Page 91 of Picture Perfect

"Everything okay?" I ask, without really expecting an answer.

"Fine," she replies, her tone clipped, guarded. It’s a wall I’ve come to expect from her. One that had earned her the nickname Ice Princess, but one I now realize is built out of necessity and self-preservation.

Chess catches my gaze then, his hazel eyes dull when they usually dance with mischief. The guy's haircut is as chaotic as his thoughts must be right now, each strand rebelling in a different direction. Whatever's going on, he's not sharing, and the slump of his shoulders as he settles at a computer speaks louder than words.

"Chess?" I probe, trying to decipher his mood.

"Nothing to worry about, Saint." He shrugs, fingers already flying across the keyboard, searching for answers in the digital world he commands.

I'm not convinced, but pressing him now will get me nowhere. I focus back on Princess, knowing our conversation can't wait, even though part of me wishes it could.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what needs to be said. Princess is sitting beside Dre, her back straight as a rod despite her attempts to appear relaxed, defiance etched into every line of her body. She's a fortress in human form, and I'm about to lay siege.

"Princess," I start, making sure my voice carries enough authority to bridge the distance between us. "We've talked this over, and it's unanimous. We don't want you going back to the Winthrop house."

Her head snaps around, those piercing green eyes now fixed on me with laser-like precision. For a moment, there's silence, and then she scoffs—a sharp, bitter sound that slices through the humming of computers.

"Oh, you decided?" Her voice is livid, each word dripping with venom. The room feels suddenly too small, the air charged with her anger.

I wasn't expecting this—her immediate backlash. It's so against her usual demeanor. Maybe we've broken her. But I don't back down. It’s not just because I can’t stand the thought of her being unsafe; it’s because somewhere along the line, her battles became mine too.

"Princess, we—" I try to continue, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand, her blonde hair swaying with the movement.

"Save it, Saint." Her words are ice-cold, yet I see the fire burning behind her stoic facade.

I clench my fists, feeling the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders. "Mason can talk to them," I insist, trying to bulldoze past the walls she's erected. "He's good with words—could make them see reason. It's not like they'll say no to him when they're still trying to milk whatever they want out of him. Or we could... we could say it's about Gen, spin some story that they'd buy."

Her gaze doesn't waver, and the green in her eyes seems to darken with resolve. "Mason doesn't have that kind of sway over my parents," she replies, her tone implacable. "And lies? They only stack up until you're buried under them. No, Saint. It's not your decision to make."

The frustration knots in my chest, tight and hot. "It's not safe."

"And how the fuck would you know?" she demands. "Are you suddenly an expert on all things Adelaide Winthrop?"

"It's not safe for you there, Princess." I press, refusing to let this go.

"It's not really a choice, is it?" she spits. "I'm seventeen. For a few more months, I'm stuck."

"It's just a few months—"

"Exactly," she snaps, the word like a whip crack in the sterile air of the computer lab. "A few more months. I've survived years with them. I think I can handle a little longer."

"Survived." The word hangs between us, heavy and loaded. "No one should just have to survive."

"Welcome to my world," she says with a bitter laugh, and I can tell by the hard set of her jaw that she's done discussing it.

"Princess—" I try again, but she's already turning away, dismissing the conversation, dismissing my concern.

"Drop it, Saint," she interrupts, and though her voice is steady, something in the way she holds herself tells me this is costing her more than she'll let on. "This is my fight. Not yours."

"Bullshit," Dre snaps. "We talked about this, Snowflake," Dre's voice is softer now, his ice-blue eyes searching her face. He buries a hand in her hair and brings their foreheads together. It's so soft, so tender. I didn't know he had anything but hard edges.

"We can't help if we don't know what's really going down at the Winthrop house."

She doesn't meet any of our gazes, her fingers curled tightly around the strap of her backpack. "It's a big house," she says flatly, deflecting. "Lots of rooms. Lots of... silence."

"Silence can be loud as hell when it's screaming in your ears," I mutter, my own memories echoing too loudly in the confines of my skull.

I shake them out. I'm with Mason now. I'm safe. But it only serves to make me angrier. If anyone should have seen the signs, it should have been me.

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