Page 136 of Picture Perfect

"Here goes nothing," I mutter and change behind the curtain.

The dress clings and releases in all the right places, the jacket adds a layer of rebellious sophistication, and the booties... they're just the cherry on top. I step out, almost shyly, to present myself to the boys.

"Damn, Snowflake," Dre breathes out, his eyes wide. The tattoos on his arms seem to dance with approval.

"Whoa..." Chess trails off, his usual playful demeanor silenced by appreciation.

"Fuck," Saint breathes.

Their reactions send a surge of unexpected confidence through me. I twirl slowly, letting them soak in the view, and I can't help the smile that blossoms on my lips. For a moment, all the harshness of life fades away, and I'm just a girl in a dress, making the boys lose their minds.

I try on eleventy-seven more options, show the boys a couple more outfits, and am finally making progress.

The mountain of fabric on the 'yes' side of the dressing room looks insurmountable. Each piece whispers a story of newfound confidence and comfort—soft sweaters, flowing skirts, and those jeans that fit like they were tailored just for me. Gen beams at the collection, but my stomach knots when I see the cashier tally up the numbers.

"Wow, Addy, you're going to need a whole new closet for these," Gen chuckles, nudging my arm with her elbow.

I gulp, watching as Saint steps forward, his dark curls bouncing across his forehead. His presence commands the space as he hands over his credit card. The total flashes again, and I feel a pang of guilt gnawing at my insides.

"Saint, I can't let you do this," I whisper, my voice almost lost amidst the bustle of shoppers.

He turns to me, locking eyes with an intensity that halts the world for a moment. "Princess," he says firmly, yet there's a tenderness in his gaze that belies his steely exterior, "I promised you a reward, didn't I?"

Before I can protest, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips, sending warmth cascading through me. It's an oasis of sweetness from a boy who's known too much bitterness.

"Get used to it," he murmurs against my mouth, his breath a ghost of mint and something darker, something like promise. "I'm going to spoil you rotten."

My cheeks flame with heat, not just from the kiss but from the idea of being someone worth spoiling. I nod, mute, unable to argue with him when he's looking at me like that—like I’m something precious.

"Come on," Saint says as he takes my hand, leading me out of the shop, "there's more to see."

We drift through a few more stores, each one a blur of colors and textures. Dre points out a pair of boots with buckles that jingle like a whispered challenge with every step I take. Chess finds a hat, a wide-brimmed thing that makes me feel like a character in a storybook, mysterious and unknown.

"Looking good, Addy," Chess grins as I model the hat, spinning around to show off its flair.

"Definitely a keeper," Dre agrees with a nod.

But as we continue, my legs begin to protest, and a heaviness settles into my bones. I lean slightly on Saint, and he steadies me without a word, his arm a band of iron wrapped in velvet.

"Maybe just one last place?" Gen suggests, eyeing a boutique with a twinkle in her eye.

"Sure," I breathe out, determination pushing me forward. After all, this is more than shopping—it's a reclaiming of self, a patchwork of pieces that together create the girl I'm meant to be. And maybe, just maybe, with each step I'm a little less the girl who can't trust, and a little more the one who dares to hope for something better.

??????

The grandeur of the Whitmore house never ceases to startle me. It's not the old world elegance of the Winthrop estate, but that's what I like about it. It feels like a home, despite the size.

We trudge up the stairs, a caravan of laden shoppers, bags rustling like autumn leaves with each step. Saint leads the way, his back a landscape of strength beneath his shirt, his curls catching light from the chandelier above.

"Here," he says, pushing open a door to reveal an empty bedroom awash in the late afternoon sun. "This is yours."

"Mine?" My voice is a ghost in the bright space.

"Your room for your stuff," Saint clarifies. He sets the bags on the bed, a mountain range of fabric and possibilities.

My heart thrums a rapid beat at the thought of my own space here, among them. "My room?"

"Yours." His gaze holds mine, a silent promise and a boundary all at once. “I know you think you can't yet, but you can stay here whenever you want, Princess. And, your outfits can stay here indefinitely so they're safe. I don't trust your parents to leave it all alone. But you can pair outfits together, and whoever is staying the night with you can bring a couple options along.”

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