Page 17 of Picture Perfect

The swish of garbage bags being filled with fabric echoes hollowly in the closest thing I'd ever had to a sanctuary. Each article they discard was chosen by them. Stuffed into my closet by hands that weren't mine. Nothing in there had been my choice. They were all clothes befitting a political princess, the image they demanded I uphold.

Now, it all lays at the bottom of trash bags.

I don't even like any of it, but I feel the loss like an aching hole in my chest. My eyes flicker to the built-in shelves beside my bed and find they’ve left my collection of trinkets alone. Small victories.

I quickly avert my eyes so they don’t see that there are things I actually care about in here.

"Only the basics from now on," Cheryl's voice slices through the air, her fingers pinching a lace-trimmed camisole with disgust before tossing it away. "Plain white. Modest. That's what you'll wear."

"Quite right, dear." William chimes in, his eyes roaming over me in a way that sends shivers down my spine. "A girl should be pure, shouldn't she?"

I wrap my arms around myself, feeling suddenly exposed despite the fabric still covering my body. "Yes, Father," I mutter, knowing resistance is futile.

"We will be choosing your clothing from here on out. You will dress with modesty, you little fucking slut. And I will be searching you before you leave for school lest you think you can sneak something past us," William continues.

"Of course, Father," I offer quietly.

"Good. This is for your own good, Adelaide. We're just trying to protect the family's reputation." His words hold an edge, and my stomach churns with unspoken implications.

"The family..." I whisper, more to myself than to them. The word feels like a lie, a cover for control. These people aren’t my family. And none of them act with decorum—most certainly not the angelic perfection they expect from me.

William hides his affairs well, but not well enough. Cheryl is the very definition of cunt. And Wesley? I don’t know how he manages to hide the things he gets up to from the press.

"Exactly. You should be grateful," he replies, a smile playing on his lips that doesn't reach his eyes. They never reach his eyes.

"Grateful," I echo quietly, the bile rising. Their version of care is just another form of confinement.

"Remember, Adelaide, you're under our roof," he continues. "Our rules are your salvation."

"Salvation," I bite back sarcastically under my breath, turning away to hide the contempt on my face. Their 'salvation' is suffocating, a cage disguised as concern.

"Maybe we should implement a harsher curfew," Cheryl suggests, her tone methodical, as if she is discussing pruning roses instead of pruning what little is left of my wings.

"An excellent idea," William agrees, and my heart sinks further. "You will come home immediately following school, there will be no socializing. And certainly no unsupervised time with boys."

"Of course not," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. I don't bother telling them I already follow those rules. Still, I can feel the walls closing in, the promise of a life outside these four walls slipping through my fingers like sand.

"Look at us when we're speaking to you," William commands, and I lift my head to meet his gaze.

"Is that clear, Adelaide?"

"Crystal," I manage, my throat tight, the reality settling in like a cold fog. They own me—every aspect of my existence—and there is nothing I can do but nod and pretend to acquiesce.

"We have given you everything," Cheryl seethes.

You've given me nothing.

"You are an ungrateful little slut, do you hear me?"

There is nothing to be grateful for. I would rather live on the streets than in this house.

"You need to start taking responsibility for yourself and your actions," Cheryl continues, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. "Your responsibility is to this family."

Family. The word is a prison. These people aren't my family—they're wardens, overseers of a life I am desperate to leave behind.

My responsibility is to myself.

I want to blame Chess, to rage against Dre, but the truth is a bitter pill stuck in my throat. It isn't them. It's this place, these people, this life that was never truly mine.

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