46. Addy
Chapter forty-six
Addy
T he warmth of Saint's fingers lingers on mine as he hands me the brown paper bag, the scent of bacon and egg mingling with his cologne. We pause outside my first-period class, and I can't help but notice the way his dark curls fall into his eyes, eyes that have seen too much for his eighteen years.
"Thanks for breakfast," I murmur, clutching the bag close like a talisman against the day ahead.
"Anything for you, Princess." His voice is low, a rumble that reverberates through me.
Then, almost shyly, Saint leans down—and his lips meet mine in a kiss that's soft and tentative, so unlike the hard lines of his life. It's a contrast that tugs at something deep within me, and I'm left reeling from the gentle touch of someone who's anything but gentle by nature.
He gives me one last look that promises more—more kisses, more lies, I can't tell which—before he turns and disappears down the hall, moving with a purpose that leaves whispers fluttering in his wake.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but before I can step into the classroom, Sera and Penelope are upon me, their manicured claws outstretched. They’re on me like vultures, their eyes wide with a hunger for gossip.
"Adelaide Winthrop," Sera drawls, her red lips curving into a predatory smile. "Spill. Every delicious detail."
Penelope leans in. "We saw that little exchange. Since when do you and Saint do... public displays of affection?"
Their piercing gazes dissect me, looking for juicy morsels of scandal they can peck apart. I feel exposed under their scrutiny, caught between the desire to confide and the need to protect what little privacy I have left.
"Since now, apparently," I reply, keeping my voice light, though it trembles slightly. "It's not a big deal."
"Of course, it's a big deal," Penelope insists, her blue eyes flickering with the thrill of gossip. "Barrett Saint, giving you breakfast and kisses? You're the talk of the school."
Sera nods, her face alight with a ghoulish glee. "Everyone's dying to know—are you two an item now?"
Their curiosity is like a vise, squeezing the truth that I'm not ready to share. Saint's past, his pain, it’s not theirs to feast upon.
"Maybe we are," I say, deflecting with a noncommittal shrug. "But since when did my love life become public property?"
"Since always," they chorus, their laughter tinkling like glass about to shatter.
With a roll of my eyes, I push past them into the classroom, the echo of Saint's footsteps still haunting the corridor of my mind.
Sera leans against the desk, her eyes narrowing as she latches onto my last comment. "But Preston... he's more your style, Addy. You know, if you're finished dumpster diving with Saint."
"Isn't that a bit harsh?" I counter, but there's no heat in my voice. It’s hard to feel the sting when it’s not the first time they've cast Saint aside like yesterday's gossip.
"Reality often is," Penelope chimes in, her words edged with an acidic smile. "Preston might not take you back after this little... escapade."
"Take me back?" The words are bitter on my tongue, tasting of old times I'd rather forget. "I'm not some object to be passed around. And who says I want Preston back?"
They share a look—a silent conversation I'm not privy to—before Sera straightens up. "You can't seriously think you and Saint have a future.”
I lean back against the cool surface of a desk, crossing my arms over my chest in defense against their prying. My brow raises in question as I wait for her to continue spewing her bullshit.
"Sure, he's different," Penelope snipes, her words laced with disbelief. "I mean he's hot as hell and dangerous too. But come on, Addy. He's not long term. Preston is like high school royalty."
“He's nouveau riche at best, and that's only by association."
"Saint's worth isn't measured by his bank account," I snap, feeling a surge of protectiveness for the boy who's shown me so much more than these superficial judgments allow.
"Maybe not," Penelope concedes with a shrug, "but prestige matters here. And let's be honest, they aren't even in the same league."
"Maybe I don't care about leagues," I say, my voice quiet but firm. I lock eyes with each of them in turn, hoping they'll see the resolve in my gaze. "Maybe... just maybe, I care about the person."
Their laughter is hollow, echoing off the classroom walls and underscoring the distance between us. It’s clear they don’t understand, and maybe they never will. But as I sit down at my desk, pulling out my textbook, I find I don’t need them to. It’s not like we were ever really friends.
It's not like they actually care about me and my feelings, they care about appearances. And while I was happy to go along with things for the sake of survival, I'm finding that I just don't have it in me anymore.
The words ricochet inside my head, laughter from Sera and Penelope still prickling at my skin. "I'm rich by association too," I snap. "Or did you forget the Winthrops adopted me?"
For a moment, a flicker of hesitation crosses their faces, but it's brief, like the passing shadow of a cloud on an otherwise sunny day. They exchange looks that don't bother to hide their disbelief, as if my newfound status is just another accessory I've put on for show.
"Right," Sera says, her tone dripping with condescension, "but come on, Addy. Everyone can see through this charade. You're just trying to make Preston jealous."
"Jealous?" The word tastes sour, a reminder of a game I no longer wish to play. "You really think I'm that petty?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Penelope chimes in, flipping her hair over her shoulder with practiced nonchalance. "No one just drops someone like Preston Montgomery III without a second thought."
"Especially not for Saint," Sera adds with a snicker. "I mean, please."
