By the time I finish, the Jacksons are nodding. The irritation has vanished, replaced by relief and even admiration.
"Well," Mrs. Jackson says, her voice surprisingly warm, "I must say, Mr. Kincaid, your practical approach is quite reassuring. We appreciate you addressing our concerns so thoroughly."
"It serves our mutual interests," I reply, my voice cool and professional, avoiding any hint of personal investment. "Maddy's vision is exceptional, and our goal is flawless execution."
They shake Maddy's hand, then mine, talking again about the "breathtaking starscape" and the "incredible attention to detail." As they walk out to their silver BMW, their conversation drifts back to enthusiasm about their daughter's proposal. The deal isn't saved. It's strengthened.
I turn to Maddy. She's still pale, but her eyes hold a new, unsettling intensity. She looks at me like I'm a puzzle she's desperate to solve. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken questions.
"Why?" she asks. "You've seen so many things go wrong with my work. Why did you defend me?"
I pause, a shift in my expression. "Because each moment is another chance for us to do something right."
The words hang in the air between us, and I watch the change in her eyes, an unspoken understanding, maybe even hope. But I don't wait to see what comes next. I give her a curt, professional nod, then turn and climb the stairs back to my loft.My work here is done. The problem is solved. Now, to process what happened.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MADDY
The stillness crowds in, the walls seeming to inch closer with every breath. Each tick of the clock is a reminder of my stubbornness, a soundtrack to the cold shoulder I've perfected. I've frozen Mason out with ruthless efficiency, and for what?
For being the man Mrs. Patterson said he was, a calculating, dangerous individual. But then ... there are the Jacksons. The sheer terror of being cornered by them, the sudden, undeniable relief when Mason appeared, stepping between me and disaster. He didn't rescue me. He protected me.
And his lies. So smooth, so practiced. I've written it off as evidence of his deceitful nature, yet a new thought begins to gnaw at me. What if it isn't malice, but training? A lifetime of navigating tricky situations, of controlling narratives, has honed that ability to a razor's edge. It doesn't make the lies okay, but it changes the why. He isn't necessarily a liar by nature, but by necessity.
The more I replay the events of the last few days, the more jumbled everything becomes. The magnetic pull of his kiss, the genuine fear he stirred in me, the absolute heroism he showedat River Bend and around the Jacksons. It's like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole, only the peg keeps changing shape right in my hands. I thought I had him figured out, tucked neatly into the "bad guy" box, but he keeps breaking out, showing me glimpses of a different man.
A frustrated growl escapes me. I'm furious, not with him anymore, but with myself. For being so rigid, for letting Mrs. Patterson's whispered fears and my own assumptions paint him in such stark, unyielding colors. Have I been so blinded by a single narrative that I've missed all the others? Have I dismissed the undeniable chemistry, the genuine concern I've seen in his eyes, because they didn't fit in my neat little box?
I stare out the rain-speckled window, watching droplets race each other down the glass, and like an unwanted guest, Daniel slips into my thoughts.
I remember how he made it look like support. Like belief. He brought me coffee during late nights, asked thoughtful questions, praised my wildest ideas. I thought he saw me. But underneath every gesture was a hook. His interest was strategy. His kindness, camouflage. He didn't encourage my dreams, he harvested them. Pulled them out piece by piece until they were no longer mine.
Mason's nothing like that. He's intense, yes. Guarded. Sometimes a little too precise for comfort. But he doesn't ask for things he hasn't earned. When he steps in, it's not to take the reins, it's to steady the ground. His advice doesn't come wrapped in manipulation. It comes with an edge of honesty, like he doesn't know how to pretend.
There's a protectiveness in him. It's not simple, it comes with shadows and questions I don't know how to answer, but it doesn't feel cold. It doesn't feel like a setup.
And maybe that's the hardest part. I've gotten so used to betrayal wearing a friendly face that I don't always know what to do with sincerity when I see it.
Maybe trust isn't about silencing the part of me that's afraid.
Maybe it's about learning how to tell the difference.
My hand trembles as I pick up my phone, my thumb hovering over Mom's contact. I need her, need her grounded perspective, her ability to see the world in shades of gray. This isn't a decision I can figure out on my own.
The phone rings twice. "Hey, sweet pea. Everything okay?"
My voice cracks. "Mom. I ... I need you. I really need you."
A beat of silence, then her voice softens, the easygoing lilt giving way to a more serious tone. "Come home, baby. Your favorite Chinese takeout is on its way. We'll talk."
I sniffle, a tiny laugh escaping me. Mom always knows. The thought of General Tso's chicken and her presence is enough to loosen the knots in my chest. I grab my keys, leaving the oppressive silence behind, heading toward the one place I know I'll find clarity, Mom's kitchen, where wisdom comes with a side of extra-spicy dumplings.
I pull into the driveway,the familiar scent of damp earth and pine from the River Bend woods doing little to soothe the churn in my stomach. I kill the engine but don't move, sitting here listening to the hum of the New York evening. At this hour, Mom is usually still at The Cork & Crown, the vibrant energy of her bar spilling out onto Main Street. We're ships that pass in the night, me up at dawn, her returning long after midnight, a quick note on the fridge often our only form of communication. But tonight, Mom is home. A small, unexpected mercy.
I push open the front door, the house smelling faintly of soy sauce and garlic. I wouldn't be surprised if Mom's favorite wok is still hot, she always "doctors up" takeout before serving it, swearing everything tastes better once it's been in her wok.
"Mom?" I call out, my voice still a little shaky.
