Page 4 of The Pucking Wrong Guy

My adoptive parents didn’t understand either. They’d offered to pay for a penthouse, and been…disappointed when I’d refused, wanting to try and make it on my own.

No one understood.

“One step at a time, Blake,” I murmured to myself, pushing my dark thoughts away and striding toward the bathroom to grab the anxiety pills waiting for me before I started getting ready for tonight.

* * *

I took a deep breath in the elevator, cold dread sliding down my skin as the floors beeped by. The fabric of my dress whispered against me, elegance that I never quite got used to. The gown Clark had sent was a work of art, a masterpiece of pale pink satin and lace that flowed around me like a dream.

Its beauty was a reminder of the life I'd been thrust into—one of glamor and perfection that I’d never lived up to. My adoptive mother had expected refinement, and the fashion world had only reinforced it.

Tonight, like so many other nights, it felt like I was wearing a costume, one that didn't quite fit. I should be used to it; I've felt like that from the moment the Shepfields picked me up from that group home, changed my name, my identity, my world.

Perfection was the decree in that cold mansion they’d taken me to, woven into every corner like a delicate but unyielding thread. The only imperfection allowed was that Maura Shepfield couldn’t have children.

Hence the need for me.

From the moment I entered that world, her impossible standards enveloped me, shaping my existence into a mosaic of precise expectations that went against everything my mom and dad had taught me. I was stuck in an intricate web spun from her vision of what life should be.

Maura Shepfield was the definition of opulence, with a fevered taste for the finest things that life had to offer. She’d projected this onto me like a mirror image.

The clothes I wore were always meticulously chosen. Every occasion, no matter how casual, demanded an aura of perfection that felt like armor I had to constantly wear.

It wasn't just about the clothes, though.

It was about the posture, the way I spoke, the way I held my fork during meals. She trained me to glide through life as if every step was choreographed, as if every word was scripted. My appearance and behavior were meant to be a canvas that reflected her, and any deviation from her expectations was met with sharp disappointment that cut deep into my skin.

In her world, even a speck of imperfection was a stain that tarnished the glossy veneer she worked so tirelessly to maintain. She believed that life was a performance, a grand stage where we were all actors in an elaborate play. And her role, it seemed, was that of the director, guiding every scene with precision and determination.

Her insistence on perfection had been a heavy weight on my shoulders since that first day they’d picked me up, a burden that left little room for me to breathe, to stumble…to exist. And amidst the glamor, the designer dresses, and the extravagant events, I often found myself wondering if there was a place for…me.

At the bottom of the stairs, I glanced toward the waiting car, a bitter ache settling in my chest that I refused to examine closely. Clark was standing outside the car waiting for me, a phone to his ear, his gaze dancing across me admiringly. I tried to return the grin…but I didn’t have it in me.

What did he see when he looked at me?

Because I was sure he didn’t see therealme.

He was his usual picture of beautiful sophistication. The only thing out of place was his black hair, which fell in calculated disarray over his forehead. He’d once told me he styled it that way because it made him look more personable. Turns out, he also thought everything was a performance. His vibrant green eyes stared at me with the same interest they’d had since that first night when we’d met. I couldn’t find fault with him about that.

I’d seen him with his friends though, times when I’d gone to the bathroom and hovered in the hallway like a creep as I watched him smile and shine with them.

It wasn’t the same smile and shine as when we were alone. He smiled at me like a burden…or maybe that was my imagination. I never could be too sure these days.

Or maybe that was just my crazy talking. Because as Mrs. Shepfield always said…only a fool wouldn’t want Clark.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, the suit seemed to mold to his form as if it were a second skin. There was a tension in his posture right then, a subtle restlessness there that told me whoever was on the call was not doing what he wanted.

And Clark always got what he wanted.

Even me.

He slid his palm down my back and waited for me to slide into the limo before following behind.

As the car glided along the city streets, I watched him discreetly, conflicting emotions churning within me. There was a time when his presence was a sanctuary for me, when I thought he was my hero, helping me escape the weight of the Shepfields’ demands. But now, in the confines of that car—

I opened my mouth several times to tell him about the life changing news I’d received that morning.

But I couldn’t quite get the words out.

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