Before I can muster a retort, the door to the classroom swings open, and Cecily waltzes in, her timing impeccable as always. She fixes me with a smug smile, one that suggests she's already won some unspoken battle.
"This isn't a game to me."
"Could've fooled us," Sera chimes in, arms folded across her chest as if she's bracing for an impact.
Their skepticism hangs heavy in the air, a fog of doubt I can't seem to dispel.
"Whatever you say, Addy," Penelope says, her tone patronizing. She exchanges a look with Sera that makes my stomach twist. They're right. I am lying. Because what I have with Saint isn't real either. It's just safer.
Before I can defend myself further, a sharp voice slices through the tension.
"Making plays at Preston now, are we?" Cecily's words drip with venom as she steps into our circle, her eyes locked on mine.
I straighten up, meeting her glare. "I'm not making 'plays' at anyone."
"Good," Cecily sneers, stepping closer. "Because you can't have him. Preston's mine."
My gaze hardens as I meet her eyes, and there's a small part of me that revels in the shock that flickers across her face when I respond. "Cecily, listen carefully because I'll only say this once—I have zero interest in Preston. He's all yours, trust me."
She opens her mouth, possibly to argue or throw another barb my way, but something in my expression must warn her off. With a huff, she turns on her heel and struts back to her seat, leaving me with my heart pounding in my chest and a strange sense of victory.
“Addy, come on. Be serious for a minute.”
I don’t even grant them a response.
I shove my books into my bag with more force than necessary, the sharp sound of textbooks clapping together echoing my frustration. The whispers and judgmental stares stick to me like shadows as I stand, but I refuse to give them the satisfaction of seeing me falter. I'm done—for today, for this moment—with their petty games and their toxic words. Fuck. This.
I hoist my bag over one shoulder, exiting the room before the teacher can even sputter a demand to know where I'm going.
The hallway is crowded, a living, breathing mass of students who are oblivious to the storm raging inside me. They're caught up in their own dramas, their laughter and chatter forming a cacophony that I push against, physically and mentally. With every step, I fight the current of bodies, my mind desperately seeking solace in memories that are a stark contrast to the hostility of these walls.
My thoughts drift, unbidden, to Chess and the night we spent together. Not just because of what happened between us, but because of what it represented. His home had been warm, filled with love, so unlike the cold, sterile mansion of the Winthrops.
I remember Chess's laughter ringing out in his cluttered living room, Carmen showing me her latest art project. It felt right, real.
I remember how Chess had looked at me, not as a trophy or a conquest, but with a genuine curiosity that said he wanted to know the real me—the version that wasn't sculpted by expectations or marred by past traumas. In those hours, I'd felt a belonging that was foreign yet deeply craved. A family not bound by blood or duty, but by choice and unconditional acceptance.
Did he even realize how lucky he was?
Tugging at the hem of my shirt, I duck into the bathroom. The fabric clings where it used to drape.
"Ugh, so fucking tight?" I mutter, pulling at my shirt. It's another reminder that my body is changing. It’s a good feeling, mostly. It’s a physical reminder of regular meals and a body that's finally learning what it means to be nourished.
My period even returned, a monthly guest I hadn't seen in almost a year. It's a sign of recovery, sure, but also a glaring alert that my wardrobe is becoming obsolete.
I sigh, knowing full well that shopping trips with the Winthrops are more battlefields than bonding experiences. And there's no way they'll be willing to update my wardrobe to help me accommodate what they view as a weakness.
But I can't ignore the snug fit of my pants or the way my tops stretch across my chest. Maybe I'll find something old to repurpose—anything to avoid another confrontation at home. The reprieve I was awarded after snagging Mason's attention via Saint has faded.
The door opens and I glance in the mirror to see Cecily's venomous stare. Oh, goodie
"Addy Winthrop," Cecily's voice ricochets off the tiled walls, sharp as the click of her designer heels. She storms in, platinum hair flawless, sneer perfectly practiced. "You've got some nerve."
"Excuse me?" I deflect, feigning interest in a nonexistent flaw on my sleeve.
"You are such a fucking bitch, you know that? You think you're so much better than everyone else because some rich family decided to move you into their mansion."
"I really don't."
"Please," she scoffs, her laugh hollow. "You're just playing games. And trust me, you don't want to play games with me."
My hands are shaking, but it’s not from fear—it's pure, unadulterated rage boiling within me. I'm so sick of this, of all of it. I don't have to justify myself to Cecily or anyone else. I stand up abruptly, knocking back into Cecily, who has inched herself closer to me.
I lock eyes with Cecily, my voice steady and laced with a fire I didn't know I had in me. "You're right, Cecily. I don't have to play games with you because I'm not interested in stooping down to your level. Unlike you, I don't find satisfaction in tearing others down."
Cecily recoils slightly, her arrogance momentarily faltering. But she quickly recovers, a mocking smile playing on her lips.
"But what's the fun in not tearing you down, Adelaide?" she taunts. "You're just a charity case, a pathetic little stray they picked up off the streets. No matter how much they try to dress you up, you'll always be nothing more than trash."
