Page 85 of Picture Perfect

They pause on the front porch as she digs out her keys. They move to take her inside, but she stops them. I don't know what they're saying, but it's clear she doesn't want them following her inside. How the fuck does she think she's getting all the way up those stairs without help?

I remain seated, the engine idling like an impatient heartbeat. I should be out there. It's me her parents are trying to legally tie her to. She couldn't argue against me going inside. But, I don't move.

The memory of the dinners at her home flash in my mind—the way her mother's eyes had watched, the tiny bits of food Princess had been served. The subtle, yet sharp comments, the way her fork pushed around more food than she put in her mouth. Then there's that damn scale, perched like a gargoyle on its pedestal in her closet.

I shake my head, disgusted with myself. With every push, every boundary I nudged Princess past, I never stopped to consider what I was really asking of her. Never once did I truly think about the consequences that lay beyond my own selfish desires.

I wanted to feed her. She needed to eat, anyone could see that. But I never once stopped to think about why she hadn't been eating.

As the front door closes behind her, cutting off my view, the anger surges like a tidal wave. It's a burning, acidic feeling in my gut, eating away at any sense of calm I had left. I'm mad at everything—at her, at the universe for dealing Princess such a crap hand, at her parents for being the monsters they are, and at myself for not seeing it sooner.

"Damn it," I hiss, slamming a fist against the steering wheel. I knew that the Winthrops were not good people. It's what had started this. I knew Princess was hiding things. But I wanted... what? To believe the worst in her? That whatever she was hiding would benefit me?

How could I have been so blind? Me. I see all—or at least more than anyone thinks I do. I read between the lines, pick up the subtleties. It's what makes me so damn good at what I do. I never saw her.

How could I have let my want—my need—to stick it to the Winthrops cloud my judgment so completely? Princess deserves better. She deserves someone who thinks of her first, not as an afterthought, or as some pawn in whatever game is being played.

I'll do better. I have to. Because whether I deserve her or not, I know one thing for sure: I'm not giving up on her. Not now, not ever.

Once Chess and Dre return, I don’t waste a second before speeding away from the opulence that hides Princess’s misery.

The city lights streak past as I push the car faster than I should, the anger and frustration needing an outlet. Every fiber of my being wants her, craves her presence beside me, even though I hate myself for it. I don't deserve her.

"Saint, slow down, man," Chess says from the back, his voice cutting through the roar of the road.

"Can't," I grind out the word, the admission bitter on my tongue. "I can't just sit back and do nothing."

"Nobody's saying that," Dre interjects, his tone attempting to be the calm in my storm. "But you tearing down the highway isn't gonna help Snowflake."

He's right, damn him. I ease off the gas, the car's speed dropping as the fury simmers down to a low burn. Guilt gnaws at me, thinking of Princess's haunted expression as she stepped out of the car.

When we pull into my driveway, I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, lost. I climb out of the car without a word, leaving Dre and Chess exchanging uneasy glances behind me.

My feet carry me inside, each step heavy with the weight of her absence.

The door to Mason's office doesn't stand a chance against the force of my entrance, swinging open with a crash that likely mirrors the chaos in my chest. I stride in, Dre and Chess not too far behind.

"Mason, we need to talk. Now." My words are clipped, a sharp edge to every syllable.

He looks up from his paperwork, weary lines etched around his eyes. "Rhett, this isn't the time—"

"It is," I interrupt, not caring for the right time or place. “It is the time. They're fucking killing her."

This gets his attention. Mason is a sucker for a sob story. But, he's also smart. He didn't build a multimillion dollar security company from scratch by making hasty decisions.

"Who?"

"Princ—Adelaide Winthrop. We can't just sit around while she's suffering."

Mason leans back in his chair, the creak of leather filling the silence. "You believe she's suffering."

"I know she is," my voice cracks under the pressure. I want to rage. I want to pace. But, the fight drains out of me as I drop into one of the overstuffed chairs opposite Mason's desk.

"I've seen how they are with her at dinner. And I see a troubled young woman, but you think it's more than just strict parenting?"

"Strict?" I snort, incredulous. "They're starving her, Mason. This goes beyond strict."

"Adelaide is a young woman of a certain ilk, and not one born into it. It is possible that she is the reason for the strict diet, Rhett. You can't jump to conclusions."

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