Page 49 of Picture Perfect

"Man, I hope they have those little shrimp things. You know, with the cocktail sauce?" Chess's voice cuts through the muffled quiet of the town car. His eyes, a light hazel, glint with mischief in the fading light.

I glance at him, managing a thin smile that doesn't quite reach my ice-blue gaze. "Sure, Chess," I say, my voice a low drawl. "The shrimp." As if any sort of hors d'oeuvre could distract me from the night's true purpose.

I grip the back of his neck and let my fingers slip into his silky hair. I smirk at the little shiver that runs through him.

"Life's too short for bad appetizers." He throws his head back, laughing, and even Gen cracks a grin.

The car corners smoothly, tires whispering over the cobblestone drive. My thumb traces the edge of a scar beneath my cuff, a nervous tick I've never quite managed to shake. I watch as the mansion comes into view, its presence as undeniable as a king upon his throne. Each glowing window is an eye, each column a bone of this skeletal palace.

My heart picks up speed, thudding against my ribs like it's trying to break free. There she waits, Adelaide Winthrop, wrapped in silk and secrets. She's the songbird whose melody haunts my dreams, the siren calling me to shipwreck on her shores.

"Well, would you look at that? The Winthrops sure don't skimp on the drama," Chess says, peering out at the mansion.

"Or the electric bill," Saint adds dryly, and a ripple of laughter fills the car.

"Quite the fortress," I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. It's a stage set for tragedy or triumph; I haven't decided which yet.

"Fortress? More like a prison, if you ask me," Gen interjects, her tone somber for a moment before she masks it.

"Snowflake is smart," I murmur, almost to myself. "She's got to know something's up."

"Addy's tough," Gen counters, "but even the strongest steel can bend."

"Or break," I add quietly, a truth I know all too well etched into my skin—thin scars hidden beneath ink and casual indifference.

"Tonight's just another party," Chess says, his tone light but his eyes serious. "Let's enjoy it while it lasts."

"Another party," I echo, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. No, this night is the beginning, the first move on a chessboard where every piece is alive and every pawn has teeth.

"Let's play then," I say, a tight smile curving my lips. As the car comes to a halt before the imposing mansion, I feel the predator within stir, ready for the hunt. Tonight, I think, Adelaide Winthrop might just find herself an ally in the darkness.

Saint bounds out of the car with his usual grace, followed by Chess and Gen, their laughter echoing through the still evening air. I linger for a moment longer, a shadow detached from the group, my eyes scanning the scene before me.

"Come on, Dre! Don't tell me you're shy now," Chess calls out, his voice laced with a teasing edge.

I slide out of the car, the cool air grazing my skin. "Not in the slightest," I reply, my voice low, almost lost in the rustling leaves. My boots crunch against the gravel as I close the distance between myself and the polite reunion happening at the entrance. They exchange pleasantries, the kind that mask true intentions. I'm not interested in such disguises—not tonight.

My snowflake stands slightly apart, her silhouette outlined by the ambient light spilling from the foyer. Her blonde hair cascades down her back, the low cut of her gown revealing more than just skin—it lays bare vulnerability. She's ethereal, untouchable, yet something primal within me stirs—a longing to shatter the ice that encases her.

"Quite something, isn't it?" Gen says, nudging my arm, her gaze drifting towards the opulence around us.

"An audience worthy of any spectacle," I murmur, but my focus remains fixed on Adelaide.

"Careful, Dre. You're staring," Saint warns, his tone carrying a hint of amusement.

"Am I?" The corner of my lip twitches upward, but my attention doesn't waver. "Can you blame me?"

Laughter spills from the mansion, and we move inside, the warmth of the interior chasing away the chill. The clink of glasses and the murmur of conversation wrap around me like a cloak, but it's all white noise compared to the symphony my snowflake conducts with every graceful step.

"Try the champagne; it’s actually decent," Chess offers, handing me a flute filled with bubbling liquid.

"Thanks," I say, though the drink goes untouched. My eyes lock onto Adelaide again as she remains at her parents' sides, her demeanor impeccable, her smile practiced. Yet, there's a tremor in her laugh, a flicker of something else in her eyes—something wild trying to escape.

"Our hostess plays her part well," I comment, watching as my snowflake nods at a joke, her laughter hollow.

"Too well," Gen agrees, following my gaze. "It's like watching a marionette."

"Exactly." A muscle in my jaw tightens. "But strings can be cut."

---