76. Addy
Chapter seventy-six
Addy
I blink away the remnants of sleep, the first rays of morning light filtering through the curtains and casting a warm glow over the room. Saint's chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, his arm draped protectively around my waist. I nestle closer to him, memorizing the feeling of his skin against mine, the reassuring solidity of his presence.
Chess and Dre had wanted some time to themselves last night, so it was just the two of us in here this morning.
"Saint," I whisper, my voice still thick with slumber.
He stirs, his dark curls a tousled contrast against the white pillowcase. His eyes, those deep wells of unspoken thoughts, open and fix on me. There's a question in them.
"Good morning," he murmurs, his voice low and slightly hoarse.
"Morning," I reply, tracing the outline of his tattoo with my fingertip. "It's been two days."
"Two days since what?" A playful note laces his words, but I can tell he knows exactly what I mean.
"Since we stood in front of everyone we care about and promised ourselves to each other." The memory brings a smile to my face. "Since I became yours."
"Princess," he says, his tone suddenly serious. He brushes a lock of blonde hair from my face. "You've always been mine. In every way that counts."
My heart swells at his words, at the promise they carry. "I can't wait to legally be Adelaide Saint," I confess, the thought sparking a joy that's tinged with the edge of reality. The Winthrops... They're still out there, a dark cloud on our horizon. The ink on my marriage certificate is barely dry and I’m worrying about my adoptive family.
I trace the lines on Saint's chest, the rise and fall of his breathing a soothing rhythm against the chaos of my thoughts.
"We'll make it happen," Saint vows, his protective nature rising like a shield around us. "Once all the paperwork is submitted, we’ll get your name legally changed, Princess. I promise."
"I love you," he mumbles, his voice still thick with sleep. His arm tightens around me as he pulls me back into his chest and presses a soft kiss against the back of my neck.
But the peace is fleeting.
Before we can sink further into the comfort of the morning, Mason's voice crackles through the intercom system, sharp and urgent. "I need everyone in my office. Now."
We exchange a glance, wordlessly communicating a thousand thoughts in a single look. Tension coils in my stomach as we untangle from the sheets and find our footing. We don't bother with pretense; whatever Mason has to say, it won't be good.
His office is all dark wood and leather. It’s masculine, but comforting. Chess and Dre beat us there and stand waiting. I take one of the leather chairs. Mason stands behind his desk, his expression grim as he meets our gaze.
He waits until we're all settled—Saint, Dre, Chess, and me—before he drops the bombshell.
"The charges against William and Cheryl aren't going to stick," he announces without preamble.
I feel nothing. Not shock. Not outrage. Just a hollow sense of inevitability. They always wriggle their way out, don't they? This is why I never run in the first place.
"Of course, they aren't," I respond, my voice flat, resigned. Inside, I'm steeling myself for the next battle. Because there will be a next one. There's always a next one when it comes to the Winthrops.
Saint's hand finds mine, squeezing it tight as if to remind me we're in this together. And I squeeze back because that connection, that unbreakable bond, is what will see us through the storm ahead.
“How?” Dre's fist slams against the wall, a crack in plaster echoing the turmoil in his ice-blue eyes. I flinch. Mason's news has lit a fire inside him, and his anger radiates through the room like a storm about to break.
Mason sighs, running a hand through his hair. "They've got resources. Good lawyers. And a lot of connections. They're slippery fish, and they're wriggling through the net as we speak."
"Then we find a better net," Chess demands quietly. “They cannot get away with this. After everything they’ve done to her? No. Fuck that.”
Dre is pacing, his breaths sawing in and out in ragged puffs. "This is bullshit!" he explodes, his ice blue eyes blazing with fury. I can see him looking for something, anything to destroy to help ease the tension building in him. I’m worried he’ll take off and try to handle this on his own.
"Easy, Dre," I say softly, reaching for him. He's all sharp edges and electric energy, but I know how to soften the jagged lines of his rage. “Getting angry isn’t going to fix this.”
He fights me, shaking off my hands at first, but when he looks at me and sees how much I need his calm, he gives in. I guide him to the leather chair that looks far too imposing for any sort of comfort. But right now, it's not about the chair; it's about grounding him.
