ago."

Miranda’s gaze sharpened. "What about Moana?"

"She’s at the hospital with Garrett," Red Elk replied. "She called in a few minutes ago. He’s still in surgery."

Miranda nodded, her focus unwavering. "Good. Keep things running here. I’ll take Bree and Latoya to my office to plan."

Red Elk straightened, her expression firm. "Understood. I’ll make sure everything stays secure."

Rachel Dawes sat in her home office, reclining in a chair with her feet propped up. Lisa and Camilla knelt at her feet, each massaging one. Rachel’s hand reached out, gently lifting Lisa’s chin, her voice calm but commanding. Lisa’s eyes flickered with a mix of apprehension and reverence, her posture straightening instinctively under Rachel’s touch. Camilla watched from the side, her own gaze downcast, but a faint tension lingered in the air. Rachel’s tone softened slightly as she shifted her attention to Camilla, silently acknowledging the unspoken power she held over both of them. The dynamic between them wasn’t just about obedience—it was a constant test of loyalty and understanding, one Rachel had no intention of letting them forget. "Find something to keep yourselves busy while Mistress is away," she instructed, her gaze shifting to Camilla, who nodded quickly under Rachel’s firm grip. "And don’t make me regret leaving you two alone," she added, her tone carrying just enough edge to make them both sit straighter. The tranquil scene stood in stark contrast to the fire burning within Rachel. Her mind replayed every belittling comment Anita had thrown her way—the sharp laugh when Rachel’s ideas were dismissed, the constant reminders of her place in the hierarchy. These moments hadn’t just stung; they had shaped Rachel’s ambition, fueling her need to prove herself and, ultimately, to surpass Anita. Now, as she read Miranda’s message, all of that resentment crystallized into a single, undeniable purpose: retribution. The calm setting did little to ease the storm brewing inside her as she read Miranda’s message. Her expression shifted from composed to furious in an instant. Her thoughts zeroed in on the moment Anita had openly mocked her suggestion to restructure the guard rotations, the sneer and echoing laughter leaving a scar she couldn’t forget. Anita’s dismissive tone had reduced her efforts to nothing more than background noise. This wasn’t just about Garrett—it was personal. Years of simmering resentment had reached a boiling point. Rachel stood abruptly, her voice cold as she muttered, "I’ll make Anita pay for this." Without hesitation, she grabbed her coat and headed out the door, leaving Lisa and Camilla stunned in her wake.

At her home, Dr. Amina Al-Farsi’s voice echoed through the halls as she berated her teenage son for a failed exam. Her frustration ran deeper than the grade; it was about control, about maintaining the perfect image she had built for their family. "Do you even realize what’s at stake for this family?" she snapped, slamming the report card onto the kitchen counter. The phone buzzing on the table drew her attention, interrupting her tirade. She snatched it up, her annoyance quickly shifting to focus as she read Miranda’s message. In that moment, her priorities realigned. The weight of the situation pressed down on her shoulders, pushing aside her frustration with her son. Amina’s brow furrowed deeply as she realized the gravity of what lay ahead. She grabbed her coat and keys, muttering under her breath, "Not tonight. I have bigger issues to deal with." Without a backward glance, she left her son staring after her, confusion and guilt mingling on his face.She grabbed her coat and keys, muttering under her breath, "Not tonight. I have bigger issues to deal with." Without a backward glance, she left her son staring after her, confusion and guilt mingling on his face.

Red Elk lingered near the infirmary, watching as Miranda disappeared with Bree and Latoya. Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen—a status update from the surgical team. "Stable," it read. She exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "He’ll make it," she murmured, the words more a mantra than a declaration. Straightening, she returned to her post, her mind already calculating the next steps to maintain control within the facility. She was determined to keep everything running smoothly until Garrett could reclaim his position.

In the cell blocks of White Hollow, Heather Price was a blur of motion, barking orders and ensuring the facility remained in lockdown. Her sharp voice echoed through the halls as she directed guards to escort inmates back to their cells.

"Valerie, Sofia, Marisol," Heather called, her tone brisk. "I want all exits monitored. No one comes or goes without my approval. Keep your comms open."

"Got it," Valerie replied, already moving toward the west wing with Sofia in tow.

Heather turned her attention to the radio at her hip. "Anjila, where are you? We’re supposed to be coordinating this lockdown."

A crackling response came through. "I’m by the Office Wing. Nia was supposed to come and get me—she said you wanted me in the offices."

Heather’s jaw tightened, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the radio. "Are you serious? Nia told you that? You dumb bitch," she snarled, her voice rising. "You’re supposed to stay where I assigned you. I don’t care what Nia said!"

There was a pause before Anjila’s hesitant voice returned. "I— I thought—"

"You thought wrong!" Heather cut her off sharply. "You’re a liability, you know that? Get your ass back to your post and find Nia. Now! Or so help me, I’ll make sure you regret it."

"Understood," Anjila replied, her voice barely above a whisper, before the radio clicked off.Heather’s jaw tightened further. As she reached for her phone to update the situation, a message from Miranda lit up the screen: "Report to my office immediately." Heather’s knuckles whitened as she read it, the weight of the chaos she was juggling pressing harder. "Great," she muttered under her breath, tucking the phone away. "Valerie, Sofia, Marisol, keep your posts secure until I’m back. Anjila, find Nia now. I don’t have time for more screw-ups."

Without waiting for a response, Heather turned and made her way toward Miranda’s office, her mind racing as she anticipated the conversation ahead.

Far removed from the chaos, Anita Williams sat in her living room, the soft glow of Christmas lights reflecting off the ornaments on the tree. Her children laughed as they opened presents, their joy filling the room. Yet, Anita could feel her patience fraying, her thoughts spiraling as her youngest son whined about not getting the right toy, his voice grating against her already taut nerves. "Why can’t anything ever go smoothly?" she thought, glancing at the scattered wrapping paper and the half-finished bottle of wine on the table. Each complaint from her son felt like another crack in the fragile facade she was desperately trying to maintain. Her irritation simmered, a reflection of the chaos she felt unable to control, even in her carefully constructed sanctuary. Then came the final blow: a Christmas card from her ex-husband, flaunting his new life with a much younger woman. The image of her ex, arm draped over a blonde in a tight red dress, made her stomach churn.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, but Anita ignored it, reaching instead for the open bottle of wine nearby. With each sip, the sharp edges of her stress dulled, replaced by a simmering anger. The warm glow of the Christmas lights bathed the room in a comforting stillness, her children’s laughter harmonizing with the faint hum of holiday melodies. It was a sanctuary she had carefully constructed, a sharp contrast to the chaos steadily encroaching beyond her walls. The persistent vibration of her phone, like an ominous drumbeat, went unnoticed, signaling a storm she remained blissfully unaware of, even as it threatened to shatter her fragile peace.

Miranda stood in her office, waiting as the members of Garrett’s inner circle began to arrive one by one. Her expression was cold, her mind sharp as she prepared to unite them under a single purpose: protecting Garrett and consolidating their control over White Hollow.

"Let’s get started," she said as the last person entered the room, closing the door behind them. The storm brewing in White Hollow was about to intensify.

Miranda’s voice carried through the room as she laid out her plans, assigning tasks to each member of the circle. "We don’t just survive this," she said, her gaze sharp as steel. "We take control."