Picture Perfect (Beautifully Broken #1)
1. Addy
Chapter one
Addy
I force steadiness into my hands as I apply eyeliner, even as rage trembles within. Not an ounce of fear or despair can show through the tranquil facade I create. The mask must be impenetrable.
I grab the gaudy baubles I'm meant to put in my ears. I hate them. I hate all of this.
Another day, another mask to don. I go through the motions mechanically—painting on my smile, smoothing my hair, breathing life into the doll that is my outer appearance.
Everyone is always telling me how lucky I am. How grateful I should be. They don't know my life. They don't live my nightmare. If they only knew the truth behind the seemingly picture perfect Winthrop family.
To the outside world, we look like models on the pages of a magazine. William Winthrop's political career is taking off, and our family is his greatest prop. We were the all-American success story—beautiful, put-together, and oh so enviable. But beneath the glossy veneer, things are a mess, held together by lies, threats, and abuse.
Our photos portray stylish outfits and beaming smiles, artfully airbrushed by the family's publicist before being released to the media. But much like a fashion shoot, the behind the scenes look is an entirely different picture: we’re held together by clothespins and tape, pressed against flimsy backdrops that struggle to maintain the illusion of the Winthrops.
While the cameras flash, there's a frantic flurry of adjustments—heels dug in, hands pinching to ensure every detail stays in place. The second the shutters stop? Well, the devil truly does wear Prada.
Tonight will be no different. It never is. I stare at my reflection in the full length mirror as I prepare for the annual Winthrop Foundation Gala—a thinly veiled excuse to flaunt their wealth, gather allies, and grow the campaign fund.
The image reflecting back at me is that of a beautiful, glamorous young woman, ready for a night of mingling among the elite. But that stunning girl is nothing but a hollow shell. Her beauty is manufactured, constructed carefully like a porcelain doll. Behind the painted smile and expensive jewels, she is as fragile as glass and just as empty inside.
I search her empty, doll-like eyes for some trace of the spirited, hopeful girl I once was, but she is nowhere to be found. The girl in the mirror is a masterpiece. But she isn't real. She isn't me.
My gown is pressed and styled to perfection, my makeup flawlessly applied. I look like I’ve just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. Physically, I am the epitome of a wealthy young woman who has it all.
But inside, I feel like the imposter I am. A fraud parading around in hand-me-down robes. The Winthrop name may be on the adoption papers but I don't belong here. This family, this house, this life—it isn't mine.
My long blonde hair is swept into an elegant French twist, smoothed and sprayed firmly in place without a single strand out of line. My green eyes stare back at me, devoid of life, missing the lively spark I imagine they once held.
My fair skin is painted thickly with makeup to disguise any flaws, giving my complexion a plastic-like sheen, hiding any evidence of the dark circles that plague my sleepless nights.
The off-shoulder neckline is trimmed in intricate lace and sequin embellishments that catch the light with each movement. The fitted bodice hugs my slender frame before billowing out at the hips into a full, voluminous skirt.
It’s… a lot.
The dress itself is exquisite—layers of tulle and taffeta that rustle as I walk, spreading gently like a blossoming flower—but, on me, it feels like little more than a pretty cage.
Cheryl had selected the gown specifically to compliment the rest of the family. We were to be the envy of all in attendance—the perfect accessories reflecting the Winthrop family status and Cheryl's impeccable taste. In my dress that costs more than some families' cars, I feel less like a teenager—certainly not a member of this family—and more like a prized show horse.
A knock at the door makes me jump. Before I can respond, it swings open and my adoptive mother, Cheryl, strides in. Her eyes rake over me like razor blades. I can almost feel them gouging my skin and leaving me bleeding.
"Stand up straight and suck in that gut," she snaps. "Honestly, I can't turn my back for a minute without you expanding like a balloon."
I grimace but do as she commands, straightening my posture and holding my breath until my lungs burn. I'm 5'4" and 92 pounds, well below what any doctor would deem healthy. But for Cheryl, every ounce matters.
My weight is just one part of the Winthrop image that needs to be strictly controlled.
"You know we have an image to uphold," Cheryl continues. "The media already think you're some ungrateful guttersnipe we saved from misery. We can't have them crying abuse when you're living in the lap of luxury." She emphasizes this point with a painful pinch of my underarm.
"Ow!" I yelp before catching myself. "I mean, yes ma'am," I amend quickly. "I'll be more conscious about my choices."
If my daily number crept up even half a pound, there would be hell to pay. I shudder at the thought of the long lecture and "motivational" pictures she would plaster around my room should I displease her. And that would be the easiest part.
"See that you are," she says coolly. "You may be one of us legally, but you're replaceable. Fuck this up, and you'll find yourself back on the streets where we found you."
With that, she turns on her heels and leaves, slamming the door behind her. I stand still as a statue, tears stinging my eyes as her words echo in my mind. Back on the streets, she had said. As if being homeless and orphaned was a choice I had made. As if this life of abuse and control is a privilege to endure.
I stare into the mirror again, biting back sobs of frustration, a rare show of emotion. The performance is about to begin again. My gut churns as I wonder how much longer I can survive this twisted fairy tale.
As I stand there, the pearl necklace around my throat feels like it’s choking me. The embroidered dress rubs my skin raw, as if any moment its seams will split and I'll be exposed for what I really am. My reflection is an airbrushed lie. The real me is buried far beneath the surface—bruised, broken and crying out for help.
But I've perfected the art of concealment when it comes to my emotions. It's better to feel nothing at all than feel the constant hurt inside. So I swallow down the sadness, choke back the sobs that threaten to breach.
