Page 87 of Picture Perfect

"Adelaide?" another voice calls, closer this time, insistent.

I shake my head, clearing it of dreams and maybes. I can already feel the tendrils of another headache creeping in. Too many nights of restless sleep are catching up to me. The last thing I need is drama, but as I approach my locker, it hits me like a brick wall.

"Adelaide," Preston's voice calls again, slithering into my ears before I even see his face.

My gaze snaps up, and there he is, leaning against my locker with that same arrogant smirk that's been haunting my days. My stomach churns with the usual cocktail of fear and frustration, but today, anger bubbles to the surface, hot and unexpected.

"What do you want, Preston?" The words fly from my mouth before I can stop them. I don't have time for this, not today.

He pushes off from the locker, stepping towards me. "I just want to talk," he says, but his eyes tell a different story—one where 'talk' means 'control,' 'claim,' 'force.'

"Talk, then," I challenge, crossing my arms despite the tremble in my fingers.

"I've had enough of this rebellion, Adelaide. You know you belong to me," he starts, voice low and menacing. "Barrett Saint is a prick. He's just using you to get under my skin."

A humorless laugh escapes me. "Belong to you? That's rich, Preston." I sidestep him, trying to access my locker, but his hand clamps down on my arm, holding me back.

"Let. Go." I try to jerk my arm away, but his grip tightens.

"Preston, baby!" Cecily's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, dripping with faux concern. Students around us start to whisper, their eyes darting between us, eager for the next installment of high school melodrama.

"Ew, what are you doing with her?" Cecily asks loudly enough for everyone to hear, her tone suggesting she's here to save the day when we all know she's here to put on a show.

"Back off," I snap, still trying to shake Preston off. "Walk away and let me live my life, without either of you."

With one last seething look at Preston, who has yet to release my arm, I spin the combination lock and yank open my locker. The metallic clang echoes my pounding heart.

The hallway is buzzing, every pair of eyes glued to the spectacle. I catch snippets of hushed conversations, speculations, and judgments. None of them really know what's going on, none of them understand. But that's high school for you—a breeding ground for rumors and lies. And right now, I'm the main character of a story I never wanted to be a part of.

"Addy, don't think you're fooling anyone," Cecily's voice is laced with a venom that rivals the sting of disinfectant in the air. "You prancing around with Saint and his crew—it’s all just a sad attempt to make Preston jealous."

I freeze, whipping around to face her. "Excuse me?" My voice is a snarl, but inside, I'm reeling. Does she honestly believe that?

"Please," Cecily tosses her hair, her eyes narrowing. "It's obvious you're not over him. And those boys," she waves a dismissive hand, "they're just playing with you. You're a project, Addy. Once they're done, they'll toss you aside like everyone else."

Her words, meant to wound, only fuel a fire that's been building within me. I try to hold it in, really I do. But, the cackle that escapes me can't be helped. "Oh, oh boy. That's rich. I don't need to make anyone jealous, Cece. I don't want Preston. Not now, not ever again. The same can't be said for him. Everywhere I turn, there he is, waiting."

Before she can retort, a sudden silence falls upon the hallway. I feel rather than see Saint, Chess, and Dre approach. They have this gravitational pull, an aura that commands attention without a single word. The crowd parts for them like some sort of twisted Red Sea, and there, standing before me, is Saint—dark curls and all.

Preston drops my arm like a hot potato when Dre's eyes narrow on the contact.

"Hey, baby," his voice is low but warm, a stark contrast to the chill of the hallway. He holds out a paper bag toward me, the smell of fresh pastries wafting from within. "Brought you breakfast."

"Saint," I start, my anger at Cecily momentarily forgotten as I look at him, Chess, and Dre. They stand united, a front that seems impenetrable. It's both comforting and terrifying how they just swoop in, ready to shield me from whatever comes my way. But right now, I can't focus on that. There's too much turmoil swirling inside, too many battles to fight.

"Thanks," I manage to say, taking the bag. It feels warm in my hands, the heat seeping into my chilled fingers, thawing out more than just the cold.

Saint's hand, unexpectedly gentle, finds its way to my waist. My heart jolts as he pulls me closer, and his lips brush the top of my head—a gesture so tender it feels foreign. I'm acutely aware of every eye on us, of the weight of his claim.

Around us, the tension crackles like static. I can feel the stares, hear the whispers blossoming like an unwelcome spring.

"Oh my god," someone whispers loudly.

They've set off the hive. Saint leans down, his voice a soft murmur against my ear. "Ignore them, Princess."

But the words are lost in the rising tide of speculation and judgment. The whispers from the crowd swell, buzzing with gossip they just can't wait to start spreading.

"I knew there was something going on!"

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