"What is that smell?" the man, Mr. Jackson, demands, his voice edged with irritation.
"Technical difficulty!" I hear Maddy say, her cheerfulness stretched so thin it's transparent. "Sometimes the atmospheric generators can be a bit temperamental..."
I hear frantic clicking. Then a curse, low and sharp. Maddy. Panic rides her voice, tight and unguarded, and it hits me in the chest.
Then it happens. A loud POP, followed by silence so thick it presses against the rafters. The silence that doesn't fall, it plummets and hits with a thud.
I can't see her from up here, but I don't need to. I know that sound. I know what failure looks like in a room full of people with money and opinions. I know how Maddy stands when she's trying not to crumble, too straight, too still.
I picture the Jacksons trading looks, checking out, writing her off. And her, burning with frustration and too much pride to show it.
Fury claws at me. At the equipment. At the distance I swore to keep. At myself.
My first instinct is to stay put. I'm a tenant here, not a partner. If her equipment fails, that's her problem. She built this wall between us, and I've respected it. Getting involved now would break every rule we've silently agreed on. She doesn't want my help. I should put on my headphones, turn away from the railing, and get back to work. That would be the smart thing.
The disciplined thing.
But then Mrs. Jackson's voice cuts in, every word edged with finality. She delivers her verdict in a sharp, dismissive tone.
"If this is what happens during a demo, I can't imagine the actual proposal."
And that's it. My pride, my hurt, my measured distance, gone in an instant. The logic that kept me planted up here snaps under the weight of it. I can't stand back and listen to her get torn apart. I can't watch her business, Henry's wife's business, the one running out of the barn I'm working in, take a hit I know I could stop.
This isn't about my feelings anymore. This isn't about our broken whatever-this-was. This is a problem. And I am still good at solving problems.
I stand, straighten my shirt, and head for the stairs. My face is calm. My movements are measured. I'm not going down there as a partner or a friend. I'm going down there as someone who fixes things when they break.
The last few steps echo in the sudden quiet. The air reeks of burnt electronics. Maddy stands there, pale and shaking, her eyes wide with panic that catches on me the moment I appear. An emotion flashes across her face, surprise, confusion, maybe even hope. I meet her gaze for a second, acknowledging nothing, before I turn to the real problem, the Jacksons.
They stand with arms crossed, disgust written all over their faces. Mrs. Jackson wears that expensive sneer I've seen a thousand times. The broken fog machine lies on its side, smoking pathetically.
"Well, I think we've seen enough," Mrs. Jackson says, her voice hard and cold as frosted glass. "If you can't even get the basic props to work, I'm not sure how we can trust you to handle the most important moment of our daughter's life."
"Give me a moment," I say, my voice cutting through the tension with an authority that surprises even me. I walk towardthem, my eyes sweeping over the broken machine, then Maddy's stricken face, and then settling on the Jacksons. I offer a slight smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Mason Kincaid. I apologize for the hiccup. Our atmospheric generator, while generally reliable, occasionally has a ... dramatic streak."
Mr. Jackson snorts. "Dramatic and broken."
"Right," I say, stepping forward to examine the defunct machine like its failure is fascinating rather than catastrophic. I crouch, pick up a burnt wire, then stand, holding it between two fingers. "That's why we build in backups. What you witnessed isn't a flaw in Maddy's vision. It's proof we plan for every possibility." I gesture around the barn. "The beauty of Ever After doesn't rely on one piece of equipment. It's the full experience Maddy creates for your daughter's proposal. The fog machine added atmosphere, sure, but the star projection still stands on its own."
I feel Maddy's eyes on me, wide with confusion and a trace of terror. I don't look at her. This isn't for her.
"The fiber optics Maddy described," I continue, turning back to the Jacksons, "are theater-grade, designed for permanent installations far more complex than a single proposal. They're independent of this unit. What you would have seen tonight, if this minor issue hadn't occurred, was the star field forming with perfect alignment. And honestly, the atmospheric element, while striking, can sometimes detract from the clarity of that celestial effect, especially for guests with sensitivities. We've found that true clarity often beats elaborate extras."
I pause, letting the reframe settle. I'm turning failure into deliberate choice, a broken machine into evidence of Maddy's superior judgment.
"Consider this," I press on, my voice dropping, becoming more confidential. "Tonight, you saw a momentary glitch. Imagine if this had happened during your daughter's actualproposal. Truly catastrophic, right? But because we test everything thoroughly, because we push our equipment to its limits during demonstrations, we catch these vulnerabilities now. This isn't a setback, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson. This is risk management in action. This is the guarantee that when it truly matters, during your daughter's most important moment, every detail will be perfect, because we've found and eliminated any potential failure point."
I hold up the burnt wire. "It's a simple wiring issue that's easily replaced. But it's also an opportunity. We can now consider alternatives, perhaps a more subtle atmospheric effect that enhances rather than obscures the breathtaking starscape Maddy has designed for your daughter." I look directly at Mrs. Jackson. "Her proposal won't be good; it will be bulletproof."
Mrs. Jackson's rigid posture softens. She glances at her husband. The sneer is gone, replaced by thoughtful consideration.
"So, you're saying this is a good thing?" Mr. Jackson asks, genuine curiosity creeping into his tone.
"It's an opportunity for perfection," I correct, my smile widening. "And it's why choosing Ever After isn't about artistry alone. It's about choosing a team that thinks through every variable. We don't plan your daughter's proposal. We guarantee it."
I transition smoothly into backup protocols. "For instance," I add, my voice steady, "what if the primary projector failed? Maddy has a secondary unit, pre-calibrated and set to deploy within minutes. What if the power went out? We have silent, high-capacity generators on standby. Every component, every potential failure point, has a backup plan. This isn't about having beautiful ideas. It's about making those beautiful ideas inevitable."
I talk timelines, logistical redundancies, even touch on insurance policies and contractual guarantees, all delivered with understated confidence that suggests these are basic considerations for a business of this caliber. Maddy stands silent, watching me with a strange mix of awe and horror. I can feel her calculating, dissecting every word, every move.