I'm expected downstairs, with a smile on my face and grace in my step. To laugh on cue, shake hands, and mouth "thank yous" as if my life depends on it. In many ways, it does. One misstep, one crack in the facade, and the perfection of the Winthrop image could come crashing down.
So I will once again put on the performance of a lifetime. If anyone ever learned the truth behind closed doors, I shudder to think what would become of me. The orphan Cinderella who was taken in by a charming prince, only to find a monster in disguise.
When the mask is back in place, I am no longer myself. I adopt the personality assigned to me, become the perfect daughter they demand. My dreams don't matter. My thoughts remain silent. In this house, I am little more than a mannequin, moved and positioned however they please. I will stand straight, sit tall, and smile brightly.
And inside, the real me disappears. She withdraws into nothingness, seeking solace in the refuge of her own vacant mind. She waits there patiently until the time comes each night when I can remove the mask, peel back the layers of pretense, and let her feel once more. For now we just survive another day.
??????
The grandiose chandelier casts a constellation of light across the sea of faces in the Winthrop ballroom, a galaxy far from warm for me. The murmur of the high society's elite blends into a cacophony that seems to press against me as I descend the ornate staircase. Each step feels like a descent further into a gilded cage I will never escape. My gown whispers against the marble steps, the only sound that feels intimate in the vast room.
"Adelaide, darling," coos an overzealous guest, reaching out with fingers encrusted in diamonds, "you look ravishing tonight."
"Thank you," I reply, my voice a practiced melody of gratitude and grace, but inside my chest, a storm is brewing—the dread of what's yet to come this evening.
My fingers trail along the cool marble of the balustrade as I descend the last few steps into the ballroom. My "father", William Winthrop, stands near a cluster of opulent ferns, his posture rigid like the carved pillars framing him. His sharp eyes lock onto me the moment I come into view, and the corners of his lips twitch upwards in a facsimile of paternal pride.
Moments later, my gaze inadvertently finds Wesley. He and his father stand like twin statues of entitlement, their smiles as sharp as cut glass. Wesley catches my eye, his smirk sending a shiver down my spine. The sight of them together—so alike in their arrogance—makes something acidic rise in my throat, a visceral reminder of what they're capable of.
I move through the crowd, every smile a mask, every friendly gesture a calculated move in a game I never wished to play. The air is thick with perfume and pretense, suffocating my senses until I focus on the tall windows, longing for a breath of the crisp night air that promises freedom.
"Excuse me," I murmur, weaving past clusters of guests discussing investments and vacation homes, their laughter tinkling like fine crystal. I try to anchor myself in the moment, focusing on the details: the sharp tang of imported wine, the heavy scent of the lilies that adorn the room, the softness of the velvet drapes under my fingertips as I brush past them.
It's no use. As my feet carry me closer to my "family," I can't help the tightness that grips my chest.
"Adelaide!" William calls out as I approach, his voice slicing through the layers of idle chatter. "Come, let us introduce you to some esteemed guests."
"Adelaide, you look... presentable," Cheryl says coldly, the word hanging between us like a verdict.
"Thank you, Mother," I reply, my voice a practiced melody of deference. I can feel the weight of William's gaze appraising me, as if I’m an investment maturing before his eyes.
The predatory gleam has me suppressing a shiver.
"Your charm will surely enchant our prospective partners," William chimes in, his eyes glinting with unspoken expectations.
Cheryl hovers like a dark sentinel, her gaze sharp enough to slice through the throngs of guests. I can feel the woman's eyes boring into me, a constant reminder of the scrutiny I'm under. It's Cheryl who will report back on every step, every word, every forced laugh that I offer up as a sacrifice to the gods of high society.
She grips my arm, her talons digging into the soft skin beneath.
"Remember, your behavior tonight reflects on this family," she hisses. "Our reputation is your responsibility."
"Of course, Mother." I incline my head slightly, feeling the constriction of the pearls around my throat—another pretty shackle.
"Smile, darling," William interjects, his words crisp like the crease in his trousers. "Your frown could sour the wine."
"Wouldn't want that," I respond, my smile as brittle as the crystal chandeliers above. With a deep breath, I paint a face with poise and placidity.
Wesley leans in, his breath tinged with the scent of aged liquor, "Keep the investors happy, sister dear. We're counting on it."
"Make us proud," William says, a hint of threat in his tone.
My heart hammers against my ribcage, each beat screaming resistance. Yet, I curl my arm through William's, schooling my features into an expression of polite interest. "Of course, Father," I say, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
"I'll do my best to be... enchanting." The fingers of my free hand curl into my palm, hidden blades of anger against the silk of my gown.
"Remember your place, Adelaide," Cheryl says, leaning closer, her breath a ghostly touch on my cheek. "Smile and be gracious. It's not that difficult."
"Never is," I whisper back, the threat in her tone wrapping around me like a cold embrace.
"Good girl," William praised, patting my lower back with a familiarity that makes my skin crawl.
As we turn toward a group of potential investors, I allow myself one fleeting thought: escape. I imagine myself running up those stairs, out the door, away from the iron grip of the Winthrop name and the nightmares of this house. But dreams are dangerous things, and tonight, I am tethered to reality by a silver chain of obligation and fear.
"Be good," I whisper to myself, stepping into the fray, my mind racing with dangerous thoughts of a world beyond these walls, where laughter isn't currency and affection isn't a strategic move in a twisted game of chess. But here, amidst the glittering facade, I dance to a tune composed by expectation and dread, each step a note in this symphony of survival.
When I’ve been paraded around and groped far more than is acceptable for a 17-year-old, I feel Wesley stiffen beside me, the grip on his glass so tight I wonder if it will shatter.
"What are they doing here?" he demands, glaring across the ballroom.