40. Saint
Chapter forty
Saint
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, my eyes fixed on Princess's frail figure as Dre guides her up the steps to the monstrous Winthrop estate, Chess right by her other side. The sun casts long shadows that seem to swallow her whole. I should be helping her, but I can't move. I'm frozen, a statue of rage and regret.
"So fucking stupid," I mutter to myself. My voice is a low growl, barely audible over the pounding of my heart in my ears. They don't hear me; they're too focused on Princess, their concern etched into every line of their bodies.
I hadn't wanted to bring her back here. If I had my say she would never have set foot in this house of horrors ever again.
She argued. Told us she was only seventeen and that William Winthrop would make sure that she was dragged back kicking and screaming. She was going home.
I wanted to argue, to fight her decision, but the resignation in her eyes stopped me cold. She doesn't trust us enough to believe we can offer her anything better than the gilded cage she calls home. And, why should she?
The drive to the Winthrops place had been a blur, my mind waging war between longing and self-loathing. And instead of helping her to the door, I couldn't even be bothered to get out of the car.
They pause on the front porch as she digs out her keys. They move to take her inside, but she stops them. I don't know what they're saying, but it's clear she doesn't want them following her inside. How the fuck does she think she's getting all the way up those stairs without help?
I remain seated, the engine idling like an impatient heartbeat. I should be out there. It's me her parents are trying to legally tie her to. She couldn't argue against me going inside. But, I don't move.
The memory of the dinners at her home flash in my mind—the way her mother's eyes had watched, the tiny bits of food Princess had been served. The subtle, yet sharp comments, the way her fork pushed around more food than she put in her mouth. Then there's that damn scale, perched like a gargoyle on its pedestal in her closet.
I shake my head, disgusted with myself. With every push, every boundary I nudged Princess past, I never stopped to consider what I was really asking of her. Never once did I truly think about the consequences that lay beyond my own selfish desires.
I wanted to feed her. She needed to eat, anyone could see that. But I never once stopped to think about why she hadn't been eating.
As the front door closes behind her, cutting off my view, the anger surges like a tidal wave. It's a burning, acidic feeling in my gut, eating away at any sense of calm I had left. I'm mad at everything—at her, at the universe for dealing Princess such a crap hand, at her parents for being the monsters they are, and at myself for not seeing it sooner.
"Damn it," I hiss, slamming a fist against the steering wheel. I knew that the Winthrops were not good people. It's what had started this. I knew Princess was hiding things. But I wanted... what? To believe the worst in her? That whatever she was hiding would benefit me?
How could I have been so blind? Me. I see all—or at least more than anyone thinks I do. I read between the lines, pick up the subtleties. It's what makes me so damn good at what I do. I never saw her.
How could I have let my want—my need—to stick it to the Winthrops cloud my judgment so completely? Princess deserves better. She deserves someone who thinks of her first, not as an afterthought, or as some pawn in whatever game is being played.
I'll do better. I have to. Because whether I deserve her or not, I know one thing for sure: I'm not giving up on her. Not now, not ever.
Once Chess and Dre return, I don’t waste a second before speeding away from the opulence that hides Princess’s misery.
The city lights streak past as I push the car faster than I should, the anger and frustration needing an outlet. Every fiber of my being wants her, craves her presence beside me, even though I hate myself for it. I don't deserve her.
"Saint, slow down, man," Chess says from the back, his voice cutting through the roar of the road.
"Can't," I grind out the word, the admission bitter on my tongue. "I can't just sit back and do nothing."
"Nobody's saying that," Dre interjects, his tone attempting to be the calm in my storm. "But you tearing down the highway isn't gonna help Snowflake."
He's right, damn him. I ease off the gas, the car's speed dropping as the fury simmers down to a low burn. Guilt gnaws at me, thinking of Princess's haunted expression as she stepped out of the car.
When we pull into my driveway, I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, lost. I climb out of the car without a word, leaving Dre and Chess exchanging uneasy glances behind me.
My feet carry me inside, each step heavy with the weight of her absence.
The door to Mason's office doesn't stand a chance against the force of my entrance, swinging open with a crash that likely mirrors the chaos in my chest. I stride in, Dre and Chess not too far behind.
"Mason, we need to talk. Now." My words are clipped, a sharp edge to every syllable.
He looks up from his paperwork, weary lines etched around his eyes. "Rhett, this isn't the time—"
"It is," I interrupt, not caring for the right time or place. “It is the time. They're fucking killing her."
This gets his attention. Mason is a sucker for a sob story. But, he's also smart. He didn't build a multimillion dollar security company from scratch by making hasty decisions.
"Who?"
"Princ—Adelaide Winthrop. We can't just sit around while she's suffering."
Mason leans back in his chair, the creak of leather filling the silence. "You believe she's suffering."
"I know she is," my voice cracks under the pressure. I want to rage. I want to pace. But, the fight drains out of me as I drop into one of the overstuffed chairs opposite Mason's desk.
"I've seen how they are with her at dinner. And I see a troubled young woman, but you think it's more than just strict parenting?"
"Strict?" I snort, incredulous. "They're starving her, Mason. This goes beyond strict."
"Adelaide is a young woman of a certain ilk, and not one born into it. It is possible that she is the reason for the strict diet, Rhett. You can't jump to conclusions."
Dre steps forward, his voice hard as stone. "You should see her, Mason. She couldn't even walk today she was so weak. I can count the spaces between her ribs. She won't tell us anything, won't let us in that house without a formal invite."
Chess adds his piece, his usual light demeanor nowhere to be found. "I caught her sneaking a granola bar. That was all I'd seen her eat, besides green juice, for two damn days."
Mason's gaze sharpens, the gravity of our words sinking in. "Are you certain? Sometimes young women have problems—"
"Problems?" I cut him off, feeling the anger bubble inside me again. "She's been eating when she's with us. I feed her. Breakfast and lunch every school day. She eats. She's been getting better. This isn't some problem she has; it's one they're giving her."
"Starving," Dre emphasizes, as if the word alone could convey the urgency. "They are starving her."
"Okay." Mason holds up a hand, signaling for calm. "I'm not sure what you think I can do, but if what you're saying is true..."
"It is," Chess says firmly. "We wouldn't lie about this. We wouldn't just jump to this conclusion."
"Alright." Mason nods, a new resolve in his posture. "I'll make some calls. We'll find a way to help Adelaide."
"No. I want her."
"Rhett, you can't possible expect me to—"
"You already have, haven't you? You started the discussion with her father. A trade, right? Like she's livestock we can bid on. So bid on her."
"That would involve entering into a business relationship with William Winthrop. That man is..."
"It gives you an in, doesn't it? Use it to take the bastard down. I'm already eighteen. She will be in a few months. Make her my wife."
Mason leans back in his leather chair, rubbing the tips of his fingers against the bridge of his nose. I can feel his gaze on me, analyzing my every move. His narrowed eyes and furrowed brow give away his skepticism, his doubt of my words.
But this is no joke—I have never been more serious in my life.
Finally, he sighs, running his hands through his hair. "Okay, I'll see what I can do. Negotiating with the Winthrops will be delicate."
"Thank you." The tension drains from my shoulders. Maybe there's hope yet. For Princess. For us. But mostly for her, because no matter what, Princess deserves to be treated like a queen.