He sits, a taut line from clenched jaw to coiled legs, every muscle ready to spring. I crawl into his lap, the familiar warmth of his body seeping into mine, grounding me as much as I hope to ground him. Running my nails gently across his scalp, I watch the tension begin to ebb away from his features, his eyes closing with a sigh as he leans into my touch. "We'll figure this out," I murmur, believing it with every fiber of my being.
Mason clears his throat, drawing our attention back to him. "They're not going to win this time," he says, the promise fierce in his voice. He has always been the immovable object to every unstoppable force they've faced and I know I can trust him with this. "You're legally Saint's wife, Addy. The Winthrops can't touch you anymore."
I nod, feeling the weight of his words. Legally Saint's, beyond their reach at last. Yet, there's still so much more at stake than just a paper claiming my freedom.
Saint turns to look at me, his dark curly hair shadowing intense eyes that miss nothing. He sees right through my composed exterior to the storm raging inside. I've been bracing for this moment, ever since we started down this path. There's a reason I never came forward with what I know, a reason why I kept my trump card hidden close to my chest. It was naive to think I could leave it behind, unplayed, that we would somehow outmaneuver the Winthrops without it.
"Addy, talk to us." Saint's voice is a command, soft but undeniably insistent.
I had really hoped it wouldn't come to this.
"They need to pay for everything they've done, not just to me, but to everyone they've hurt." My voice doesn't waver; it's lined with steel, a testament to the strength I've had to forge in fire.
Mason's jaw sets, and I see the same resolve that has always made him an adversary no one wishes upon themselves. "And they will. You have my word."
His word is a vow, a sacred oath spoken within these walls that have seen us through our darkest times. We're not just a family by blood or name; we're bound by the battles we've fought together, and this is one we won't concede.
I feel Dre's arm tighten around me. Chess’ hand finds the back of my neck as Saint leans over and presses his forehead to my temple. His voice is a low rumble, vibrating through his chest and into my ear, grounding me. "It's going to be over soon, Princess."
"Over?" The word tastes like a fantasy, too sweet to be real.
"Completely," he insists. His dark eyes lock onto mine, a solemn vow reflected in their depths. "And when it is, we're taking a long honeymoon. Just us, away from all... this." His gesture encompasses the room, the house—our complicated lives.
"Sounds perfect," I breathe out, allowing myself a moment to bask in the image of turquoise waters and unbroken horizons with Saint, Dre, and Chess, my chosen family.
"Perfect doesn't even begin to cover it," Saint replies, pressing a kiss to my forehead before turning towards Mason, who's just re-entered the room with a stack of documents that seems to never end.
Mason sets them down on the nearest surface with a sigh, the papers cascading across the table like a waterfall of potential clues. "We've gathered as much information as we can. Presented any evidence we found, but..." He trails off, frowning at the mountain of paper as if it personally offended him. "We might be missing something. Can you look through it, see if anything stands out?"
I nod, unsure I'll be much help.
There’s too much to shuffle through here, so I grab the stack and head toward the war room.
It’s chilly, a stark contrast to the warmth of Dre's arms I left behind. Mason flicks on the overhead lights, and they hum to life, casting a clinical glow over the conference table at the back that's soon littered with papers.
I start sifting through the papers, each one a story, a secret, a potential key to our freedom. Financial statements, legal briefs, email correspondences—they slip through my fingers one by one. Most of it makes little sense to me. I was so far removed from the Winthrop’s business, I’m not sure I’ll be able to offer anything of value. But, there's something here, hidden in the ink and paper, and I'm determined to unearth it.
"Anything?" Saint asks after a while, his presence a solid warmth at my back.
"Still looking," I mutter. My gut tells me there's a thread here we haven't pulled yet, something crucial that's evading our grasp. I've been under the Winthrops' thumbs for so long, but no more. The thought of unraveling their empire of lies and cruelty fills me with a fierce determination.
"Take your time," Mason encourages. "We'll get to the bottom of this, Addy. Together."
My eyes scan the text, numbers, and signatures, but it's like chasing shadows—until one entry stops me cold.
"Primal Meats," I read aloud, the words leaving my tongue with an acidic taste. The memory surges forward unbidden: Wesley, with his sneer and cruel jibe about me being a prime cut of beef. Then William, his voice oily with satisfaction, saying the deal was done and he wanted his cut. Disgust crawls along my spine. "I don’t… I don’t think this is actually a meat company."
Mason leans in, his expression darkening as he peruses the transaction details. "If you think this is it," he presses, his tone low.
