Page 45 of Picture Perfect

Wesley leans against the doorframe, his sneer a permanent fixture on his handsome face. "Playing the saint again, Addy?" he drawls, and the barb strikes closer to home than he knows.

"Someone has to," I shoot back, my composure, a fortress I've built and rebuilt countless times, slipping. I won't let him see the cracks. I am a saint. I have to be.

"Enough," William interjects, a clear warning. "We have plans to make."

Plans that involve me as little more than a token, a chess piece moved at their discretion. I swallow hard, tasting the metallic tang of fear mixed with defiance.

As they turn away, plotting their next move in hushed tones, I stand rooted to the spot. My mind races, a whirlwind of thoughts and strategies. How long can I play their game before I lose myself entirely?

For now, I survive, but survival isn't living. And deep within, where no one else can see, a rebellion stirs. One day, I'll break free from their gilded cage. One day, I'll rewrite the rules of their game.

And, what if that day is now?

Those boys peddle in secrets. Oh, the things I've been privy to. I know things that could topple empires. Let the new game begin.

Chapter twenty-one

Saint

The night clings to my skin like a second shadow as we pull to the end of the long driveway, the car's engine humming to a stop. I can't stop running through everything that happened, and I can't shake the image of her from my mind—her green eyes fierce, yet vulnerable, under the porch light.

Thick tension wraps around us as we sit in silence, no one moving to get out of the car.

"I need to get back to Carmen," Chess murmurs, breaking the silence as we all finally pile out of the car. I nod, distracted. My thoughts are a tangled mess—a mix of concern, possessiveness, and an anger that simmers under my skin. I want to own her, I want to put her in her place, but doubts gnaw at me, whispers of whether I'm seeing the reality of things.

"Saint? You coming?" Dre calls, jolting me back. I grunt an acknowledgment and follow him and Gen inside, my boots thudding against the polished floor.

"Mason should know we're back," I say more to myself than to anyone in particular, my voice low. They disperse, leaving me to navigate the labyrinthine halls of the house alone, the weight of my thoughts heavy on my shoulders.

I reach Mason's office and hesitate at the door, my hand poised to knock. That's when I hear it—the tinny voice of his secretary through the half-open door.

"Senator Winthrop has extended another dinner invitation," she says, her voice laced with a formality that feels out of place in this home.

"Another one?" Mason grumbles, irritation clear even through the thick oak door. "Decline it. You know I have no interest in pandering to that man's ego."

I should knock, announce my presence, but something holds me back. A spark of an idea flickers to life, dangerous and daring. It's crazy, maybe, but it could be our way in, a crack in the Winthrops' armor. If there's something to uncover, if there's a way to wield their secrets against them...

"Actually," I interrupt, pushing the door open and stepping into the lion's den. Mason looks up, a mixture of surprise and annoyance crossing his features. But he waits, his gaze expectant. There's a play here, a power move that I can't fully understand yet, but my instincts scream that it's right. I square my shoulders, ready to make my move. "Maybe we should accept the invitation this time."

The scent of old leather and the subtle tang of cigar smoke linger in the air as I lean against the door frame of Mason's dark-wood office. It's a silent standoff, one that has less to do with who'll blink first and more about who'll bend. Mason's hard gaze is a fortress, his skepticism a moat I have yet to bridge.

"Accept it?" Mason's voice is low, dangerous. "And why, pray tell, would I entertain such an absurd change of heart?"

"Because," I start, my words deliberate, "it's not just your heart we're talking about here. It's strategic."

"Strategic," he echoes, the skepticism in his tone like grit against my resolve.

I nod, feeling the game unfold, pieces moving on a board only I can see. "Exactly. Think of it as a favor to me."

He leans back, his eyes narrowing to slits as he studies me. Mason's office, usually a sanctuary of mahogany and aged books, feels like a battlefield now.

"Since when do you ask for favors, Rhett? Especially ones involving... socializing with politicians?"

"Since it concerns Adelaide." I let her name hang between us, a talisman with more power than I'm ready to admit.

"What's the endgame?"

I wish I knew.

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