Page 138 of Picture Perfect

"Stipulations?" I ask, a chill running down my spine at the thought of what my father might want.

"Nothing that will stand now," Mason assures me, his voice firm like a hand laid over mine in silent solidarity. "I've made sure the contract protects you. Your safety, your comfort—it's paramount to us."

"Safety," I repeat, tasting the word. It's new, unfamiliar, yet desperately coveted.

"Here, with us, you'll always be safe," Mason confirms with a nod. "The boys—they're quite protective of you. We all are. We can't erase the past, but we can offer you a haven for the future."

"Protective..." I let the word linger between us, a fragile bridge I'm tentatively considering crossing. I feel like a parrot repeating what he's telling me. "That means a lot."

"Good." Mason smiles faintly, his eyes holding mine. "We just want you to know that this is your home as much as it is ours. And if there's anything else you need—"

My fingers nervously twist the fabric of my shirt as I sit across from Mason in his office, the door open wide enough to let the light from the hallway spill in. His desk is a barrier between us, yet he leans forward, bridging the gap with his earnest expression.

"I'm stuck until I'm eighteen," I admit, the words tumbling out like prisoners escaping confinement. "I don't know who I can trust. I've never..." My voice trails off, the weight of a lifetime without trust heavy on my tongue.

Mason nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. "I completely understand, Addy." He pauses, then adds, "But I hope that you'll see you can trust me. And just so you know," his voice carries an edge of something determined, "with your parents' permission, you could marry before turning eighteen. I'm working on it."

The thought seizes my breath. Marry. Before eighteen. It's a possibility I hadn't let myself consider, trapped as I've been under the thumb of expectation and parental authority.

"Really?" The word is half-whisper, half-disbelief.

"Really," he confirms, the corners of his mouth lifting in a reassuring smile. "If that's something you want."

Then he shifts the conversation, his tone changing to something more formal. "We're also planning an engagement party," he says, watching for my reaction. "It's... well, it's going to be quite the spectacle. Your father wants to showcase his connection to me."

I feel my eyebrows knit together, a sense of unease creeping in. A showcase for my father—the idea leaves a sour taste.

"But," Mason continues, "Saint wanted it too. He believes it's important. I agreed because of that. Is that okay with you?"

Engagement parties signify celebration, a public declaration of unity. But this feels like stepping into an arena where every eye will judge and scrutinize. Yet, if Saint sees it necessary—if he desires it—can I find the strength to stand beside him in the spotlight?

"Okay," I finally murmur, feeling the word carve out a decision in the stone of my resolve. "If it's important to Saint, then... yes, it's okay with me."

"Thank you, Addy." Mason's approval is warm, comforting. "Your willingness to support this means a lot—to all of us."

His gratitude wraps around me like a security blanket, offering a shred of courage. Maybe, just maybe, I can face the world as long as I'm not standing alone. Maybe they are what I've been waiting for.

Chapter sixty

Addy

The warmth of the morning light spills across the room, and I know it’s time. Chess is already up, moving quietly around my space with a familiarity that both surprises and comforts me. He's laying out clothes on the bed—a selection he brought over himself—and my heart gives an odd little skip at the gesture.

"Whatcha think, Addy?" His voice is light, but there’s an undercurrent of something else in it.

I rise from the bed, still feeling the ghost of his presence beside me from the night before. The options before me are more than just fabric; they're choices I've never had the luxury to make before. I run my fingers over the soft knits, the denim, the playful patterns. It's not just about wearing something new; it's about shedding an old skin.

"High-waisted jeans," I murmur, picking them up and feeling their weight. "And this one." My hands find a soft sweater, slightly cropped, and perfect for the crisp autumn air.

"Nice choice." Chess leans against the wall, arms crossed, his mischievous haircut falling into his hazel eyes as he watches me.

I can't help but squeal a little as I pull on the jeans, because they fit like they’re made for me—like they were waiting for this moment. The sweater follows, hugging me in all the right places. I slip into the flats, a final touch that makes me feel grounded. Looking in the mirror, I see myself—really see myself—and it's like meeting someone new.

"You look incredible, Addy." His words aren't just words; they're an affirmation, a truth I'm only starting to believe.

"Thank you," I say, catching his eye in the reflection. But the gratitude is short-lived, because the joy bubbling within me demands to be felt without debts.

"No," he corrects gently, stepping forward. "Thanks to you, for being brave enough to wear them."

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