10. Addy ⚠
Chapter ten
Addy ?
T he morning light hadn't even begun to seep through the curtains when the pain clawed at my scalp. "Get up!" Cheryl's voice, sharp as the tug on my hair, pierces the remnants of sleep clinging to my consciousness.
"Ow—stop!" I mumble, but my plea is lost in the shuffle of movement as she drags me from my tangled sheets. My arms flail, trying to find something to hold onto, anything that might anchor me for a moment longer in the comfort of my bed.
"Sleeping in your school clothes, Adelaide? Disgusting," Cheryl spits out, her tone dripping with revulsion. Her fingers release their iron grip, and I stumble to my feet, rubbing the sore spots on my head.
"They're just clothes," I mutter under my breath, but loud enough that I know she'll hear. I brace myself for another surge of her anger.
I want to scream, to tell her that the silk of my sleep clothes felt like ice against my skin without the comfort of my bedding. They had only left the sheets after all. But I hold back, biting down on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Silently, I curse the Winthrops' obsession with appearances, their need to mold me into some flawless doll incapable of feeling the cold—or anything else, for that matter.
"Always picture-perfect, that's how you're supposed to be."
I don't even have lounge clothes. If I didn't want to freeze overnight, I had no choice but to wear the clothes I'd spent the day in.
"Change out of those filthy things. Now." Her command is laced with an edge that suggests defiance would only make things worse.
"Yes, Mother," I say, keeping my gaze fixed on a point just past her shoulder. Inside, my heart races, a staccato beat urging me to fight, but survival instinct tells me to play along. For now. Always for now.
The strength I have honed isn't for show; it's for endurance, for the moments when I can finally break free from this gilded cage.
Cheryl's lip curls up slightly, a shadow of a smirk that doesn't quite reach her cold eyes.
With a forceful shove, I stumble into the darkness of the closet, the door slamming shut behind me with a definitive clack. Cheryl's voice seeps through like poison gas. "Get changed. You have two minutes."
I look at the closet full of costumes, each a personality they expect me to embody when they call on it. These clothes aren’t me. I… I don’t even know who that is. After years of being shuffled around the foster system, shitty home to shittier home, I’d landed here. I had thought I’d struck gold but it didn’t take long for me to realize it was just gold plated.
The closet is a mausoleum of designer labels and untouched fabrics—much sparser than it was yesterday—each piece a reminder of the Winthrops' twisted version of care. My fingers slide across empty hangers before they find the coarse texture of my workout attire.
"Good girl," she says mockingly, before I hear her turning on her heel and leaving me alone.
As she leaves, the silence of the room settles on my shoulders like a shroud. I peel off the stiff, wrinkled clothes, letting them drop to the floor with a soft thud. The fabric whispers across my skin, a cruel reminder that it is the only soft touch I will likely ever receive. I think of the countless times I've woken up just like this, trapped in a loop of expectations and cruelty.
But today, something in me feels different, a flicker of rebellion that refuses to be smothered. It's a dangerous thing, hope. It makes you believe that there might be an end to the darkness, an escape from the carefully constructed hell you call home.
"Addy, don't you start dreaming. Not yet," I chide myself silently. There's no room for dreams in this house, not when they could so easily turn into nightmares.
It doesn’t matter how they dress me up or how they use their influence to force me into the mold they set for me. I will never be one of these people. They’re evil incarnate.
With a sigh, I reach for the workout clothes I know are expected of me, my muscles already dreading the punishment they'll soon endure. But it's more than physical exhaustion—it's the relentless reminder that here, in this world, I am nothing more than what they make me to be: perfect, poised, and utterly, painfully hollow.
As I dress, my thoughts run wild and untamed. They are the one thing Cheryl can't dictate or diminish. I imagine myself running far from here, muscles burning not from exertion but from the sheer thrill of freedom. Yet, even as my mind soars, reality anchors me firmly to the ground.
Because, despite how things look on the outside, I don’t have the freedom to move. I have only what they’re willing to provide and that has never included money. I have no way of saving, not even pennies to put away. So, until I’m 18, I’m stuck playing my part perfectly.
"Time's up," comes the sharp command as the door flings open once more, flooding the closet with harsh light that seems to scrutinize every inch of me.
"Let's go." Her tone brooks no argument, and I follow, my heart pounding in ominous synchrony with the echo of our footsteps down the halls.
The home gym is a shrine to physical excellence, all gleaming metal and sterile surfaces. Cheryl stands by the treadmill, waiting for me to begin the routine she relishes in enforcing.
