Page 104 of Picture Perfect

But I can't ignore the snug fit of my pants or the way my tops stretch across my chest. Maybe I'll find something old to repurpose—anything to avoid another confrontation at home. The reprieve I was awarded after snagging Mason's attention via Saint has faded.

The door opens and I glance in the mirror to see Cecily's venomous stare. Oh, goodie

"Addy Winthrop," Cecily's voice ricochets off the tiled walls, sharp as the click of her designer heels. She storms in, platinum hair flawless, sneer perfectly practiced. "You've got some nerve."

"Excuse me?" I deflect, feigning interest in a nonexistent flaw on my sleeve.

"You are such a fucking bitch, you know that? You think you're so much better than everyone else because some rich family decided to move you into their mansion."

"I really don't."

"Please," she scoffs, her laugh hollow. "You're just playing games. And trust me, you don't want to play games with me."

My hands are shaking, but it’s not from fear—it's pure, unadulterated rage boiling within me. I'm so sick of this, of all of it. I don't have to justify myself to Cecily or anyone else. I stand up abruptly, knocking back into Cecily, who has inched herself closer to me.

I lock eyes with Cecily, my voice steady and laced with a fire I didn't know I had in me. "You're right, Cecily. I don't have to play games with you because I'm not interested in stooping down to your level. Unlike you, I don't find satisfaction in tearing others down."

Cecily recoils slightly, her arrogance momentarily faltering. But she quickly recovers, a mocking smile playing on her lips.

"But what's the fun in not tearing you down, Adelaide?" she taunts. "You're just a charity case, a pathetic little stray they picked up off the streets. No matter how much they try to dress you up, you'll always be nothing more than trash."

I grit my teeth and clench my fists, refusing to let her get under my skin.

Taking a step closer, I meet Cecily's gaze head-on, my voice ringing with a newfound strength. "Trash, huh? Well, Cecily, if that's what you want to label me as, then so be it. But let me remind you of something: trash fights dirty."

I push past Cecily, leaving her standing there in stunned silence.

"Stay away from Preston. I don't know what game you're playing, but—"

"Game?" I spin to face her, irritation flaring up like a match struck too close to skin. "Cecily, believe me, there's no game. And no interest.”

"Right." Her laugh is hollow, echoing my own disbelief. "Like you're over Preston Montgomery III."

"Trust me, he's all yours." My words are clipped, final. I mean them—every syllable.

"Keep telling yourself that, Addy." She flips her hair, eyes narrowed with a challenge I have no intention of accepting.

"Enjoy him," I say, brushing past her, my reflection in the mirror now a blur. "He's your problem now."

Stepping back into the hallway, I draw in a deep breath, ready to face the rest of the day with renewed resolve. I sling my bag higher onto my shoulder, the weight grounding me as I navigate the empty corridor.

The boys will still be in class, but I head toward the computer lab anyway, hoping that maybe one of them will be there.

That thought alone propels me forward, past lockers and bulletin boards plastered with club announcements and school spirit propaganda.

I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the encounter with Cecily. I can't let her toxicity poison the newfound clarity I've discovered. The realization that I don't need to conform to the expectations of those around me, that I can forge my own path… it’s freeing.

"Please let Chess be there," I murmur to myself, clinging to the possibility like a lifeline. Even if he's busy, just seeing him, his mischievous grin, that ridiculous haircut that somehow suits him perfectly, would soothe the raw edges of my frazzled nerves.

Turning the corner with hopeful anticipation, the sight before me slams into my chest like a physical blow. Chess is there, alright. But he's far from alone, his olive skin practically glowing under the fluorescent lights, somehow making him even more striking. And he's leaning in close to two giggling girls, his hazel eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief.

"Hey, Chess," one of them giggles, her hand lingering a second too long on his shoulder.

"Looking good today," the other chimes, bold and flirtatious.

And Chess, he's eating it up, smiling that smile I thought was reserved for moments shared between us. My heart clenches tight, a vice of betrayal and hurt squeezing the breath from my lungs. It's as if the scene before me is a twisted mirror, reflecting a truth I can no longer deny—I was never special.

Of fucking course you weren't, you stupid bitch.

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