22. Addy
Chapter twenty-two
Addy
T he golden hour casts an amber glow through the sheer curtains of my room, turning everything it touches into a scene from some old-world painting. My own reflection in the mirror seems softer, almost forgiving, as if the light could wash away the sharp edges of reality.
Oh, how I wish that were true. I wish I could still see the beauty in this world, but my time in this house has beat the optimism right out of me. And I hadn’t had much to be optimistic about to begin with.
"Adelaide, do you realize what you've done?" William's voice slices through the quiet, his figure appearing behind me in the reflection, a ghostly sentinel in his tailored suit.
My heart stutters in my chest as I try to figure out what I could possibly have done to upset him now. He steps forward, pressing himself into my back until I can feel him growing hard.
I turn my head to face him, desperate to hide the fear I’m feeling. "No, I'm not entirely sure I do."
His lips twitch upward, an occurrence so rare that it feels like witnessing a lunar eclipse. "You charmed the Whitmans so thoroughly Mason himself has agreed to dinner because of you. Here. Tomorrow night." The words are laced with something akin to pride, but in this house, emotions are currency, and I'm never quite sure of their worth.
"Because of me?" The question slips out, laced with genuine bewilderment. It's not like William to dole out praise, especially when it comes to something as crucial as his political chess games.
"Indeed," he confirms, and I can't help but notice the glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Your charm, Adelaide, has proven quite useful."
Before I can digest the weight of his words, the door bursts open and Cheryl sweeps into my sanctuary like a hurricane dressed in silk. She beelines for my closet, throwing open the doors and diving right in.
"Adelaide, darling," Cheryl coos, her voice a singsong as she rifles through my clothes with a fervor that sends hangers clinking and fabric swishing. "We must have everything perfect for the Whitmans. They're not just any guests after all."
I stand by my desk, arms folded, watching her whirlwind descent upon my wardrobe. "Perfect," I murmur, still grappling with the sudden shift in their treatment of me.
"I’ll need time to perfect the seating charts." She tosses a blouse to the floor with a grimace. "Ambiance, conversation topics, and—oh, you simply must look ravishing."
The idea of being an ornament in William's grand scheme isn't new, but the blatancy of it stings afresh. I bite my lip, holding back a retort.
At my lack of response, she turns to me, her eyes glinting like cut glass. "The social ladder won't climb itself, and your role is more pivotal than you know."
I lean against the cool wood of the desk, feeling its solidness press into my back. The thought of being paraded before guests—these guests in particular—as some sort of trophy makes my stomach churn. Yet, this is the game we play, and I've learned the rules all too well.
Cheryl pauses, a silk dress draped over her arm, and meets my gaze. "We need to find something that carries our name with an elegance that belies your... humble beginnings."
A backhanded compliment if ever there was one, but it's cloaked in sweetness, a sugar-coated pill to swallow. I nod, tucking away the pang of hurt. "I'll do my best."
"Of course, you will." The smile she offers doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You always do. Come here."
As I watch her turn back to the chaos of my closet, her every movement calculated and precise, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to live a life where each action isn't part of some grander, colder strategy. But those are thoughts for another time; for now, I am Adelaide Winthrop, and tomorrow I must shine brightly, trapping the Whitmans' attention like moths to a flame.
With a sigh, I join Cheryl in the closet. A dress, a deep emerald that matches my eyes, slips from her fingers to the floor, unnoticed in her fervor. She holds another dress out toward me, her lips pursed with displeasure as she disgards that one too.
"Adelaide, dear," William's voice slices through the room as he steps into the threshold, the air shifting to accommodate his presence, "Wesley mentioned something rather intriguing." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk playing at his lips.
I pause, hands stilling on the fabric of a gown I've yet to try on. "Oh?" My heart picks up pace, a flutter of wings trapped in a cage.
"Barrett Saint," he drawls, the name hanging heavy between us, "seems to have taken a shine to you." His gaze flicks to Cheryl, a silent exchange passing between them.
"Really?" The word escapes before I can catch it, tinged with a mixture of dread and...hope?
"Indeed," Cheryl chimes in, sweeping towards me with a predator's grace. "We must ensure we exploit—I mean, explore this connection during dinner." Her smile is razor-sharp, a glint of opportunity in her eye.
My stomach lurches, queasy at the thought of being used like bait. But if Saint's interest in me could be the bridge to sway Mason... Maybe our fates are intertwined in more ways than one. Could this be the leverage I need? My plan, a seedling of escape, quivers with potential.
