Picture Perfect - Page 170

I let myself sink into the vinyl seat and wait for cake, for french fries, for a milkshake. For a moment of peace in the eye of the storm.

When the food arrives, I attack my plate like it’s the first meal I’ve ever had. It all swirls together in a maddening rush of sugar and salt. The diner’s fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting an artificial glow on everything. Gen sits beside me, her eyes filled with something like shock, but it’s Saint’s voice that pulls me back from the edge of my feast.

“Princess, slow down, you’re gonna make yourself sick.” His hand brushes mine, a fleeting touch meant to steady rather than restrain.

I pause, my chest heaving, my stomach churning with too much, too fast. “I’m fine,” I lie, pushing the words out along with a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

He leans back, his dark curls falling into his eyes, shadowing the intensity within them. “You will never go hungry again, Princess. I swear on my life.”

The promise is so fierce, so sure that for a moment, I want to believe him. I want to believe in this strange pact of security he offers. But promises are fragile things, aren’t they?

Back at the house, the walls feel too close, the silence too loud. My legs carry me up the stairs mechanically, barely. I’m tempted to get on my hands and knees and crawl up the steps or admit weakness and let one of them carry me.

Saint follows, a silent specter trailing just behind me. Until he can’t take it anymore. He scoops me up despite my protests and storms into my bedroom before he turns and locks the door. The click of the deadbolt sounds like finality.

I shove out of his arms and back away from him, anger vibrating through me.

“Princess,” he starts, his voice strained with an emotion he barely lets surface. “I need you to understand… it was my fault.”

I cross my arms over my chest, defense against the confession I didn’t ask for. “What was?”

“Everything.” He takes a step closer, the air between us charged with his regret. “Bringing the Winthrops down—that was my mission from the beginning. I thought you were part of it all, another spoiled heiress playing games with people’s lives.”

My heart clenches, a dull ache throbbing in time with his words.

“Chess dug into your digital life, not to control you, but to dig out all your secrets. I thought they would give me the answers I needed. All we found was spyware, likely from your parents. We gave you that new phone to protect you, not to trap you.” His eyes hold mine, desperate for me to see the truth in them. “We left a backdoor open, just in case. We only wanted to prove what your family was doing, not hurt you.”

“Protection,” I echo hollowly, feeling the weight of the word settle around me like a cloak. It’s hard to discern where safety ends and suffocation begins.

“Princess, please,” Saint pleads, a crack in his stoic facade showing through, “I fucked up. I fucked up so bad, but I never wanted to cause you pain.”

“Then congratulations,” I say, my voice bitterly ironic, “you’ve spectacularly failed at that.”

A relentless pounding on the door reverberates through the room, every thud a clear echo of Dre’s desperation to get in. Saint’s eyes flicker toward the noise but he doesn’t budge from his spot, his focus trained on me.

“Saint, let him in,” I command, my voice devoid of the strength I’m known for.

“Not until I know you believe me, Princess,” he says, the plea evident in his tone.

“Fine, Saint. I believe you,” I lie, hoping it will be enough to silence the chaos for just a moment longer. The words are empty, a hollow offering that doesn’t reach my eyes.

He searches my face, looking for the trust that used to reside there, but all he finds is the shattered remnants of what we had. Despite my words, his shoulders slump, and I can tell he doesn’t buy it. He keeps talking, a stream of apologies and explanations pouring out, but they’re like rain against a window—seen, not felt.

“Dammit, open up!” Dre’s voice shatters the strained silence, his fury palpable even through the wood.

I can’t take it anymore—the tension, the guilt in Saint’s eyes, the relentless pounding that seems to mirror the ache in my chest. I stride over and yank the door open.

Dre nearly falls into the room, caught mid-kick. His ice blue eyes are stormy with anger and worry, his tattoos and scars stark against his skin, telling tales of past hurts that seem to resonate with the current moment.

“What the hell, Saint? You think locking her in here with you is going to fix things?” Dre’s voice is a sharp blade, cutting through the lingering air of confession and regret.

“I needed to explain,” Saint mutters, but even he seems to realize how feeble it sounds now that Dre has stormed in.

“Explain or control?” Dre steps closer to me, and I feel his presence like a shield, a twisted and damaged protector that still feels safer than most things I’ve known.

“Explain,” Saint insists, but his gaze drops away, unable to meet mine again.

The fury in Dre doesn’t subside, but he turns his attention to me, seeking assurance that I’m alright. His presence is a cold flame, ready to burn down everything to right the wrongs done to me. I understand suddenly that their twisted ways of showing love are all they’ve ever known.