Page 4 of Picture Perfect

Iglower at the preening socialites swirling around me, contaminated by their overlarded sense of self-importance. The event is festooned with all the superficial grandeur of a society party. It's a gussied up excuse for a contest of one-upmanship between fellow elites.

This is where the worlds of power and wealth intermingle, each desperate to outdo the other in a never-ending game of social status.

It’s fucking disgusting.

If not for Mason trying to charm the deep-pocketed William Winthrop, I wouldn't be caught dead at this gilded cattle call. But duty calls, so here I am, suffocating in this ballroom full of bloviating blue bloods.

As my eyes scan the room, they land on Winthrop's daughter—Adelaide, the infamous Ice Princess herself. With her platinum blonde hair and Norwegian complexion, she resembles an arctic siren carved from the frozen north.

That frosty exterior is matched by her reputation for being a cold, emotionless bitch. She glides through school on a haze of indifference, barely bothering to acknowledge us mere mortals.

My lip curls in distaste. I can't stand her or the other entitled brat her family produced. The whole family is fucking mess honestly. The Winthrops embody everything that's wrong with this godforsaken society, a breeding ground for privilege and moral decay. With their painted smiles and carefully crafted façade, they are a blight on the moral compass of our society. They revel in their opulence, blind to the suffering they cause. It's a disgusting display of power and privilege, a festering wound that infects everything it touches.

And William Winthrop, the patriarch of this wretched clan, is a fucking creep. The way he carries himself, the dark aura that surrounds him—it's not just distasteful; it's downright repulsive. He's a stain on the fabric of humanity, an embodiment of everything that makes this world unbearable.

The way he leers at Adelaide, like she's nothing more than a pawn in his twisted game, sends shivers down my spine. It's not just her he preys on; it's anyone he deems beneath him.

I clench my jaw, my fingers itching with the desire to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his face. The thought of dismantling the Winthrop empire, brick by corrupt brick, becomes a silent vow in the recesses of my mind. Society doesn't need them. It needs a reckoning, a purge of the rot that festers beneath the surface.

Still, as she stands there in that flowing gown, I can't deny she is possibly the most beautiful creature I've ever laid eyes on. Not beautiful in the soft, warm way most covet. Hers is a harsh, cutting beauty—polished and remote, as a diamond, but no less stunning.

Those marble features betray nothing as she moves through conversations on her father's arm. I idly wonder what it would take to crack that icy facade of hers, to see a spark of life in those crystal eyes. She likely isn't capable of passion or fire, but the challenge intrigues me nonetheless.

The Ice Princess of Saint Ignatius High. I smirk as an idea takes shape. The scheme will infuriate her, I know. But getting under that porcelain skin could prove entertaining.

I watch with disgust as that simpering slug Preston approaches, champagne flute in hand, and attaches himself to Addy's side. Preston Montgomery III isn't just another trust fund brat—he is the oozing embodiment of entitled mediocrity. The oaf doesn't have an original thought behind those beady eyes, barely scraping by on his family's coattails.

My stomach turns watching him leer at Addy, pawing at her like she’s one of his family's thoroughbreds. A prime piece of real estate to flaunt, not a thinking, breathing girl. If she had any sense, she'd castrate the lecherous bastard.

"Charming affair, isn't it?" comes a bored drawl. I glance over as Dre steps up on my left, looking like sin incarnate in his tux.

They call him a beautiful devil, and there’s no denying the volcanic heat he exudes when he’s in the room. He’s a predator, no doubt waiting for his prey to reveal itself as he watches and waits.

Dre is a master manipulator, always five steps ahead of everyone else. He knows his prey will fall into his trap. Those icy eyes, piercing and unyielding, and that wicked grin can turn even the most innocent of souls into his thrall.

"Indeed, it is," I agree, my eyes never leaving the Winthrop princess. The way her fist clenches slightly as Preston paws at her hip leaves an unpleasant taste on my tongue.

"I'd rather gouge my eyes out with a rusty fork," he grumbles. Chess chuckles on my other side.

"Now, now, play nice," he teases, reaching out to ruffle Dre's perfectly styled hair. "We're here to help grease the wheels for Mason, not terrorize the gentlefolk."

Dre swats at Chess as I grunt in response, glancing back at the princess and her odious companion. "Doesn't mean we can't have a little fun."

Maybe cracking the Ice Princess would provide some entertainment in this pretentious circus. With that satisfying thought, I turn my attention to the balanced trays weaving through the ravenous and uncaring throng of privileged indifference. If I was going to survive this night, sustenance would be required.

The games could commence shortly.

Chapter four

Addy

The sound of clinking glasses and laughter fill the air as Preston and I approach the bar nearest my father. He doesn't bother asking me what I want to drink, just orders a champagne cocktail for me without a second thought or even a glance in my direction.

I roll my eyes at his presumptuousness and lean against the bar, scanning the room for any sign of escape. But it's packed and there's no way I could slip away unnoticed.

Preston seems content to stay by my side, unfortunately, engaging in small talk with other guests who approach us. I tune them out, not wanting to participate in their meaningless conversations about business deals and political nonsense.

I'm almost relieved when Wesley finally arrives, storming up to us with an angry scowl on his annoyingly handsome face.

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