Page 140 of Picture Perfect

"Damn right," Saint adds, sliding an arm around my shoulders as we start walking forward again, our steps in sync.

"Exactly. Screw him," Dre chimes in, his shoulder brushing mine reassuringly.

We move as one entity, leaving behind whispers and judgmental stares. With each step, I can feel the shackles of my old self loosening, falling away to reveal someone new—someone strong. Surrounded by these boys who've become my protectors, my friends, my... whatever this is, I realize that I'm no longer the girl they once knew. And as Wesley's contemptuous gaze fades behind us, so does the power it once held over me.

"Ready for the day?" Chess asks, his voice light, pulling me back to the present.

"More ready than ever," I respond, and I mean it. Here with Saint, Dre, and Chess, I have found an unexpected sanctuary. Together, we step through the doors of the school.

The whispers snake through the halls like a chilling breeze, but they can't touch me—not anymore. I'm ensconced in an aura of newfound confidence, the soft fabric of my sweater a shield against the judgement.

"Addy, what the hell are you wearing?" The question comes sharp from Sera, her perfectly plucked brows arching in disdain.

"Something comfortable," I reply, and my own voice surprises me with its even tenor.

"Since when do you dress like—" Penelope begins, but I don't need to hear the end of that sentence.

"Like myself?" I finish for her, and a smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. "Since today."

They share a look that's a mix of confusion and revulsion, as if I've sprouted a second head right before their eyes. It's almost comical, the way they reel from this break in their expectations.

"Whatever," Sera huffs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Let's go, Pen."

They leave without another word, their backs rigid with offense. As they walk away, something inside me swells—a realization, bright and fierce. They're not my friends, not really. Friends don't condition their affection on compliance.

I let out a slow breath, feeling the last vestiges of a life lived pleasing others dissipate. I've allowed myself so little, confined my world to such a narrow space. But no more. From now on, I choose. I choose who I am, what I wear, who I love.

And it hits me like a sunrise after the longest night—I'm ready to trust them. Chess, Dre, Saint, and even Gen, they've shown me nothing but acceptance. Wesley's scornful glare in the hallway, the cold shoulders of the girls I used to call friends—it's all background noise now.

"Hey, Addy, you good?" A concerned voice slices through the remnants of my epiphany.

I turn and see Chess leaning against the doorframe, his eyes searching mine for distress. For once, I can look back at him and smile, not out of obligation, but because there's real joy bubbling up inside me.

"Better than good," I assure him, and the truth rings clear in my words.

Chapter sixty-one

Addy

The hum of the air conditioner mingles with the subtle scent of hairspray and foundation as I sit, half-draped in a salon cape, in the plush makeup chair. Gen is buzzing around the room, a whirlwind of energy as she orchestrates this transformation. She's the mastermind behind the glamour that will soon cloak my usually understated appearance.

"Keep your eyes closed for just a sec," the makeup artist instructs, her voice as soft as the brushes she uses to dust powder across my cheeks. I obey, feeling the tickle of bristles along my skin and the cool touch of eyeshadow on my lids.

"Rhett, seriously, you need to chill," Gen's assertive voice cuts through the calm like a knife. She paces back and forth, phone pressed against her ear, her tone brokering no argument. "Addy's fine. We're going to be down on time. You don't need to send any of your watchdogs up here."

A smile curls on my lips despite my closed eyes. Saint's overprotectiveness is as endearing as it is suffocating at times. But Gen won't let anyone, not even him, disrupt our preparations.

"Listen," Gen continues, her voice laced with a playful threat now, "if one of your boys so much as steps foot on these stairs before we're ready, I swear, Rhett, limbs will be removed. And I am not joking."

I can almost picture Saint on the other end of the line —his dark curly hair falling into his eyes, that permanent furrow between his brows deepening. He'd be standing there, phone to his ear, surrounded by his loyal friends, all of them itching to see the final result of Gen's grand plan. I can't wait to show them.

I catch a ripple of laughter escaping my lips, the sound almost foreign in its lightness. It's Gen's witty quip, a razor-sharp retort to Saint's overprotective antics, that slices through the tension I didn't realize I was holding. My shoulders relax, and a smile plays at the corners of my mouth.

"Okay, open," the makeup artist prompts, and I lift my lashes, granting myself permission to peek at the world again. She studies my face intently, searching for any imperfections to correct, but after a moment, she steps back, satisfied. "You're all set."

"Finally!" Gen exclaims, ending her call with a decisive tap on her smartphone screen. She turns to me, her gaze sweeping over my face, seeking approval. "You look amazing, Addy."

"Thanks to you," I reply, meaning every word. Tonight, she's given me a different kind of armor—one made of elegance and beauty, a guise under which I can navigate the treacherous waters of high society.

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