Page 2 of Picture Perfect

As I stand there, the pearl necklace around my throat feels like it’s choking me. The embroidered dress rubs my skin raw, as if any moment its seams will split and I'll be exposed for what I really am. My reflection is an airbrushed lie. The real me is buried far beneath the surface—bruised, broken and crying out for help.

But I've perfected the art of concealment when it comes to my emotions. It's better to feel nothing at all than feel the constant hurt inside. So I swallow down the sadness, choke back the sobs that threaten to breach.

I'm expected downstairs, with a smile on my face and grace in my step. To laugh on cue, shake hands, and mouth "thank yous" as if my life depends on it. In many ways, it does. One misstep, one crack in the facade, and the perfection of the Winthrop image could come crashing down.

So I will once again put on the performance of a lifetime. If anyone ever learned the truth behind closed doors, I shudder to think what would become of me. The orphan Cinderella who was taken in by a charming prince, only to find a monster in disguise.

When the mask is back in place, I am no longer myself. I adopt the personality assigned to me, become the perfect daughter they demand. My dreams don't matter. My thoughts remain silent. In this house, I am little more than a mannequin, moved and positioned however they please. I will stand straight, sit tall, and smile brightly.

And inside, the real me disappears. She withdraws into nothingness, seeking solace in the refuge of her own vacant mind. She waits there patiently until the time comes each night when I can remove the mask, peel back the layers of pretense, and let her feel once more. For now we just survive another day.

??????

The grandiose chandelier casts a constellation of light across the sea of faces in the Winthrop ballroom, a galaxy far from warm for me. The murmur of the high society's elite blends into a cacophony that seems to press against me as I descend the ornate staircase. Each step feels like a descent further into a gilded cage I will never escape. My gown whispers against the marble steps, the only sound that feels intimate in the vast room.

"Adelaide, darling," coos an overzealous guest, reaching out with fingers encrusted in diamonds, "you look ravishing tonight."

"Thank you," I reply, my voice a practiced melody of gratitude and grace, but inside my chest, a storm is brewing—the dread of what's yet to come this evening.

My fingers trail along the cool marble of the balustrade as I descend the last few steps into the ballroom. My "father", William Winthrop, stands near a cluster of opulent ferns, his posture rigid like the carved pillars framing him. His sharp eyes lock onto me the moment I come into view, and the corners of his lips twitch upwards in a facsimile of paternal pride.

Moments later, my gaze inadvertently finds Wesley. He and his father stand like twin statues of entitlement, their smiles as sharp as cut glass. Wesley catches my eye, his smirk sending a shiver down my spine. The sight of them together—so alike in their arrogance—makes something acidic rise in my throat, a visceral reminder of what they're capable of.

I move through the crowd, every smile a mask, every friendly gesture a calculated move in a game I never wished to play. The air is thick with perfume and pretense, suffocating my senses until I focus on the tall windows, longing for a breath of the crisp night air that promises freedom.

"Excuse me," I murmur, weaving past clusters of guests discussing investments and vacation homes, their laughter tinkling like fine crystal. I try to anchor myself in the moment, focusing on the details: the sharp tang of imported wine, the heavy scent of the lilies that adorn the room, the softness of the velvet drapes under my fingertips as I brush past them.

It's no use. As my feet carry me closer to my "family," I can't help the tightness that grips my chest.

"Adelaide!" William calls out as I approach, his voice slicing through the layers of idle chatter. "Come, let us introduce you to some esteemed guests."

"Adelaide, you look... presentable," Cheryl says coldly, the word hanging between us like a verdict.

"Thank you, Mother," I reply, my voice a practiced melody of deference. I can feel the weight of William's gaze appraising me, as if I’m an investment maturing before his eyes.

The predatory gleam has me suppressing a shiver.

"Your charm will surely enchant our prospective partners," William chimes in, his eyes glinting with unspoken expectations.

Cheryl hovers like a dark sentinel, her gaze sharp enough to slice through the throngs of guests. I can feel the woman's eyes boring into me, a constant reminder of the scrutiny I'm under. It's Cheryl who will report back on every step, every word, every forced laugh that I offer up as a sacrifice to the gods of high society.

She grips my arm, her talons digging into the soft skin beneath.

"Remember, your behavior tonight reflects on this family," she hisses. "Our reputation is your responsibility."

"Of course, Mother." I incline my head slightly, feeling the constriction of the pearls around my throat—another pretty shackle.

"Smile, darling," William interjects, his words crisp like the crease in his trousers. "Your frown could sour the wine."

"Wouldn't want that," I respond, my smile as brittle as the crystal chandeliers above. With a deep breath, I paint a face with poise and placidity.

Wesley leans in, his breath tinged with the scent of aged liquor, "Keep the investors happy, sister dear. We're counting on it."

"Make us proud," William says, a hint of threat in his tone.

My heart hammers against my ribcage, each beat screaming resistance. Yet, I curl my arm through William's, schooling my features into an expression of polite interest. "Of course, Father," I say, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

"I'll do my best to be... enchanting." The fingers of my free hand curl into my palm, hidden blades of anger against the silk of my gown.

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