Page 54 of Picture Perfect

"Then I am more than happy to negotiate," William says with a finality that slams doors shut inside me. Happy to barter away my future, my will, as if I were just another asset in his portfolio.

I glance up, my chest tightening, and find Saint's gaze fixed on mine across the table. There’s an emotion there, something flickering beneath the surface like the shadow of a storm cloud passing over the sun. I can't quite name it—is it regret? Concern? Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. It won’t change the game. It won’t change my role in it.

"Excellent." Mason’s approval is a nail in my coffin. "I'm sure this is the beginning of a bright future for our families."

"Indeed," William replies, raising his glass.

"Indeed." Saint's voice is a low rumble, almost drowned out by the clatter around us. But I hear him, oh, I hear every syllable laced with hidden meaning.

"Indeed," I echo softly, turning my focus back to the fruit salad. I spear a piece of melon with more force than necessary, watching the juice bead up on the fork.

"I think a toast is in order," Cheryl coos from across the table, her voice like the sickly sweet icing on a cake left out in the rain. She snaps her fingers to alert the staff they're needed.

Flutes of champagne are passed around the table and raised in unison. The crystal glasses clink together, producing a melodic chime that resonates in the air.

"To a fruitful future!"

And as their laughter fills the room, wrapping around me like the coils of a constrictor, I let my walls rise higher.

I take a deep breath, my fingers curling around the stem of the champagne flute. The smile never leaves my lips, but behind the facade, a fire begins to burn. The game is far from over, and I refuse to be a pawn in their twisted design.

Chapter twenty-seven

Addy

The morning air bites at my skin as I step out of the car, a reminder that despite the sun hanging low and bright in the sky, warmth can be deceptive. My fingers curl tighter around the straps of my backpack, the leather cracked and comfortable, much like the mask I wear daily. It's Monday, a fresh start for some, but for me, it's just another round in the ring.

I can still feel the weight of Saint's gaze from Friday night, the way he blindsided me at dinner with his perfectly timed revelation, a move calculated to tip the scales in his favor. I hate that he's good at this game, at manipulating the board without even lifting a finger. The weekend had been an odd reprieve; my family treating me with kid gloves, their eyes glossing over with gratitude because of the business partnership with Mason I orchestrated. It's sickening how money changes everything.

"Addy." His voice is like gravel, harsh and scraping. Preston.

I halt, mid-step, my eyes catching sight of him as he steps into my path. He's a mess. Bruises paint his skin in shades of violet and sickly yellow. There's a limp in his stride, each step must be agony, yet there’s a fury burning behind his swollen eyes that tells me he doesn't care about the pain.

"Look at you," he sneers, pointing an accusatory finger at my face. "Walking around like you're untouchable now. Like you didn't cause all of this."

His words are meant to cut, but they're just noise. I've been sliced by sharper tongues than his. Still, the accusation stings more than I want to admit. The bruising grasp of his hand on my life, always trying to claim what isn't his. It's exhausting.

Maybe I should be thanking Saint. He has helped me escape from Preston Montgomery III after all.

"Did you enjoy your cozy little weekend? Feeling like the queen bee while we all suffered?" Preston's voice slices through the morning hum of students, a jagged edge in the mundane buzz.

"Did you enjoy your fall from grace?" I counter, unable to keep the venom from my tone. It's unlike me to engage, to spar with him when avoidance has always been my shield. But something about today, about his battered form accusing me of his misfortunes, it ignites a fire within me.

"Careful, Addy. You're not as safe as you think," he warns, his voice dropping to a dangerous timbre. The threat, veiled as it might be, sends a shiver down my spine, but I will not let it show. I'm made of sterner stuff than that.

"Are you threatening me on school grounds, Preston?" I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. "Because that sounds like a pretty bad idea."

He laughs, a hollow sound that doesn't reach his eyes. "You think you have protectors, huh? Saint and his little band of misfits?"

"I don't need protection," I retort, stepping to the side, trying to bypass him. His laughter follows me, but I don’t look back. I press forward, toward another day of survival in a world where trust is a currency too expensive to afford.

The clamor of the high school corridors becomes a distant hum as Preston's voice slices through the air, sharp and insistent. "You think you can just ignore me, Addy?"

My silence fuels his anger, and I feel the eyes of passing students on us, their whispers like the fluttering of moth wings against old lampshades. They know better than to intervene; this is a scene they've witnessed before, in different iterations but always with the same players.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" His hand latches onto my arm, a vise of bruising pressure. Instinctively, I wince, turning my gaze to meet his—his eyes are wild, a stormy sea crashing against the rocks of his battered ego.

I swallow the knot in my throat, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. Today, like every other day, I'll walk the tightrope of high school politics and personal demons. And I won't fall—not to Preston, not to Saint, not to anyone.

---