Page 65 of Picture Perfect

I hold my breath, waiting for the inevitable decline, the firm reminder of my place within these walls. But instead, Cheryl surprises me, her expression thawing as she considers Gen's words.

"Alright," she concedes, a reluctant approval in her eyes. "But I expect you to behave, Adelaide. No shenanigans."

"Of course, mother," I mutter, still in shock. Did Cheryl just agree to let me step outside these gilded cages, if only for an evening?

"Perfection! It would make sense for Addy to spend the night at mine since my house is closer. If that's alright with you."

"It only makes sense," Cheryl agrees.

"Let's find you something to wear!" Gen declares, herding me toward my room with the urgency of a general rallying her troops.

My closet, a blend of conservative frocks and stiff blazers, seems to deflate under Gen's discerning gaze. She rifles through the hangers with a furrowed brow, the silence growing heavy.

"Addy, this is...l," she sighs, holding up a beige cardigan with a look of disdain.

"Um, they're comfortable?" I offer weakly, feeling a pang of vulnerability. These clothes have never been my choice, but they are my armor against a world I'm not sure I'm ready to face—the world Gen inhabits so effortlessly.

"Comfortable won't cut it. You need to shine, babe!" Gen exclaims, tossing the cardigan aside. "We'll get ready at my house. My closet is your closet."

"Thank you," I say, the gratitude mingling with a rising tide of anxiety.

She has me pack a small bag and we hop back into her car to head back to the Whitman estate. Gen has the music turned up loud as she sings along to every word, off-key and full of enthusiasm.

I'm out of my element and I'm terrified of what comes next, but I also feel...comfortable. There is just something about Gen that makes me feel at ease. And it worries me. Because there's always a stillness before the serpent's strike.

The scent of leather and old books hits me as soon as we step into Gen's house. It's a stark contrast to the sterile environment I've grown accustomed to at the Winthrop's. It's masculine, but not in a bachelor pad way. I like it.

"Come on," Gen says, her hand light on my back as she guides me past the open door of what looks like a conference room. Mason and his crew, a tableau of brooding intensity, barely glance up from the sprawl of papers and laptops. Their murmurs are a low hum, a soundtrack of secrets and strategy. I can see Saint, Dre, and Chess among them.

"Upstairs," Gen calls out, nonchalant, as if announcing our presence is an afterthought. Her voice bounces off the high ceiling, playful and irreverent.

"Sure," Mason grunts, not taking his eyes off the screen before him. His indifference sets my nerves jangling, but Gen just rolls her eyes and pulls me along.

The stairs creak under our weight, each step amplifying the silence between us. By the time we reach her room, my heart is thundering a rhythm that feels out of place in the calm of her sanctuary. Gen's room is a storm of colors, clothes strewn over furniture like confetti after a parade. She dives into her closet, pulling out items with magician-like flair.

"Try this one," she says, handing me a dress that looks like it's made from liquid moonlight. It slips through my fingers, too delicate, too daring.

"Gen, I—" My throat tightens around the protest, but it doesn't escape unnoticed.

Gen's gaze sharpens, and she pauses, holding another potential outfit against me—a sliver of red that promises attention I'm not sure I want. "What is it, Addy?" Her tone is gentler now, stripped of earlier excitement.

"I don't know if I can wear these," I admit, feeling the weight of her expectation. "They're beautiful, but... they're not me."

"Hey." Gen's hand is warm on my shoulder, grounding. "You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. I got carried away." She puts the dress back, her movements slower, more thoughtful.

"Thank you," I breathe out, relief flooding me. "It's just—"

"Addy," Gen interrupts, her eyes fierce, "you should never let anyone—especially those boys downstairs—walk all over you. You've got to stand up for yourself, make your voice heard. If you don't, they'll eat you alive."

She hands me a simple black dress, classic and elegant. I run my fingers over the fabric, the softness a balm to my frayed nerves. "I can try this one," I say, a tentative smile playing on my lips.

"Perfect," Gen nods approvingly. "Now, let's get you ready to shine on your own terms."

Chapter thirty-two

Addy

The air is thick with the scent of hairspray and Gen's floral perfume. I'm standing in front of the mirror, barely recognizing the girl staring back at me. The dress—deep crimson, hugging every curve I prefer to keep hidden—is Gen’s choice. She claims it's a "subtle" push, but there's nothing subtle about the way it makes my heart race.

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