Page 76 of Picture Perfect

"Don't twist their intentions, Adelaide," he sneers, twisting my name into something tainted. "You think you're so special? Please. You're nothing but a game to them."

"I'm aware of my place in things," I retort.

"You're playing with fire," Wesley warns, his gaze cold and calculating.

"Maybe I like the heat," I say, locking eyes with him, refusing to be the one who looks away first.

"Be careful, Adelaide," he says, using my full name like a weapon. "You might get burned."

"Out!" I point toward the door, my resolve as firm as the walls I've built around my heart. He smirks, but he leaves, and I'm left alone in the silence of my room, bracing for whatever comes next.

After Wesley slinks away, the quiet throb of my heartbeat is a reminder that I'm still standing, still fighting. But he's right isn't he? I can't trust them.

With a deep breath, I shake off the remnants of our confrontation and turn to face the evening ahead.

Cheryl's instructions echo in my memory—the dress for tonight's dinner, laid out on my bed like a silent command. I approach it with a mixture of apprehension and rebellion stirring within me. It’s tight and revealing, designed to sculpt every curve and whisper secrets I'd rather keep hidden. But this is their game, and I must play.

I turn my attention to my shelves. Everything seems to be in place still. The porcelain dolls I'd never wanted, the decorative clock that didn't even work, the nonfiction books I'd been expected to read, and all the little knickknacks I've collected are exactly as I left them.

Slipping into the fabric feels like donning armor, each pull and tug a choice to face them—my so-called family—on my own terms. The mirror reflects back a stranger, all blonde hair and green eyes wrapped in a dress too bold for the slip of a girl I'd become.

"Perfect," I whisper, though the word tastes like irony.

The clock ticks closer to the hour, and I can hear the sound of a car pulling up the driveway. My skin prickles, half with dread, half with something akin to relief. They're here, and somehow, that means I'm not alone.

"Princess," Saint greets, his voice low and steady. There's a storm behind his dark eyes, but it's distant, held at bay.

"Saint," I nod, acknowledging the tension that hums between us.

Dre's ice-blue gaze sweeps over me, and he smirks, "Missed you, snowflake."

Chess steps forward, his hazel eyes alight with mischief. "Well, don't you look delicious?"

"Thank you," I bite my bottom lip, the corners of my mouth curving into a smile that might actually reach my eyes.

We move into the dining room, where the table is set with crystal and silver, a stage for the evening's performance. I slide into my seat, the dress clinging tighter with each movement.

Tonight Cheryl has sandwiched me between Chess and Saint, with Gen across from me and Dre on the other side of Chess. They eye me as I'm served broth while they're served lobster bisque with a drizzle of cognac.

The clink of cutlery against porcelain fills the space as we're served the main course. Plate filled with filet mignon with a red wine reduction sauce, truffle-infused mashed potatoes, grilled white asparagus spears, and wild mushroom risotto are placed in front of everyone but me.

My gaze drops to my plate, a small salad sitting solitary in its vast whiteness. I'm about to lift my fork when Saint's hand covers mine, stopping me.

"Wait," he says, his voice low but edged with something commanding, something protective.

"What?" I question, tilting my head to meet his gaze, which is fixed somewhere beyond my shoulder.

"That's not enough food," he claims before turning to the server standing awkwardly by the table. "Bring her another plate. One that matches mine."

The server, caught off guard, nods hastily and scurries away. Saint, not satisfied with waiting, reaches across the table for a piece of bread. Without asking, he begins to butter one and place it onto my plate beside the lonely salad.

It's a strange warmth that blossoms in my chest, alien and yet comforting. It curdles and chills.

Across the table, Cheryl's eyes lock onto mine. Her gaze is sharp, a dagger thrown silently across the distance. She parts her lips, then closes them again, a clear sign that she's holding back words meant only for later, in the shadows, away from prying eyes.

I draw in a deep breath, steadying myself against the threat of her look. For now, I'm shielded by the presence of our guests. But the warning is received loud and clear: the battle lines have been drawn.

The server returns and places a new plate in front of me, one filled with the same meal that was served to everyone else. This is a first for me. I have never once been served the same dinner as my family.

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