Page 158 of With a Cherry On Top

She wants out.

She’s going to tell her mom.

“I’m done modeling.” She swallows hard. “It’s not what I want to do for the rest of my life, and neither is camming.”

Beatrice’s chin jerks back, lips parting slightly as if she’s just been struck. “What?”

Charlotte’s throat bobs. “You know I like making clothes. I want to?—”

“Oh, you want to be a stylist now.”

Charlotte lifts her chin. “So what if I do?”

Beatrice taps her heel against the floor. “Charlotte, you’re so beautiful.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Charlotte barks. “I’m much more than beautiful.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” Beatrice steps forward and takes her daughter’s hand, her grip deceptively gentle. “You’re beautiful, and you’re lucky you are, because you’re not much else.”

My stomach turns to lead, and I press my fist against my mouth to keep from making a sound.

Charlotte flinches. Just barely. Just enough that if I hadn’t been watching her so closely, I might have missed it.

“If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be a model,” Beatrice continues, voice smooth. “If it wasn’t for my work, my help, my diet, my money, you’d be a college drop-out with no prospects. Do you get that?”

I can see the war in Charlotte’s eyes—the battle between the truth she wants to believe and the version of herself her mother has spent years shoving down her throat.

“So what, because you like drawing cute little outfits for yourself, sewing them up, and putting them on, you think you’ll be the next Vera Wang?” She scoffs, folding her arms at her hips. “You have no formal training. Who’s going to hire you? Are you going to make coffee for actual designers in hopes that someone recognizes your talent? Is this your Devil Wears Prada fantasy playing out?”

“I—” Tears coat Charlotte’s lashes. “I don’t know.”

“No, youdon’tknow.” Beatrice releases her hand, shaking her head with an air of finality. “And luckily for you, you don’tneedto know. You just need to make sure you do whatIsay.”

Charlotte perches on the edge of the mattress, breathing heavily, her whole body rigid as if locking herself in place is the only thing keeping her from crumbling.

And me? I press my back harder against the closet wall, biting my tongue, fighting the urge to burst out and tell her what I already know.

She’s more than beautiful.

She’s everything.

She can do whatever the fuck she sets her mind to.

Charlotte doesn’t say a word, just stares down at her lap as silent tears spill onto her bare thighs. She doesn’t fight. Doesn’t argue. Just sits there, defeated.

Once Beatrice leaves and the door clicks shut, I step out of the closet.

Charlotte is still crying quietly as the front door slams—the kind of crying that comes when you’ve been broken so many times that the fight in you has just worn thin. And god, I want to make her feel better, want to gather her in my arms and tell her she doesn’t have to put up with this, that she doesn’t have to live like this.

Something falls from the closet behind me as I come out, the dullthunkstartling me. I lean down to grab it, but when my fingers close around the cool edge of a silver frame, I hesitate.

It’s a picture. A child, maybe four or five years old, grinning at the camera. But it’s not Charlotte. Itcan’tbe, because her hair is dark brown, a shade deeper than her eyes. Yet she looks...familiar in a way that sends a cold rush through my veins.

I’ve seen this face before.

That smile. Those sharp, knowing eyes.

The realization slams into me like a freight train. “Is this...”

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