Page 80 of Picture Perfect

After a moment, I take a deep breath and smooth out my expression, carefully reconstructing my mask, before twisting the doorknob and stepping out of the room.

I feign surprise at the two of them waiting for me and keep my voice flat to give nothing away. "Oh, Mother, Chess. I apologize. I didn't realize anyone was waiting."

As Chess slips by me to enter the bathroom, I'm left alone with Cheryl. Her already sour expression twists into a snarl as she lunges forward and grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking me back. I bite down on my lip to muffle the scream that threatens to break free from my throat.

"Do you think me daft, Adelaide? I can smell him on you."

"I—I don't know what you're talking about, Mother."

"You know very well what I'm talking about," Cheryl sneers. "I've kept you in my house for years, trying to mold you into the perfect daughter, and now you go behind my back and ruin everything."

Her fingers tighten around my hair, and I can feel strands start to pull out. I struggle to keep my voice steady as I plead, "Please, Mother. I don't understand."

She doesn't release her grip, instead leaning in closer to me. Her eyes are wild and filled with malice. "You will stay away from the trash. Genevieve and Barrett are a necessary evil, but you will not tarnish the Winthrop name by fraternizing with those heathens they insist on bringing along. Do. You. Understand?" Spittle flies from her perfectly lined lips as she gives me a little shake with each word to punctuate just how serious she is.

"Of—of course, Mother. I wouldn't dream of damaging the Winthrop name."

She finally releases me, and I use my hands to pull the tangled hair back into place.

I will. I'll behave. I'll do my best to pretend everything is perfectly fine the same as I always have. But I will not be complacent in their abuse any longer. I can't wait till I'm eighteen.

I need to know if they're trustworthy. Everything rides on this.

Chapter thirty-eight

Addy

The world is still shrouded in darkness when I feel a violent tug on my sheets. My eyes snap open, the remnants of sleep instantly obliterated by Cheryl's venomous voice piercing through the pre-dawn silence.

"Get up, Adelaide! Now!" Her words slash through the air like knives as her fingers clamp down on my arm, yanking me out of bed with startling force. I stagger to find my footing, heart racing, mind foggy.

"Wha—?" The protest dies in my throat as she towers over me, her silhouette stark against the dim glow from the hallway.

"Did you think this would stand?" Cheryl hisses, her grip tightening to the point of pain. "If you're going to gorge yourself for that heathen, then you're damn well going to make an effort to keep all that extra weight off."

I don't need a mirror to know what she sees—the softness that has crept onto my frame, the subtle curves that weren't there before. To Cheryl, they are blemishes, cracks in their picture perfect facade; to me, they are silent rebellions, each pound a testament to my newfound strength.

"Mother, it's four in the morning," I murmur, attempting to veil my defiance with weariness. It's a precarious dance I perform, trying not to fuel her wrath while protecting the fragile shards I barely manage to hold together on a good day.

"Silence." She snaps, cold fingers prodding at my side, sending shivers across my skin. "This," she sneers, pinching a fold of flesh between her merciless fingers, "is unacceptable. You look disgusting."

I wince, not from the physical discomfort, but from the way her disdain wraps around me, a noose tightening with every breath. Am I so unworthy of affection? Is it something broken in me? If it were simply something broken in them, wouldn't I have found someone to offer something as simple as genuine friendship by now?

"Get ready," she commands, and though she doesn't specify, I know the drill. My muscles tense in anticipation of the grueling regimen to come, but I dare not let her see the fear. I nod, keeping my expression neutral, even as I clench my jaw to hold back the sting of tears threatening to betray my stoicism.

Fabric slaps against my skin as Cheryl flings the workout clothes at me. “Get dressed,” she orders, her voice sharp like the crack of a whip. “I’ll be waiting in the gym. Don’t make me come looking for you.”

I catch the clothes—a pair of black leggings, sports bra, and a too-tight tank top—and press them against my chest. My heart hammers beneath the synthetic fabric, a frantic drumbeat echoing the dread coiling in my stomach.

"Quickly!" Cheryl barks, and I turn away, steeling myself for the day ahead. The taste of bile rises in my throat, sour and potent, as I prepare to face yet another battle in the never-ending war for my own worth.

In the solitude of my room, I peel off my pajamas with mechanical motions and shimmy into the workout gear. It's tighter than it used to be. Everything I own is. But, I don't have the money to purchase anything that will fit my new size and the Winthrops will never bother to spend "useless" money on me.

The clock on my wall ticks away my reprieve, and I can't help but wish for time to stand still.

I slip out of my room and down the hall, feet padding silently across the cold marble floor. The Winthrops' home gym is a chamber of torture disguised by sleek machines and polished surfaces. And there she stands, Cheryl, an unforgiving drill sergeant amidst the weights and cardio equipment.

"Start with a run," she commands, gesturing to the treadmill with a tilt of her head. "We'll see how much stamina those extra calories have given you."

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