Page 1 of Picture Perfect

Chapter one

Addy

Iforce steadiness into my hands as I apply eyeliner, even as rage trembles within. Not an ounce of fear or despair can show through the tranquil facade I create. The mask must be impenetrable.

I grab the gaudy baubles I'm meant to put in my ears. I hate them. I hate all of this.

Another day, another mask to don. I go through the motions mechanically—painting on my smile, smoothing my hair, breathing life into the doll that is my outer appearance.

Everyone is always telling me how lucky I am. How grateful I should be. They don't know my life. They don't live my nightmare. If they only knew the truth behind the seemingly picture perfect Winthrop family.

To the outside world, we look like models on the pages of a magazine. William Winthrop's political career is taking off, and our family is his greatest prop. We were the all-American success story—beautiful, put-together, and oh so enviable. But beneath the glossy veneer, things are a mess, held together by lies, threats, and abuse.

Our photos portray stylish outfits and beaming smiles, artfully airbrushed by the family's publicist before being released to the media. But much like a fashion shoot, the behind the scenes look is an entirely different picture: we’re held together by clothespins and tape, pressed against flimsy backdrops that struggle to maintain the illusion of the Winthrops.

While the cameras flash, there's a frantic flurry of adjustments—heels dug in, hands pinching to ensure every detail stays in place. The second the shutters stop? Well, the devil truly does wear Prada.

Tonight will be no different. It never is. I stare at my reflection in the full length mirror as I prepare for the annual Winthrop Foundation Gala—a thinly veiled excuse to flaunt their wealth, gather allies, and grow the campaign fund.

The image reflecting back at me is that of a beautiful, glamorous young woman, ready for a night of mingling among the elite. But that stunning girl is nothing but a hollow shell. Her beauty is manufactured, constructed carefully like a porcelain doll. Behind the painted smile and expensive jewels, she is as fragile as glass and just as empty inside.

I search her empty, doll-like eyes for some trace of the spirited, hopeful girl I once was, but she is nowhere to be found. The girl in the mirror is a masterpiece. But she isn't real. She isn't me.

My gown is pressed and styled to perfection, my makeup flawlessly applied. I look like I’ve just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. Physically, I am the epitome of a wealthy young woman who has it all.

But inside, I feel like the imposter I am. A fraud parading around in hand-me-down robes. The Winthrop name may be on the adoption papers but I don't belong here. This family, this house, this life—it isn't mine.

My long blonde hair is swept into an elegant French twist, smoothed and sprayed firmly in place without a single strand out of line. My green eyes stare back at me, devoid of life, missing the lively spark I imagine they once held.

My fair skin is painted thickly with makeup to disguise any flaws, giving my complexion a plastic-like sheen, hiding any evidence of the dark circles that plague my sleepless nights.

The off-shoulder neckline is trimmed in intricate lace and sequin embellishments that catch the light with each movement. The fitted bodice hugs my slender frame before billowing out at the hips into a full, voluminous skirt.

It’s… a lot.

The dress itself is exquisite—layers of tulle and taffeta that rustle as I walk, spreading gently like a blossoming flower—but, on me, it feels like little more than a pretty cage.

Cheryl had selected the gown specifically to compliment the rest of the family. We were to be the envy of all in attendance—the perfect accessories reflecting the Winthrop family status and Cheryl's impeccable taste. In my dress that costs more than some families' cars, I feel less like a teenager—certainly not a member of this family—and more like a prized show horse.

A knock at the door makes me jump. Before I can respond, it swings open and my adoptive mother, Cheryl, strides in. Her eyes rake over me like razor blades. I can almost feel them gouging my skin and leaving me bleeding.

"Stand up straight and suck in that gut," she snaps. "Honestly, I can't turn my back for a minute without you expanding like a balloon."

I grimace but do as she commands, straightening my posture and holding my breath until my lungs burn. I'm 5'4" and 92 pounds, well below what any doctor would deem healthy. But for Cheryl, every ounce matters.

My weight is just one part of the Winthrop image that needs to be strictly controlled.

"You know we have an image to uphold," Cheryl continues. "The media already think you're some ungrateful guttersnipe we saved from misery. We can't have them crying abuse when you're living in the lap of luxury." She emphasizes this point with a painful pinch of my underarm.

"Ow!" I yelp before catching myself. "I mean, yes ma'am," I amend quickly. "I'll be more conscious about my choices."

If my daily number crept up even half a pound, there would be hell to pay. I shudder at the thought of the long lecture and "motivational" pictures she would plaster around my room should I displease her. And that would be the easiest part.

"See that you are," she says coolly. "You may be one of us legally, but you're replaceable. Fuck this up, and you'll find yourself back on the streets where we found you."

With that, she turns on her heels and leaves, slamming the door behind her. I stand still as a statue, tears stinging my eyes as her words echo in my mind. Back on the streets, she had said. As if being homeless and orphaned was a choice I had made. As if this life of abuse and control is a privilege to endure.

I stare into the mirror again, biting back sobs of frustration, a rare show of emotion. The performance is about to begin again. My gut churns as I wonder how much longer I can survive this twisted fairy tale.

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