Page 103 of Picture Perfect

The words ricochet inside my head, laughter from Sera and Penelope still prickling at my skin. "I'm rich by association too," I snap. "Or did you forget the Winthrops adopted me?"

For a moment, a flicker of hesitation crosses their faces, but it's brief, like the passing shadow of a cloud on an otherwise sunny day. They exchange looks that don't bother to hide their disbelief, as if my newfound status is just another accessory I've put on for show.

"Right," Sera says, her tone dripping with condescension, "but come on, Addy. Everyone can see through this charade. You're just trying to make Preston jealous."

"Jealous?" The word tastes sour, a reminder of a game I no longer wish to play. "You really think I'm that petty?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Penelope chimes in, flipping her hair over her shoulder with practiced nonchalance. "No one just drops someone like Preston Montgomery III without a second thought."

"Especially not for Saint," Sera adds with a snicker. "I mean, please."

Before I can muster a retort, the door to the classroom swings open, and Cecily waltzes in, her timing impeccable as always. She fixes me with a smug smile, one that suggests she's already won some unspoken battle.

"This isn't a game to me."

"Could've fooled us," Sera chimes in, arms folded across her chest as if she's bracing for an impact.

Their skepticism hangs heavy in the air, a fog of doubt I can't seem to dispel.

"Whatever you say, Addy," Penelope says, her tone patronizing. She exchanges a look with Sera that makes my stomach twist. They're right. I am lying. Because what I have with Saint isn't real either. It's just safer.

Before I can defend myself further, a sharp voice slices through the tension.

"Making plays at Preston now, are we?" Cecily's words drip with venom as she steps into our circle, her eyes locked on mine.

I straighten up, meeting her glare. "I'm not making 'plays' at anyone."

"Good," Cecily sneers, stepping closer. "Because you can't have him. Preston's mine."

My gaze hardens as I meet her eyes, and there's a small part of me that revels in the shock that flickers across her face when I respond. "Cecily, listen carefully because I'll only say this once—I have zero interest in Preston. He's all yours, trust me."

She opens her mouth, possibly to argue or throw another barb my way, but something in my expression must warn her off. With a huff, she turns on her heel and struts back to her seat, leaving me with my heart pounding in my chest and a strange sense of victory.

“Addy, come on. Be serious for a minute.”

I don’t even grant them a response.

I shove my books into my bag with more force than necessary, the sharp sound of textbooks clapping together echoing my frustration. The whispers and judgmental stares stick to me like shadows as I stand, but I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing me falter. I'm done—for today, for this moment—with their petty games and their toxic words. Fuck. This.

I hoist my bag over one shoulder, exiting the room before the teacher can even sputter a demand to know where I'm going.

The hallway is crowded, a living, breathing mass of students who are oblivious to the storm raging inside me. They're caught up in their own dramas, their laughter and chatter forming a cacophony that I push against, physically and mentally. With every step, I fight the current of bodies, my mind desperately seeking solace in memories that are a stark contrast to the hostility of these walls.

My thoughts drift, unbidden, to Chess and the night we spent together. Not just because of what happened between us, but because of what it represented. His home had been warm, filled with love, so unlike the cold, sterile mansion of the Winthrops.

I remember Chess's laughter ringing out in his cluttered living room, Carmen showing me her latest art project. It felt right, real.

I remember how Chess had looked at me, not as a trophy or a conquest, but with a genuine curiosity that said he wanted to know the real me—the version that wasn't sculpted by expectations or marred by past traumas. In those hours, I'd felt a belonging that was foreign yet deeply craved. A family not bound by blood or duty, but by choice and unconditional acceptance.

Did he even realize how lucky he was?

Tugging at the hem of my shirt, I duck into the bathroom. The fabric clings where it used to drape.

"Ugh, so fucking tight?" I mutter, pulling at my shirt. It's another reminder that my body is changing. It’s a good feeling, mostly. It’s a physical reminder of regular meals and a body that's finally learning what it means to be nourished.

My period even returned, a monthly guest I hadn't seen in almost a year. It's a sign of recovery, sure, but also a glaring alert that my wardrobe is becoming obsolete.

I sigh, knowing full well that shopping trips with the Winthrops are more battlefields than bonding experiences. And there's no way they'll be willing to update my wardrobe to help me accommodate what they view as a weakness.

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