I grit my teeth and clench my fists, refusing to let her get under my skin.
Taking a step closer, I meet Cecily's gaze head-on, my voice ringing with a newfound strength. "Trash, huh? Well, Cecily, if that's what you want to label me as, then so be it. But let me remind you of something: trash fights dirty."
I push past Cecily, leaving her standing there in stunned silence.
"Stay away from Preston. I don't know what game you're playing, but—"
"Game?" I spin to face her, irritation flaring up like a match struck too close to skin. "Cecily, believe me, there's no game. And no interest.”
"Right." Her laugh is hollow, echoing my own disbelief. "Like you're over Preston Montgomery III."
"Trust me, he's all yours." My words are clipped, final. I mean them—every syllable.
"Keep telling yourself that, Addy." She flips her hair, eyes narrowed with a challenge I have no intention of accepting.
"Enjoy him," I say, brushing past her, my reflection in the mirror now a blur. "He's your problem now."
Stepping back into the hallway, I draw in a deep breath, ready to face the rest of the day with renewed resolve. I sling my bag higher onto my shoulder, the weight grounding me as I navigate the empty corridor.
The boys will still be in class, but I head toward the computer lab anyway, hoping that maybe one of them will be there.
That thought alone propels me forward, past lockers and bulletin boards plastered with club announcements and school spirit propaganda.
I take a deep breath, trying to shake off the encounter with Cecily. I can't let her toxicity poison the newfound clarity I've discovered. The realization that I don't need to conform to the expectations of those around me, that I can forge my own path… it’s freeing.
"Please let Chess be there," I murmur to myself, clinging to the possibility like a lifeline. Even if he's busy, just seeing him, his mischievous grin, that ridiculous haircut that somehow suits him perfectly, would soothe the raw edges of my frazzled nerves.
Turning the corner with hopeful anticipation, the sight before me slams into my chest like a physical blow. Chess is there, alright. But he's far from alone, his olive skin practically glowing under the fluorescent lights, somehow making him even more striking. And he's leaning in close to two giggling girls, his hazel eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief.
"Hey, Chess," one of them giggles, her hand lingering a second too long on his shoulder.
"Looking good today," the other chimes, bold and flirtatious.
And Chess, he's eating it up, smiling that smile I thought was reserved for moments shared between us. My heart clenches tight, a vice of betrayal and hurt squeezing the breath from my lungs. It's as if the scene before me is a twisted mirror, reflecting a truth I can no longer deny—I was never special.
Of fucking course you weren't, you stupid bitch.
The words ricochet inside my skull like bullets, each one a self-inflicted wound. I berate myself for ever believing I could have been something real for him, more than just a fleeting distraction.
My throat constricts, the sound of their laughter reverberating around the hollow space of my gut. I should've known better. It's like a punch to the heart, watching him so effortlessly charming, so undeniably alive. The cracks form quickly, spider-webbing through the fa?ade I've carefully built up. My pulse stutters, uneven and sharp against the soft flutter of flirtation playing out before me.
I press my back against the cool wall, willing my heart to still its frantic pace, willing my mind to piece itself back together. But it's no use; the image is seared into my memory.
"Stupid," I whisper, the word a blade slashing through the last threads of hope I'd foolishly clung to. Chess's laughter continues to echo down the hall, oblivious to the fracture he's caused.
With a deep breath to steady my trembling legs, I pivot away from the lab and the shattered illusion within. I can't stay here—not when every fiber of my being screams to run, to hide, to escape the pain that threatens to consume me.
I stride away, my footsteps echoing too loudly against the linoleum. It's like every step is a word, a harsh whisper in the silence of the corridor that says 'run'. I can't stay here, not with the afterimage of Chess and those girls seared into my retinas. My hands are shaking, and I shove them into the pockets of my skirt, trying to steady them.
"Stupid," I murmur to myself, the word barely a breath as it leaves my lips. "You're so stupid, Addy."
The realization sinks in like a stone in water: I was just one more option in Chess's collection. The special moments, the jokes—they were probably recycled, passed down like second-hand trinkets. And I fell for it, basked in the glow of attention like it meant something more.
"Hey, Addy! Skipping out early?" The voice belongs to no one important, just another faceless peer who doesn't understand the chaos swirling inside of me.
"Something like that," I mutter without stopping or looking back.
As soon as I push through the double doors at the end of the hallway, sunlight hits my face, but it does nothing to warm the chill that's settled deep within my bones. The parking lot is nearly empty this time of day, and I feel a surge of relief knowing I’m far from prying eyes.
But there's a small victory in this defeat—the choice to walk away was mine, and mine alone. I cling to that thought like a lifeline as I push past the gates of the school, leaving the whispers and judgmental glances behind.
I don't look back, not once, as I trace the familiar path home. The tears finally break free, but they're not enough to blur the conviction setting in. Hope is dangerous, trust is folly, but choice—that's power. And today, I choose to save myself.