Page 8 of Picture Perfect

Saint watches with a bemused smile, his obsidian eyes watching my every move. Chess, ever the enigma, wears a sexy little smirk, his mischievous hazel eyes betraying a mix of amusement and curiosity.

"Trouble follows you like a shadow," Saint remarks dryly, taking a sip from his drink. "What did you do this time, Dre?"

I chuckle, the sound low and feral.

Chess leans in, his mischievous grin widening. "What did you do to Preston? He looks like he's seen a ghost."

My eyes glitter with a dark amusement. "Let's just say I left him questioning his life choices. And the Ice Princess... well, she got a taste of what's coming."

Before I can relive my victory, a new presence makes itself known. Gen, Saint's sharp-witted cousin, emerges from the shadows, her eyes assessing the scene with a shrewd gaze.

"What have we here?" Genevieve quips, a playful smile dancing on her lips. "Did Dre unleash his demons again?"

Saint nods, a smirk playing on his lips. "As always."

Genevieve's gaze shifts to me, her blue eyes glinting. "This is why we can't have nice things boys. It's a ball and you're off sowing chaos. Well, I hope you left a lasting impression. These bastards need a wake-up call."

I smirk, my eyes following the princess as she's dragged back to her family. "Oh, I think they'll feel the ripples for a while."

The grandeur of the party continues around us as we exchange a glance laden with unspoken understanding. The Ice Princess won't know what hit her.

Chapter six

Addy

I’ve just stepped out of the shower, water dripping down my skin, when the bathroom door suddenly flies open. Cheryl storms in, eyes blazing.

"It's weigh-in day," she snaps, before I can even reach for my towel.

Every day is weigh-in day.

Without warning, she snatches the towel off the hook and throws it aside, leaving me naked and exposed. I instinctively move to cover myself, but Cheryl is having none of it. She grabs my wrists in her claw-like grip, scrutinizing my body up and down.

"Look at you, you're practically bursting out of your skin," she scoffs, pinching at my waist and thighs harshly. "We'll need to cut your meals down after all the indulging you did last night."

I whimper softly, trying to wriggle free, but her sharp nails only dig deeper into my flesh. She continues critiquing every inch of me, from the jut of my ribs to the narrow curve of my hips, as if appraising livestock.

Finally, apparently satisfied with her invasive inspection, Cheryl drags me over to the scale. "Let's see the damage you've done."

The woman who’s meant to be my mother drags me across the cold marble floor, her claw-like grip bruising my wrists. I shudder as we enter my closet, my eyes automatically drawn to the centerpiece—the gilt scale upon its pedestal.

The closet itself is designed like a high-end boutique, with ornamental mirrors covering three walls to ensure every angle of my body can be scrutinized. Harsh overhead lights illuminate the pedestal, spotlighting the scale that will pronounce judgment upon me.

Most teenage girls have cozy furnishings and pretty decorations in their private spaces. But this room was designed with one purpose—to facilitate Cheryl's relentless micromanaging of my body.

She positions me in the center of the mirrors now, critically examining every view of my frail form. I keep my eyes downcast, trying in vain to preserve some modesty as she circles like a shark. My skin prickles with shame under her pitiless appraisal. I fight the urge to wrap my arms around myself, she’d only wrench them away from me with her talons.

The numbers on the scale taunt me as I step on each morning. At 5'4" and 92 pounds, I'm a walking skeleton. The hollows under my cheeks are cavernous. I can count every rib through my paper-thin skin. I haven't had a period in months, not that anyone cares.

My health is rapidly declining trying to maintain the "perfect" measurements demanded of me.

"Disappointing," Cheryl finally pronounces. "We'll have to be even more vigilant about your discipline." She gives me a little shove towards the scale. "Now, let's see the damage."

I step onto the cold metal platform, suppressing a shudder as I wait for the digital readout. The red numbers will seal my fate for the next day, determining whether I will be granted sustenance or starved further into submission.

Cheryl records my weight each morning, scrutinizing the digital readout. "92.6 pounds," she announces. "That's up half a pound from yesterday." Her mouth settles into a firm line as she glares at me.

I inwardly cringe, already knowing what comes next. A lecture, more food restrictions, over-exercising until I "correct" this unacceptable weight gain.

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