Page 48 of Picture Perfect

The bell above the dress shop door chimes its welcome, a sound far too cheerful for the dread pooling in my stomach. Cheryl's eyes are alight with a fervor that only a mission of matrimonial maneuvering can ignite. She sweeps through the racks with the precision of a hawk circling its prey.

"Here," she declares, yanking a sliver of fabric off the hanger. "This will do."

I hold it up against me, the fabric unforgiving, destined to cling to every curve—or lack thereof. I'm all sharp angles, not soft curves. The neckline plunges in a way that makes my cheeks flush.

"Isn't it a bit much?" I murmur, though I know better than to expect approval for modesty.

"Adelaide, darling," Cheryl says with a tut, "we're not aiming for 'a bit'. We want him utterly spellbound by you."

There's a twinge in my gut, a silent scream to run from this charade. But I quash it down, smoothing my expression into one of detached compliance. "Of course," I say, voice empty. "We wouldn't want to disappoint."

"Exactly." Cheryl beams, oblivious or indifferent to my discomfort. "You'll thank us when you've secured Barrett's interest. He may not be suitable, but he is much more... charming than Preston. Remember, this dinner could change everything for your father."

I nod, but inside, I'm reeling. This isn't about affection or attraction—it's about chess pieces on a board. And Saint is just another pawn they wish to move in their effort to checkmate Mason Whitman.

"Go on then, try it on. Let's see how it looks," Cheryl urges, shooing me towards the fitting room like a stage director cueing an actress's entrance.

In front of the mirror, the dress transforms me. I hardly recognize the girl staring back—green eyes wide, blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders, her body a tool for someone else's ambition. An unbidden thought arises: is this how Saint sees the world? As a series of moves and countermoves, where people are pawns to be sacrificed?

Is that all I am to him too?

"Adelaide? How does it fit?" Cheryl calls out, her impatience seeping through the curtain.

"Like a glove," I reply, and it's true. The dress is a second skin, a beautiful lie.

"Perfect." Her satisfaction is palpable even through the fabric barrier. "Remember, we need him captivated. You can do this."

I can do this. I can play their game and perhaps win more than they ever bargained for. With a deep breath, I step out, ready to face them, my resolve hardening like armor around my heart.

"Stunning," Cheryl breathes, and for a moment, I let myself believe it's true—not for Saint, not for William, but for the part of me still fighting to break free from this gilded cage.

Chapter twenty-three

Dre

The leather of the town car seat is cool beneath the fabric of the suit they wrestled me into. I wasn't giving on the boots. No way I'd be caught dead in shiny black shoes. Where would I hide my knives?

Outside, leafy giants bow under the weight of an encroaching dusk, their shadows stretching like dark fingers across the manicured lawns of the Winthrop estate. The scent of Saint's musky cologne mingles with the sterile air inside our chariot—a rolling fortress of black-tinted windows and unspoken secrets.

"Man, can you believe this place?" Chess's voice slices through the silence, a knife with a friendly edge. His hazel eyes dance with the reflection of passing lights, as if he's found amusement in our destination's grandeur.

"Looks like something out of a gothic novel," Gen muses, her gaze lost in the unfolding opulence beyond the glass.

My lips press into a line. "Yeah, it's something alright." But my mind isn't on the scenery; it's on her—my snowflake. Addy with those forest-green eyes that have seen too much, yet somehow remain defiantly bright. She's a puzzle wrapped in Nordic ice, and every thought of her sends heat searing through my veins.

"Yo, Dre, you good?" Saint's voice rumbles, deep and steady as ever. He doesn't pry, doesn’t need to. His dark curls are a wild contrast to the smooth lines of his chiseled face. We're all broken here, but Saint... he's the king of keeping it together.

"Perfect," I lie, leaning back as if I could merge with the shadows and evade the prying eyes of my companions.

"Best behavior tonight, boys," Mason calls from the driver’s seat, his words laced with a casual authority that grates against my nerves. "We're guests in the Winthrop house. As much as I don't like them, we can't give them anything they can use against us."

I snort softly, drawing a quizzical glance from Gen. Mason's reflection in the rearview mirror meets my gaze, and there's a challenge there. He knows. We all do. This isn't about pleasantries or polite conversation. This is a game, one with stakes higher than any high society gala could offer.

"Of course, Mason," Saint replies, diplomatically neutral, while my own thoughts turn cynical. Best behavior? That's a mask we all wear too well, especially when the prize behind the gilded doors ahead is worth more than any of us would care to admit.

As we draw closer, the image of my snowflake haunts me, a specter woven from moonlight and frost. She's caught in a web, delicate strands spun by manipulators far more sinister than spiders. But she doesn't know it yet, doesn't see the silk threads wrapping tighter around her wrists, binding her to a fate she never chose.

Mine. She’s mine.

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