Page 19 of Picture Perfect

His hand moves to rest on the back of my neck, his fingers digging in just hard enough to remind me of his power. "I'm sure there are ways you can earn back some privileges, Adelaide. We're not unreasonable people."

No, they weren't. Because they weren't people at all. They were monsters.

Chapter ten

Addy ?

The morning light hadn't even begun to seep through the curtains when the pain clawed at my scalp. "Get up!" Cheryl's voice, sharp as the tug on my hair, pierces the remnants of sleep clinging to my consciousness.

"Ow—stop!" I mumble, but my plea is lost in the shuffle of movement as she drags me from my tangled sheets. My arms flail, trying to find something to hold onto, anything that might anchor me for a moment longer in the comfort of my bed.

"Sleeping in your school clothes, Adelaide? Disgusting," Cheryl spits out, her tone dripping with revulsion. Her fingers release their iron grip, and I stumble to my feet, rubbing the sore spots on my head.

"They're just clothes," I mutter under my breath, but loud enough that I know she'll hear. I brace myself for another surge of her anger.

I want to scream, to tell her that the silk of my sleep clothes felt like ice against my skin without the comfort of my bedding. They had only left the sheets after all. But I hold back, biting down on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Silently, I curse the Winthrops' obsession with appearances, their need to mold me into some flawless doll incapable of feeling the cold—or anything else, for that matter.

"Always picture-perfect, that's how you're supposed to be."

I don't even have lounge clothes. If I didn't want to freeze overnight, I had no choice but to wear the clothes I'd spent the day in.

"Change out of those filthy things. Now." Her command is laced with an edge that suggests defiance would only make things worse.

"Yes, Mother," I say, keeping my gaze fixed on a point just past her shoulder. Inside, my heart races, a staccato beat urging me to fight, but survival instinct tells me to play along. For now. Always for now.

The strength I have honed isn't for show; it's for endurance, for the moments when I can finally break free from this gilded cage.

Cheryl's lip curls up slightly, a shadow of a smirk that doesn't quite reach her cold eyes.

With a forceful shove, I stumble into the darkness of the closet, the door slamming shut behind me with a definitive clack. Cheryl's voice seeps through like poison gas. "Get changed. You have two minutes."

I look at the closet full of costumes, each a personality they expect me to embody when they call on it. These clothes aren’t me. I… I don’t even know who that is. After years of being shuffled around the foster system, shitty home to shittier home, I’d landed here. I had thought I’d struck gold but it didn’t take long for me to realize it was just gold plated.

The closet is a mausoleum of designer labels and untouched fabrics—much sparser than it was yesterday—each piece a reminder of the Winthrops' twisted version of care. My fingers slide across empty hangers before they find the coarse texture of my workout attire.

"Good girl," she says mockingly, before I hear her turning on her heel and leaving me alone.

As she leaves, the silence of the room settles on my shoulders like a shroud. I peel off the stiff, wrinkled clothes, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud. The fabric whispers across my skin, a cruel reminder that it is the only soft touch I will likely ever receive. I think of the countless times I've woken up just like this, trapped in a loop of expectations and cruelty.

But today, something in me feels different, a flicker of rebellion that refuses to be smothered. It's a dangerous thing, hope. It makes you believe that there might be an end to the darkness, an escape from the carefully constructed hell you call home.

"Addy, don't you start dreaming. Not yet," I chide myself silently. There's no room for dreams in this house, not when they could so easily turn into nightmares.

It doesn’t matter how they dress me up or how they use their influence to force me into the mold they set for me. I will never be one of these people. They’re evil incarnate.

With a sigh, I reach for the workout clothes I know are expected of me, my muscles already dreading the punishment they'll soon endure. But it's more than physical exhaustion—it's the relentless reminder that here, in this world, I am nothing more than what they make me to be: perfect, poised, and utterly, painfully hollow.

As I dress, my thoughts run wild and untamed. They are the one thing Cheryl can't dictate or diminish. I imagine myself running far from here, muscles burning not from exertion but from the sheer thrill of freedom. Yet, even as my mind soars, reality anchors me firmly to the ground.

Because, despite how things look on the outside, I don’t have the freedom to move. I have only what they’re willing to provide and that has never included money. I have no way of saving, not even pennies to put away. So, until I’m 18, I’m stuck playing my part perfectly.

"Time's up," comes the sharp command as the door flings open once more, flooding the closet with harsh light that seems to scrutinize every inch of me.

"Let's go." Her tone brooks no argument, and I follow, my heart pounding in ominous synchrony with the echo of our footsteps down the halls.

The home gym is a shrine to physical excellence, all gleaming metal and sterile surfaces. Cheryl stands by the treadmill, waiting for me to begin the routine she relishes in enforcing.

"Start with a five-mile run. Pace yourself at eight minutes per mile. No more," she instructs, her eyes glinting with steely expectation.

---