"Start with a five-mile run. Pace yourself at eight minutes per mile. No more," she instructs, her eyes glinting with steely expectation.
"Of course," I acquiesce, stepping onto the machine. My legs find the rhythm mechanically, moving on autopilot while my mind continues to race unchecked.
With every stride, I feel the burn begin to build in my thighs. It's a familiar pain, a companion to the mental ache that lodges itself deep within. But today, each step pounds out a new resolve. With every drop of sweat that stings my eyes, I silently vow that this won't be forever. It can't. There will come a day when I will run for myself and not for the cruel satisfaction of my captors.
And then I'll never run another day in my life. Because I'll finally be fucking free.
"Keep it up, Addy. Perfection is pain," Cheryl taunts from the sidelines, her voice a cold caress.
"Perfection is a prison," I want to scream back, but I swallow the words along with the bile that rises in my throat. Instead, I push harder, the numbers on the display blurring into a smug sneer that I long to wipe away.
"Good," she says after what feels like an eternity, a single word drenched in approval that I neither seek nor desire. "Now, weights. Don't disappoint."
Each lift, each curl, is a battle waged. Muscles scream and sinews strain, a symphony of suffering conducted by Cheryl's unyielding gaze.
But, not too much. Wouldn't want to bulk up. That would be unladylike.
"Excellent form," she praises. The words are hollow, echoing in the emptiness where encouragement should have lived. I doubt she even means them.
"Thank you," I breathe out, plastering on the mask of gratitude.
I know the drill, know the punishment that awaits any sign of weakness. So I endure, I perform, I survive.
And when the time is right, I'll show them just how strong I've become.
I hope.
??????
The hot water ceases, and the chill of the bathroom settles in. My limbs ache with the memory of each lift and lunge, the soreness a testament to Cheryl's relentless regime.
"Out," Cheryl commands from just beyond the gossamer curtain, her voice slicing through the steam and into the marrow of my bones.
I reach for the towel, but her grip is iron on my wrist, pulling me away. "No time for that." The air is sharp as I stumble out, droplets of water trailing paths along my skin, goosebumps rising in their wake. My feet slide against the tile as I try to right myself.
"Come on, Adelaide. To the scale," she orders, her tone laced with something darker than mere impatience.
"Can't I just—?" I begin, seeking a shred of decency, a moment to shield myself.
"Silence," she cuts off my plea, her talons digging into my arm, propelling me forward. Vulnerability wraps around me, more suffocating than any fabric could ever be.
We stop before the digital arbiter of my worth in Cheryl's eyes. The cold bite of the metal platform sears my wet soles, sending a shiver up my spine. I exhale, bracing myself for whatever number will define me today.
"Look at that," Cheryl says. Her voice resonates with triumph as my weight blinks back at me, a number less than yesterday.
"Another pound down. You're getting there, Adelaide."
91 pounds. I weigh 91 pounds.
"Thank you," I murmur, though gratitude is as foreign to me in that moment as warmth. A hollow victory for her, another day of shrinking myself for the Winthrops' warped ideals.
My mind whispers rebellious thoughts. But those are fantasies, and my reality is the cold scale beneath my feet and Cheryl's smug satisfaction.
"Select an outfit. Quickly," she instructs, a general overseeing her troop—a solitary, shivering soldier.
"Of course," I answer, my voice steady despite the tremor that threatens to betray my inner turmoil. Each word is armor, shielding the core of me they haven't yet managed to breach.
"Remember, Adelaide, not a crease or a wrinkle," Cheryl calls out, her voice muffled but laced with the anticipation of finding fault.
"Understood," I mutter under my breath, selecting a modest top and knee length skirt—both devoid of warmth, both part of the uniform of perfection I'm forced to wear.
The chill of the scale has barely left my skin when the door creaks open, announcing William's presence. Wrapped in a thin towel that does little to ward off the draft in the room, I stand there, bracing myself for his inspection.
"Let's see what you've picked out," he says, his voice devoid of warmth as his eyes sweep over me—calculating, assessing every inch.
"Right here," I reply, reaching for the hanger that holds the clothes Cheryl deemed appropriate for today's public spectacle. They consist of a form-fitting blouse and a pencil skirt—one size too small—a wardrobe designed to showcase the results of their relentless 'improvements'.
While maintaining my modesty. Obviously.
"Good. Get dressed."
I wait for him to leave, to give me privacy but he stands a silent sentinel. This time I don't back down. I can't. I will not dress myself in front of this man. Not now. Not ever.
