I return to the loft, with my sleeves unrolled to their proper length. They still carry the faint scent of whatever cleaning solution we used. Below, Maddy resumes her work with more care, but no less ambition. The music continues, quieter than before. A small olive branch.
My phone buzzes with a text from Henry:
Henry
Just checking in. Have you two found your rhythm yet?
I glance down at Maddy, now setting up a scale model of the Eiffel Tower, lights pulsing in time with her playlist. She stays locked in, every move sharp, matching the focused intensity I recognize in myself. It's hard not to admire how she turns imagination into a tangible result, and how she refuses to lower the bar.
Me
We're getting there. Working in the same space as Maddy is like learning a new language. Complicated, but not impossible.
Henry
Good. Maddy's one of the good ones, Mason. Don't let the glitter fool you.
She steps back, plants her hands on her hips, and tips her head, studying the thing like it's daring her to blink first. A slow grin tugs at her mouth. She works the problem like it's a riddlemeant for her alone, eyes sharp, stance bold, as if creativity and courage are tools she knows how to wield.
I start to reply.
Me
The glitter isn't what concerns me.
Then I delete it. Some truths are better left unsaid. Particularly the ones that sneak up on you with flying foam and a feeling dangerously close to admiration.
Instead, I type:
Me
You've called once and texted twice. Go enjoy your wife, Kingston. Coexistence is under control in River Bend.
His typing bubble appears, then disappears.
Below me, Maddy crosses her arms and studies her display again, eyes narrowed, assessing her next move. She's unbothered by the mess she caused, or the disaster we cleaned up together. She's relentless, hopeful, and fearless. I should be concerned.
But all I feel is curious.
And that's where the trouble starts.
CHAPTER THREE
MADDY
The next morning, I arrive at The Weathered Barn armed with purpose and a box of supplies that would make any craft store weep with joy. Mason's settled in the loft, surveying his organized and monochromatic kingdom. All smooth wood and muted tones. Calm, controlled, and lifeless. The space practically begs for a fuchsia pillow to the face.
The sight of his perfectly arranged workspace sends a familiar spike of irritation through my chest. Not because it's wrong, but because it's so smugly right it makes everything else look like a toddler's art project. Which, to be fair, everything else is a bit of a mess. But it's intentional. The vibrant, beautiful disarray that breeds miracles and turns wild ideas into reality. The kind Savvy, Ivy, and I built our entire business philosophy around. It's organized mayhem with a mission.
I set my supplies down with more force than necessary, earning a brief pause in whatever important work Mason's conducting above. Good. Let him know that Ever After, Inc. is open for business, even if our fearless leader is currentlylearning to navigate Scottish roundabouts while Henry critiques her driving from the passenger seat.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ivy.
Ivy
Having a crisis. Bride wants to change everything three days before the wedding. EVERYTHING. Send help or wine.
I type back.
