26. Addy
Chapter twenty-six
Addy
T he clink of fine china and the rustle of silk napkins fold into a symphony as dessert is paraded in. Gleaming chocolate tortes, raspberry coulis tracing intricate designs on porcelain plates, and towers of cream-topped pastries are set down with studied elegance before everyone—everyone but me.
In front of me, a glass bowl holds a scanty arrangement of berries and melon cubes. I prod at a grape, feeling its resistance under the silver fork.
Mason clears his throat—a calculated, commanding sound—and the table falls silent. Everyone turns to him, including me, my gaze lifting from the meager fruit salad to his authoritative presence near the head of the table.
"William," he begins, voice deep and resonant, "I must say, Genevieve has been ever so taken with your Adelaide." He nods toward me, and I feel my cheeks warm, unsure if it's from pride or embarrassment. "And Rhett," Mason continues, casting a sidelong glance at the brooding figure across from me, "has expressed a particular fondness for her as well."
Saint shifts in his seat, his dark curls falling into his eyes, shadowing whatever thoughts lurk behind them. I can't help but steal a glance, searching for some sign, some clue to what he's feeling. But like always, he gives nothing away.
"Of course," Mason's words roll on, smooth as the polished silverware, "I am aware there have been negotiations with the Montgomerys regarding Adelaide. But," he leans forward slightly, hands clasped together, "how serious are those talks, hm?"
William, a man who wears his cunning like a second skin, smiles thinly at Mason's inquiry. My heart quickens with a pulse of anxiety. What game are they playing now? And where do I fit into their strategy? The fruit in front of me suddenly seems too bright, too artificial, just pieces arranged for show. Like me.
"Quite serious, I assure you," my father responds, his tone suggesting layers upon layers of unspoken deals and promises. "Addy's future is of paramount importance to us."
Is it? Really? Or is it just another transaction? I force myself to pick at the fruit salad again, each bite tasting more sour than sweet, as I listen to the men weave their web around me.
"We all want what's best for the girl," Cheryl joins the conversation.
What's best for the girl...
The phrase feels hollow, and I can't help but wonder if what's best for the girl ever truly factors into their decisions. I keep my face impassive, a mask perfected over years of practice, while inside, the turmoil brews—a tempest of doubt and defiance.
My fingers twitch around the fork, knuckles whitening. There's a fire building within me, one that's fueled by the yearning for something real, something mine. Yet, there's also anger, a burning indignation at being discussed as if I were livestock at an auction. And beneath it all, revulsion churns; they see me, yet they don't.
"Barrett does seem quite smitten with our Adelaide," Cheryl continues, tilting her head in her husband’s direction. "Don't you think?"
Her eyes lock onto mine, gleaming with something wild and untamed—a feral grin spreading across her features.
I glance over at Saint. His eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment, and I search them for an ally, for sincerity. But what greets me is an impenetrable fortress.
I take in Dre, with his ice blue eyes that have known too much coldness, and Chess, whose smirk doesn't quite reach the storm brewing in his hazel gaze. My mind reels as the realization dawns—my plans, my hopes, they're dissolving before my eyes.
I thought they were different. I thought, maybe, I could come to trust them. But the truth cuts deeper than any knife. To them, I am just another shiny toy to be bartered.
A pawn. A plaything.
The future I had painstakingly pieced together in my dreams, one where I could stand on my own, feels like a mirage now.
"Plans change," I whisper under my breath, a mantra to steady my resolve. “I can still do this. I can still get out.”
A mask of indifference settles over my features. My heart hardens, calcifying against the harsh reality of their world. If a doll is all they want, then I'll be the finest porcelain—beautiful, empty, and cold to the touch.
I’ll don the silken gowns and painted smiles. I’ll dance on their strings and curtsy under their gazes.
Mason leans forward, steepling his fingers. "I can assure you, he is. He's a good boy, he will take care of your daughter. And, it is a union that can benefit both parties."
William, a shrewd negotiator, narrows his eyes. "But what assurances do we have that this union will be fruitful for us?"
"Rest assured, Senator," Mason says, his voice dripping with an eerie calmness. "An alliance with me is always fruitful."
My heart pounds in my chest, a silent drum of resistance against this arranged fate. I clench my fists under the table, desperate for some semblance of control over my own life.
"What do you think, Adelaide?"
I take a deep breath, my gaze drifting away from the calculating stares of the men surrounding me. I refuse to let their games break me, to let them strip away my agency.
"What do I think?" I repeat, my voice brittle.
"Yes, darling," Cheryl's laughter tinkles like broken glass. "I know you're fond of the Montgomery boy, but I think Barrett could be an excellent addition to the family ."
The family. Right. A reminder that the family's needs come far above my own.
I plaster a simpering smile on my face. "I think you're absolutely right, Mother," I lie smoothly, setting the fork down. They want to see me calm, collected—oblivious and pliable. So, I'll give them a performance worthy of a standing ovation.
"Then I am more than happy to negotiate," William says with a finality that slams doors shut inside me. Happy to barter away my future, my will, as if I were just another asset in his portfolio.
I glance up, my chest tightening, and find Saint's gaze fixed on mine across the table. There’s an emotion there, something flickering beneath the surface like the shadow of a storm cloud passing over the sun. I can't quite name it—is it regret? Concern? Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. It won’t change the game. It won’t change my role in it.
"Excellent." Mason’s approval is a nail in my coffin. "I'm sure this is the beginning of a bright future for our families."
"Indeed," William replies, raising his glass.
"Indeed." Saint's voice is a low rumble, almost drowned out by the clatter around us. But I hear him, oh, I hear every syllable laced with hidden meaning.
"Indeed," I echo softly, turning my focus back to the fruit salad. I spear a piece of melon with more force than necessary, watching the juice bead up on the fork.
"I think a toast is in order," Cheryl coos from across the table, her voice like the sickly sweet icing on a cake left out in the rain. She snaps her fingers to alert the staff they're needed.
Flutes of champagne are passed around the table and raised in unison. The crystal glasses clink together, producing a melodic chime that resonates in the air.
"To a fruitful future!"
And as their laughter fills the room, wrapping around me like the coils of a constrictor, I let my walls rise higher.
I take a deep breath, my fingers curling around the stem of the champagne flute. The smile never leaves my lips, but behind the facade, a fire begins to burn. The game is far from over, and I refuse to be a pawn in their twisted design.