"Of course," I murmur, forcing my voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil within.
William's eyes scan the array of dresses, his nose crinkling in disapproval. "This won't do," he declares, pushing aside a modest navy gown with distaste. "None of these... they don't accentuate your assets."
"Assets?" I echo, my cheeks heating despite myself.
"Your figure, Adelaide," Cheryl clarifies, as if speaking to a particularly slow child. "Honestly. We’ve molded you properly. It's time you start using that to your advantage."
It’s a fight to keep from baring my teeth and spitting the vitriol that burns its way up my throat. Instead I grind my teeth together and keep my face a mask of neutrality.
"William's right," she adds, plucking a pale pink frock from its hanger and holding it against me. "We need something more revealing. Something that will make a statement."
"Revealing?" I can't hide the shock in my voice; it bounces off the walls, mocking me.
"Modesty doesn't serve us here," William says flatly, his gaze unyielding. Suddenly, the rules have changed; the goalposts shifted. It seems my skin is just another currency for their ambitions.
Though, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised with how “subtly” they pushed me to give in to Gen and Saint’s every whim. With discretion, of course.
"Fine." I swat the dress away, my fingers brushing against the cool silk. "Let's find something... suitable." I force the words out, each syllable bitter on my tongue.
Cheryl claps her hands together, delighted. "That's the spirit. We'll have you looking irresistible."
Irresistible. The word coils around me, a serpent's embrace. I am to lure Saint with the promise of skin and smiles, a siren song orchestrated by those who claim to be family. For what? I knew Mason’s business was a bigger, larger version of what Saint, Dre, and Chess did. They ran security too in a way, I knew that. But, what exactly did William want from him?
My “parents” were too arrogant to assume their secrets would get out. So, whose secrets were they looking to dig up? A political opponent?
But beneath it all, another spark of defiance ignites. Maybe this one will catch. Perhaps I can turn this to my advantage. After all, I'm not just Adelaide Winthrop, the pawn—I'm Adelaide Winthrop, the player. And in this twisted game, I refuse to be the only one left without a move.
??????
The bell above the dress shop door chimes its welcome, a sound far too cheerful for the dread pooling in my stomach. Cheryl's eyes are alight with a fervor that only a mission of matrimonial maneuvering can ignite. She sweeps through the racks with the precision of a hawk circling its prey.
"Here," she declares, yanking a sliver of fabric off the hanger. "This will do."
I hold it up against me, the fabric unforgiving, destined to cling to every curve—or lack thereof. I'm all sharp angles, not soft curves. The neckline plunges in a way that makes my cheeks flush.
"Isn't it a bit much?" I murmur, though I know better than to expect approval for modesty.
"Adelaide, darling," Cheryl says with a tut, "we're not aiming for 'a bit'. We want him utterly spellbound by you."
There's a twinge in my gut, a silent scream to run from this charade. But I quash it down, smoothing my expression into one of detached compliance. "Of course," I say, voice empty. "We wouldn't want to disappoint."
"Exactly." Cheryl beams, oblivious or indifferent to my discomfort. "You'll thank us when you've secured Barrett's interest. He may not be suitable, but he is much more... charming than Preston. Remember, this dinner could change everything for your father."
I nod, but inside, I'm reeling. This isn't about affection or attraction—it's about chess pieces on a board. And Saint is just another pawn they wish to move in their effort to checkmate Mason Whitman.
"Go on then, try it on. Let's see how it looks," Cheryl urges, shooing me towards the fitting room like a stage director cueing an actress's entrance.
In front of the mirror, the dress transforms me. I hardly recognize the girl staring back—green eyes wide, blonde hair cascading over bare shoulders, her body a tool for someone else's ambition. An unbidden thought arises: is this how Saint sees the world? As a series of moves and countermoves, where people are pawns to be sacrificed?
Is that all I am to him too?
"Adelaide? How does it fit?" Cheryl calls out, her impatience seeping through the curtain.
"Like a glove," I reply, and it's true. The dress is a second skin, a beautiful lie.
"Perfect." Her satisfaction is palpable even through the fabric barrier. "Remember, we need him captivated. You can do this."
I can do this. I can play their game and perhaps win more than they ever bargained for. With a deep breath, I step out, ready to face them, my resolve hardening like armor around my heart.
"Stunning," Cheryl breathes, and for a moment, I let myself believe it's true—not for Saint, not for William, but for the part of me still fighting to break free from this gilded cage.