Page 81 of Picture Perfect

The treadmill whirs to life under my hesitant steps. I set the pace at a jog, trying to conserve energy for whatever Cheryl has planned next. But she's watching, always watching, and she's not satisfied.

"Speed it up, Adelaide," she says, her tone laced with disgust. "You're not going for a stroll in the park."

Reluctantly, I press the button, and the belt accelerates beneath my feet. With every increment, my breath grows more ragged, my legs burning with the effort to keep up.

"Higher incline," Cheryl barks from beside the console, and I oblige, my fingers trembling as they tap the controls. The angle shifts, and I'm suddenly climbing an invisible hill, gasping for air, sweat stinging my eyes. Cheryl smacks my hand out of the way and takes over the controls.

"Is this what you wanted?" Cheryl's voice cuts through my concentration, mocking, cruel. "To feel the weight you've so carelessly piled on?"

I don't answer. Can't. All I can do is push forward, muscles screaming, lungs desperate for oxygen. I focus on the relentless rhythm, one foot in front of the other, a mantra to keep the tears at bay.

"Harder," she pushes, the treadmill increases in speed again and my stride falters. My vision swims with the effort to stay upright. Then the world tilts and I'm going down.

I hit the ground with a thud, sending me sprawling onto the moving surface. My knees scrape against the unforgiving treadmill belt. Pain shoots through my body, but all I can hear is Cheryl's mocking laughter echoing in my ears.

Cheryl grabs me by the arm and forces me to my feet.

"Get yourself together," she snaps, already losing interest as she turns away. "You have school."

It's an effort to get back to my room. I can't even manage to stay on my feet in the shower, so I don't bother. If it were possible to get any more pathetic, I'm sure I would manage it.

When I finally crawl out of my closet, fully clothed in the most casual clothes I own—which are still stiff and uncomfortable—I grab my bag with numb fingers, my movements stiff and awkward as I navigate my way out of the house.

By the time I reach school, the sun is just beginning to cast its warm glow over the horizon, but there's no warmth for me. My body feels like a marionette, jerky and uncoordinated, as I walk through the halls, head spinning and heart aching with a loneliness that chafes against my ribs.

The front study area emerges as I stumble through the crowd, each face a blur. My stomach churns after Cheryl's morning regime, but my heart pounds out a warning to keep moving, to not stop amidst the sea of students. I need food but I'm not sure I'll be able to keep it down.

"Addy, over here."

I lift my gaze to find Saint, Dre, and Chess waiting for me. Gen is nearby chatting with another group. Saint offers me a small nod, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards—the closest thing to a smile that he ever allows himself.

"Hey," I manage, my voice nothing more than a strained whisper.

Saint holds out a wrapped sandwich and a carton of juice across the table without a word. I unwrap the food with trembling fingers, knowing I need to eat but fearing the revolt of my own body.

"Thanks," I murmur, taking a cautious bite, the flavors a dull sensation against my tongue.

"Rough morning?" Dre asks, leaning back in his chair, his ice-blue eyes scanning my face with a mix of curiosity and something darker, perhaps concern. It looks strange on him.

"Just... tired," I reply, hoping the vagueness will deter further questions.

Chess watches me from across the table, hazel eyes clouded with weariness. I feel his gaze, heavy and probing, but I can't meet it. The thought of revealing any fragment of my vulnerability to him—or anyone—is too much to bear. I know it's not his fault. I do. But there are eyes everywhere and I don't want a repeat of this morning.

Though I have a feeling Cheryl will make this our new daily routine. Yay!

"Addy, you sure you're—" Chess starts, but I cut him off with a shake of my head.

"Fine. I'm fine," I insist, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.

"Okay." Chess holds up his hands in surrender. But he doesn't push further, for which I'm grateful. They all have their demons; they don't need to shoulder mine too.

We fall into a silence then, punctuated only by the sounds of students shuffling books and murmuring about upcoming exams. I focus on the sandwich, forcing myself to chew and swallow, while the rest of me screams for escape—from the Winthrops, from the expectations, from this constant feeling of being trapped in someone else's twisted design.

I need to know if I can trust them.

I steal a glance at Dre, and the concern etched in his ice blue eyes sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the chill of the study area. He leans back against the chair, one foot up on the table, his arm draped carelessly over his knee. The tattoos snaking around his forearms like dark vines seeking sunlight writhe as he fiddles with one of the thick silver rings on his fingers.

He studies me for a moment longer, the sharpness of his gaze like a knife under my skin. Then, as if deciding something within himself, he nods once and looks away.

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