Page 137 of Picture Perfect

I nod, the weight of my almost-freedom settling into my bones.

"It's a blank slate, Addy." Gen's voice breaks through my thoughts as she starts unpacking the bags, laying out my treasures like artifacts from a newfound land. "You get to pick out the paint color and the linens, too. This is your room."

I bite my lip and try to ignore the burning at the back of my eyes. Instead, I turn my attention back to the massive amount of clothing we have to put away.

"Got some good stuff," Chess comments, his eyes dancing with approval as he holds up a blouse against me, imagining the fit.

"Definitely going to turn heads," Dre adds, pressing against my back and nipping at my shoulder.

As I watch them move around the room, I'm struck by a wave of gratitude so strong it threatens to knock me over. They're building a fortress of normalcy around me, brick by brick.

"I see you got quite the haul." The deep timbre of Mason's voice pulls my attention and I find him leaning casually against the doorframe. His presence is a solid thing, grounding yet unobtrusive.

"We totally did," Gen answers, her hands on her hips as she surveys the work they've done.

"It's...a lot," I manage to say, even though words feel inadequate to express the tumult inside me.

"Good," Mason nods, his eyes meeting mine for a moment. There's an unspoken understanding there, a recognition of the storms I've weathered and the sanctuary they offer now.

"Addy, can we talk?" Mason's voice is low, just a touch above the hum of conversation from the others. I glance up at him, his figure a solid mass against the light spilling in from the hallway. There's a gravity to his request that anchors me on the spot for a beat too long.

"Sure," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. My heart hammers against my ribcage as I follow him down the stairs.

With each step toward Mason's office, the familiar weight of apprehension settles over me. Men like him—powerful, commanding—have only ever meant one thing in my life: pain. But Saint trusts him, and I'm trying to trust Saint.

We move through the corridors of the Whitmore house, the walls lined with photos and achievements, each one a testament to the kind of life I've never known. Then, we pass by some of Mason's employees. They're clad in tactical gear, looking like they belong on the set of an action movie rather than in this grandiose home.

"Hey," one of them greets, a friendly smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Good afternoon," another says, nodding in my direction.

"This is Addy," Mason introduces me like I'm someone worth knowing, not just the girl who's been tossed from one bad situation to another. "You'll be seeing her around more often."

"Hi," I reply, my voice small but genuine. Their smiles are a comfort, a soft glow in the shadow of my fears.

Mason leads me into his office, the room exuding the same quiet strength as him. The fact that he leaves the door wide open washes a wave of relief over me. The gesture feels like a promise—that he's different, that I might be safe here.

"Take a seat, please," he gestures to the chair across his desk, and I do, crossing my ankles and folding my hands in my lap, attempting to appear composed.

"Thank you for... everything," I start, not wanting the silence to stretch too long.

"Of course," Mason responds, settling into his chair with a grace that contradicts his size. "It's the least we could do. You're part of this family now, Addy." His voice carries an earnestness that nudges at the walls I've built around myself.

"Family," I echo, the word foreign yet warming on my tongue.

"Anything you need, you just let us know," he continues, and I can't help but think how this man—this stranger—is offering me more kindness than I've ever known. It's enough to make hope flicker in a heart that's known too much darkness.

Mason reaches into a drawer, his movements methodical, and slides a debit card across the polished mahogany desk toward me. It’s sleek, a piece of plastic that feels like freedom under my fingertips.

"Saint wanted you to have this," he says, watching me carefully. "There's an account set up for you with a monthly allowance. No strings attached. You're in full control."

I trace the embossed numbers on the card, confusion knotting my brow. "But why? I don't understand."

"Because it's important to him—important to all of us—that you have your own resources." He leans back, locking his hands behind his head, a gesture that somehow doesn't seem intimidating despite his imposing presence. "You're not beholden to anyone here, Addy."

"Thank you," I whisper, still grappling with the concept of such unconditional support. The weight of gratitude presses against my chest, making it tight.

"Of course." Mason unfolds his arms and straightens, then opens a folder that's been lying on his desk. "Now, about the betrothal. Your father had some... ideas about what should be included in the contract."

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