He scoffs before giving me his back. I realize that's the best I will get and quickly dress, not dropping the towel until my skirt is on.
William turns to face me as I pull the blouse down to meet the skirt.
"Turn around," William commands, and I obey, feeling his gaze like hands tracing the outline of my body. He's searching for flaws in the fabric's embrace, any sign of rebellion in the seams.
"Seems like it fits the way it should," he remarks, and I detect a note of approval in his voice that makes my stomach turn. "Very... becoming."
"Thank you," I breathe out, the words ash on my tongue. My mind rages against his casual scrutiny, against the notion that my body is something to be dressed up and paraded for their satisfaction.
Inside, I’m screaming. On the outside? On the outside, I remain still, a statue carved from ice and expectation.
"Zip up," Cheryl orders, stepping forward and yanking on the closure. With a zip that sounds like a verdict being passed, I feel the garment pull tight against my skin, just another layer of confinement.
"It will do," Cheryl sneers. She places a hand on her husband's shoulder and leaves us alone in the room.
"Let's see just how obedient you are," William's voice turns cold, cold enough to burn. I stiffen but give no other sign that I'm worried for what's to come.
I try to keep the fear from showing on my face as he walks around me, his eyes never leaving my body. His hands examine every inch of my clothing, making sure there are no hidden zippers or slits that could reveal more skin. Making sure I'm not hiding more revealing clothing underneath so I can change once I get to school.
I try to stay still and not flinch under his touch, but it's a challenge. I try not to gag. Not to react.
"You really have mastered the art of obedience, haven't you?" William remarks with a smirk. "You've been well trained."
I want to say something, to defend myself against his mocking tone, but I know better. I keep my mouth shut and nod in agreement.
"Such a good girl," he says with fake praise. My stomach churns at the words and I feel bile rise in my throat. "I think it's time to earn back some of your privileges, would you like that?"
"I'll be good. I won't—"
Suddenly, his hand grips my chin and forces me to look into his cold gaze. "Remember your place here," he warns.
I nod again, feeling like a puppet on a string being controlled by this man.
"Now," he continues as he lets go of my face. "On your knees."
My heart is pounding in my chest as I comply. I look up at him, gripping the hem of my skirt to keep my hands from trembling. His cold eyes hold a commanding presence and I can't help but feel small and powerless in his presence. Helpless.
"Undo my belt," he orders, his voice dripping with authority. I hesitate, my mind racing with fear and disgust at the thought of what he wants me to do.
"I said undo it," he growls, gripping my hair punishingly. A whimper escapes my lips as pain shoots through my scalp.
I know there's no escape from this. No one to save me. I steel myself and reach out to undo the buckle, my fingers fumbling slightly.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes but I force them back, not wanting to show any more weakness than I already have. With shaking hands, I manage to do what he's asked.
"Now unzip me," William commands, loosening his grip.
My stomach turns but I do as I'm told, unzipping his fly while avoiding looking at him directly.
"Take my cock out, you little slut."
I reach for him, but hesitate. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. He's already hard. The feel of him in my hand is revolting. I don't want this. I don't want him.
"You're such a good girl," he says mockingly as he steps closer to me. His hand grips my chin again and forces me to look up at him. "Now open your mouth."
I shake my head frantically, terrified of what's about to happen. But William just laughs cruelly and tightens his grip, forcing his thumb past my lips, past my teeth, until I have no choice but to obey.
"I said open your mouth," he repeats with more force this time.
With tears streaming down my face, I reluctantly part my lips and feel him push into me roughly.
The groan that escapes him is inhuman.
It takes everything in me not to gag as he forces himself deeper into my throat. The taste makes bile rise in the back of my throat but I swallow it back down, not wanting to give him any reason for further punishment.
He grunts and moans, using my mouth for his own pleasure.
My entire body is trembling, the weight of his dominance crushing me. I want to scream, to fight back, but I know it's useless. He is far too strong and I am far too weak. My only hope is that this will be over quickly.
If I leave before I turn 18, they'll hunt me down. Wealth like this buys anything and everything, including the police. Including the social workers.
I have to be smart. I have to play the game even if it scars me. But, I don't think I'll make it.
His movements grow rougher, more frantic with his orgasm building. I know what he wants. But I've already dressed for the day and he can't risk ruining my clothes.
William reaches his climax, coating my throat, choking me.
He pulls away from my lips, roughly shoving me away. The world spins for a moment as I fall to the ground, gasping for air.
"Clean yourself up," he says with disgust as he tucks himself back into his pants.
As he leaves, I curl into a ball, my body and mind numb.