Page 3 of Picture Perfect

"Remember your place, Adelaide," Cheryl says, leaning closer, her breath a ghostly touch on my cheek. "Smile and be gracious. It's not that difficult."

"Never is," I whisper back, the threat in her tone wrapping around me like a cold embrace.

"Good girl," William praised, patting my lower back with a familiarity that makes my skin crawl.

As we turn toward a group of potential investors, I allow myself one fleeting thought: escape. I imagine myself running up those stairs, out the door, away from the iron grip of the Winthrop name and the nightmares of this house. But dreams are dangerous things, and tonight, I am tethered to reality by a silver chain of obligation and fear.

"Be good," I whisper to myself, stepping into the fray, my mind racing with dangerous thoughts of a world beyond these walls, where laughter isn't currency and affection isn't a strategic move in a twisted game of chess. But here, amidst the glittering facade, I dance to a tune composed by expectation and dread, each step a note in this symphony of survival.

When I’ve been paraded around and groped far more than is acceptable for a 17-year-old, I feel Wesley stiffen beside me, the grip on his glass so tight I wonder if it will shatter.

"What are they doing here?" he demands, glaring across the ballroom.

Chapter two

Addy

Iwas numbly playing my part on William's arm when Wesley's angry exclamation broke through my haze. My eyes follow his glare to the grand entrance, where the three figures now pausing there hit me like a bolt of lightning.

Barrett Saint, Draven Roberts, and Francesco Ortega stand surveying the room, looking like dangerous fallen angels in their sleek black tuxedos. Even in this elegant setting, they exude an aura of danger.

My pulse quickens at the sight of them. There were the popular kids at school, and then there were them—the unnerving, magnetic trio that lurked in the shadows. Most found them frightening, but I had always been...fascinated.

Saint is all sharp lines and edges, from the severe beauty of his bone structure to his piercing obsidian eyes. His raven hair curls rakishly fall across his forehead, a look both careless and deliberate. He has an intimidating presence that commands any room with minimal effort. Merely meeting his intense gaze makes my nerves ignite. So, naturally I avoid that like the plague.

Dre's stunning blonde hair grazes his jacket collar, offset by fiery ice-blue eyes that always see far too much. His is a feral beauty, simultaneously hypnotic and unsettling, twisted yet stunning. Those crystalline eyes seem to see right through me whenever they meet my own. I both crave and dread the vulnerability his stare can unlock in me.

Chess captures attention with his effortless charm, his warm olive skin and silky dark hair a striking contrast to the others' ice and ink. While Chess has the same dangerous edge as the others, his is a softer beauty, more approachable. Laugh lines frame his hypnotic hazel eyes, suggesting hidden depths beneath his easygoing grin. He stirs a peculiar ache in me—one I don't understand and don't want to.

As the trio weaves their way through the guests with predatory grace, I feel a strange exhilaration. Their presence here tonight feels like a secret message—things are about to get interesting.

"Mason Whitman will make a powerful ally," my adoptive father replies sternly. Saint's uncle, I realize with a shiver. "I intend to have him in my pocket sooner rather than later. Whatever your problem with the boy, you will get over it. You will not mess this up, Wesley, do you understand me?"

"Yes, Father," he grumbles, the grip on his glass no less shattering.

I can almost feel the tension as it thickens the air around us as the trio catches sight of Wesley. The grip on my chest tightens. It's then that I feel another presence approaching, a new disturbance in the carefully crafted equilibrium of the room.

Preston Montgomery III glides towards our group with a smug smile, his designer suit perfectly tailored to accentuate his entitled demeanor.

Of all the insufferable elite boys my adoptive parents push me toward, Preston is by far the worst. He's a belligerent little brat, having coasted through life on his family's wealth and status. I can barely stand to look at his doughy, arrogant face, let alone endure his company.

The others in my social group seem to think him attractive. I think they’ve lost it.

"Well, this is certainly an unpleasant surprise," he grumbles, clamping a clammy hand possessively on my hip. I suppress a shudder at his touch and the implication I am his to claim. Thanks to William, I am.

"I do hope the riffraff aren't making you uncomfortable, darling," Preston continues with faux concern, his stubby fingers digging into my side. It's clear my comfort means nothing to him. I'm little more than a prize to be won, not a girl with desires of her own. Not a person at all, really.

"She'll be just fine, Preston," William assures smoothly. "Why don't you be a good lad and fetch Adelaide something refreshing to drink? Her glass looks a little low."

I don't think William is Preston's biggest fan either. Preston Montgomery II on the other hand, is a different kind of prize for him. I'm just a bargaining chip in their ongoing negotiations.

With an annoyed huff at the dismissal, Preston stomps off towards the bar with me in tow. I suppress an eye roll at his childish antics, skin crawling from his proprietary touch. Men like him, like my "father," see me as little more than a pretty object to control and flaunt. A mannequin and nothing more. That's what they wanted, so that's what I offered.

As my gaze drifts back to the magnetic trio across the room, I feel a spark of defiance. Maybe there are still men who might see me as a human being, not just chattel. And I would do anything for the chance to be free.

Chapter three

Saint

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