Picture Perfect - Page 159

My pleas echo back at me, mocking my helplessness. I turn away from the window, scanning the room for anything to defend myself with. Books, trinkets, memories—I hurl them aside in a frantic search for a weapon. A heavy textbook thuds against the wall, a stuffed bear I’ve had since childhood lands with a soft plop. Nothing. There’s nothing in this gilded cage that could protect me.

Time blurs, slipping through my fingers like sand. The hunger gnaws at me relentlessly, a persistent ache that twists my stomach into knots. They don’t bring me food, seemingly content to let starvation do their dirty work. Yet, I find solace in the bathroom sink, the water running cold and clear when I twist the taps. It’s little comfort, but I cup my hands, drinking greedily, trying to quell the emptiness inside.

The mirror reflects a ghost of myself—pale, haunted, with green eyes that have lost their fire. This isn’t me, not the Addy who survived the foster system, who thought she knew what resilience meant. I lean against the sink, the cool porcelain a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my skin.

“Chess,” I whisper, invoking the name of one of the boys who once claimed to care. The irony isn’t lost on me; they’re part of the reason I’m here, trapped by the very people who were supposed to be family. Yet, despite everything, some stubborn part of me clings to the hope that they might still come.

“Stay strong, Addy,” I murmur to my reflection. “Survive. For yourself.”

And so, I wait, curled up on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. Each creak of the house sends my heart racing, each shadow makes me flinch. I’m a wounded animal in a snare, but I’m not broken. Not yet. They want to use me, to break me—but I won’t let them. I can’t.

“Come on, Addy,” I coax myself, drawing on reserves I didn’t know I had. “You’re smarter than this. You’re stronger than this.”

But as the hours—or is it days?—drag on, even the ironclad walls of my resolve begin to rust. I’m painfully hungry, every cell in my body crying out for sustenance. And though my spirit screams defiance, my flesh is weak.

“Someone will notice I’m gone,” I tell the empty room, not sure if I believe my own words. “They have to.”

The silence is my only answer, a heavy blanket smothering the last embers of hope. But I won’t give in. I can’t. Because if there’s one thing Adelaide Winthrop knows how to do, it’s fight—even when the odds are stacked against her.

The faucet groans under my grip, my knuckles white as I twist it back and forth. But it’s no use. Not a single drop of water seeps out. “No, no, no,” I whisper, desperation clawing at my throat. The cool relief that the water provided is now just a memory, one that taunts me with what I took for granted.

“Think, Addy,” I urge myself, but panic tinges every word. “There has to be something you’re missing.” My gaze darts around the bathroom, searching for any overlooked detail, but there’s nothing. They’re in control, even of the water I drink.

“Damn it!” The cry rips from me, raw and hoarse. Tears blur my vision, hot against my skin. It’s not just the thirst; it’s the helplessness that suffocates me. I’m trapped, cut off from the world, from life itself.

I slide to the cold tile floor, pulling my knees to my chest. “They would come,” I murmur, trying to convince myself more than anything. “If they knew…” The boys—my boys—they wouldn’t have let this happen. My heart aches with the thought of them.

But how could they know? The last words we exchanged were shards of glass, cutting deep and leaving us bleeding. How could I expect them to come for someone who walked away?

“Stupid,” I chide myself, pressing my palms to my eyes. “You left them, remember? They probably think you want to be alone.” The logic is sound, yet it stings like salt on an open wound. No matter how fiercely I wish for it, my reality is clear: no one is coming.

“Pull yourself together, Adelaide,” I say, voice cracking. Silence is my relentless companion, and I hate it. I hate feeling so insignificant, so forgotten. But I refuse to let it consume me.

“Survive,” I repeat, a mantra against the darkness creeping into my spirit. I will not break. I will not give up. Even if I have to claw my way out of this hell, I will not stop fighting. Because that’s who I am. Adelaide Winthrop does not surrender. Not now, not ever.

“Adelaide!” The door slams open, rattling against the wall as if echoing the quake in my heart. My eyes snap open, fear slicing through the haze of misery. They stand there, silhouettes of rage, their presence suffocating.

“No… please…” My voice trembles, barely a thread of sound, but they pounce on it like predators.

“Look what we found,” William snarls, thrusting a sleek device towards me. The phone—the faux lifeline Chess gave me—gleams mockingly under the harsh light.

“What’s this, huh?” Cheryl’s face contorts with scorn. “This isn’t the phone we provided for you!” Her words are daggers, and I flinch, as if they could inflict physical wounds.

I struggle to sit up, leaning against the wall for support. “It’s just a phone,” I mumble, but even I don’t believe the words.

“Unlock it,” William commands, his eyes fixed on the screen with an alarming intensity.

My fingers tremble as they brush over the device, swiping up to reveal the keypad. I punch in the code, my only act of compliance, and the home screen springs to life. It’s out of my hands before I have a chance to click anything else.

Their eyes narrow, taking in the array of apps, each locked behind another layer of security. Chess, my brilliant, protective Chess, he made sure of it.

He set it up so it was completely private for me. A bitter laugh escapes me. Well, not from them obviously. But from anyone else.

“What are all these? Why won’t they open?” William demands, shaking the phone in front of me.

“Can’t.” I shrug helplessly. “You need credentials for each one.”

“Credentials?” Mom scoffs. “More like secrets. What are you hiding, Adelaide? Who are you hiding from us?”