Page 58 of Picture Perfect

Time stretches, a silent standoff between me and the Cobb salad. Dre sighs theatrically. In one fluid motion, he spears some greens with his fork, the plastic tines piercing through the leafy barrier with ease, and moves the utensil toward me.

"Open up, Snowflake," he teases, a mischievous glint in his ice-blue eyes.

The nickname stings, a reminder of how out of place I am in this world they've built. But my survival instincts kick in, and before I can second-guess myself, I snatch the fork from him, the cool plastic a shock against my warm skin. "I can feed myself," I say, more confidently than I feel, bringing the fork to my lips and taking control of the situation—or at least pretending to.

"Of course you can," Dre says, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile that doesn't quite reach the haunted depths of his eyes.

The flavors burst on my tongue—salty bacon, creamy blue cheese, the tang of vinaigrette—all mingling in perfect harmony. It's delicious, far beyond anything I expected, and for a moment, I let myself enjoy the simple pleasure of eating something made with care.

I take another bite, the crispness of the lettuce mixing with the savory tang of the dressing and the softness of avocado. The Cobb salad is a culinary mosaic, each ingredient bold and vibrant. But as I chew, the pleasure of taste is undercut by a gnawing anxiety. Cheryl's voice echoes in my mind, her disdain for any deviation from her rigid standards like a ghostly whisper. Tomorrow, when the scale delivers its verdict, will she see it as betrayal? A bead of sweat trickles down my spine at the thought.

I can feel all their eyes on me. I don't know how to do this. This would be too much food even without the terror twisting my stomach into knots. Do they expect me to finish this? Will they be upset if I don't?

I don't understand what they want from me. I know this is mostly about Preston. Taking away his favorite toy is sure to upset him. But, they don't need to spend any actual time with me. They certainly don't need to feed me.

"Hey," Chess's soft voice filters through my growing panic. He squats next to me, his fingers brushing the hair back from my face. "You're awfully quiet."

"Am I supposed to talk with my mouth full?"

"No," he laughs, "I suppose not."

Dre's fingers find the back of my neck again. It's not a knife, so I suppose I should be grateful. Part of me expects him to tighten his grip and force my face down toward the table, but his touch remains soft.

I don't want to like it.

"You don't have to finish it," Chess breaks through the fog again. His voice is soft, pitched low enough I know it's meant only for me.

I nod and continue eating.

The conversation drifts, and I let it wash over me, a tide of words that speaks of things beyond my ordinary life. They talk shop—their words coded, yet they don't bother hiding them from me. Saint mentions a deal going south, Chess recounts a new request that came in, and Dre analyzes the implications with a strategist's precision.

"Think we should involve Mason?" Chess asks, tapping away at his laptop.

"Mason has enough on his plate," Saint answers, his tone final.

They trust me—or at least they're acting like they do. It makes me wonder if this is part of some elaborate game, luring me into complacency. But then, Saint catches my eye, and there's something there, a flicker of genuine sincerity, or maybe it's wishful thinking on my part.

I can feel the suffocating tendrils of hope trying to weave their way back in.

??????

My heart pounds as I approach Cheryl in the study. I know tomorrow's weigh-in will reflect what I’ve eaten today. Better to get ahead of her anger than be blindsided by the results.

"Cheryl, may I speak with you?" I ask softly, folding my trembling hands.

She glances up from her ledger, eyes narrowing. "What is it?"

I take a shaky breath. "It's about Saint—Barrett. I'm worried he's...developing expectations."

Her manicured nails rap the desk. "Go on."

"Well, he keeps bringing me food. Watching me eat. I didn't want to refuse him and risk ruining things..."

Cheryl's lips purse. "I see. And I assume you've indulged this little fetish of his?"

My cheeks burn. "I didn't want to jeopardize the relationship. You did tell me to cater to his every whim. But I'm concerned how it will look tomorrow."

She processes this, then nods. "You've made the right choice telling me now. We'll take steps."

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