I tap the paper, feeling a chill despite the closeness of the room. "It... might be nothing, but Wesley and William... they said things. And none of it felt like it was really about meat.”
"Like what?" Chess's voice is a low growl, protective instinct lacing every syllable.
"Comments, offhand remarks that didn't add up unless... unless there's more to this company than what's on the surface." I can't help the shudder that courses through me. "It's not just a meat company; I'm sure of it."
"We'll dig into this. If there's dirt to be found, we'll find it."
I nod, feeling the leaden weight of dread in my stomach. But it's not enough; I know it like I know the scars I've hidden under layers of clothing and smiles. There's a tempest within me, secrets colliding, ready to spill over.
But, nothing is resolved. Not really.
Their search might turn up nothing. Or, it might take too long to find what we need. The room feels like it's closing in on us as the weight of our situation bears down. My fingertips are numb, my heart is a drumbeat in my chest, and there's a sense of urgency that I can't shake.
"Listen," I start, hesitating only for a heartbeat before the resolve hardens within me. "There's... something else. Evidence.”
The trio of eyes snap to me, each reflecting a cocktail of concern and wariness.
"Look," I start, swallowing hard against the knot in my throat. "I always knew this might happen. That's why I prepared for it."
"Prepared how?" Chess stops pacing and stares at me, hazel eyes sharp.
"I have something." My words float between us, heavy with implications. "Something they can't wriggle out of. But I hoped..." I trail off, the weight of my secret pressing down on me. "It's back at the house."
Saint straightens up, the lines of his face hardening. "Princess, no," he says, the words sliced thin with anxiety.
"Absolutely not," Dre seconds, his ice-blue eyes flaring with a protective fire.
Chess just shakes his head, his dark hair falling into his troubled gaze. "We can find another way."
But I'm resolute, fueled by a fire they don't fully understand. "You don't get it," I insist, my own resolve pushing back against their fears. "I've documented everything. All the things they did, all the secrets they thought they could bury, every dirty, disgusting thing they did to me. It's all there, in the house. It can put them away—for good."
"Then let's send someone else," Saint argues, but I know it's futile. He knows it too; it's written in the clench of his jaw, the tension in his arms. “You know—”
"I know," I cut him off, meeting his gaze squarely. "But I have to be the one to get it. Someone else might never find it, even if they knew what they were looking for."
Silence hangs between us, heavy and expectant. I can see the calculations behind Mason's eyes, the risk assessment, the protective instinct clashing with pragmatism. But he nods once, sharply, decision made.
Dre steps forward, the plea evident in every line of his body. "Please, Snowflake. There has to be another way. We can't lose you to that place again."
"Listen to me." My eyes lock with his, and then I turn to include Saint and Chess in my fierce gaze. "I survived that house once, and I'll do it again. But this time, I come back with the key to their downfall."
Saint's jaw clenches, a silent sentinel of worry. Dre's eyes narrow; he understands the necessity, but the protective fury is palpable. Mason runs a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying his frustration.
"Absolutely not, Snowflake," Dre growls, the words vibrating with a barely contained storm. “Do you even remember what I walked in on? What state you were in when we got you out of there?”
"It’s not ideal, but it is necessary," I counter, my own determination matching his. "I'll be in and out before they even know what's happening."
We lock eyes, two wills colliding and sparking in the tense air between us. Finally, with a curt nod, Saint concedes, "Fine. But we're going with you."
And just like that, the pieces are set in motion. We have a plan, shaky as it may be. But it's a chance, a sliver of hope—and that's all I need.
We’re dressed and in the car within thirty minutes. The car ride over is thick with unsaid promises of retribution should anything go awry. We pull up to the Winthrop estate, its grandeur now nothing more than a hollow facade to me.
The key slides into the lock with a satisfying click, and I push the heavy door open. My heart is a war drum in my chest as we step into the cavernous foyer of the Winthrop estate, a house that's more mausoleum than home. Saint's hand is a warm pressure at the small of my back, Dre's eyes scanning every shadow like a hawk, and Chess's jaw is set, his usual humor gone.
Mason is there with us too. He said he had a plan. So, here we are.
As we step inside, the hostility hits us like a wave. Cheryl stands, her arms crossed, a sneer painting her features grotesque. William's face is livid, the vein on his forehead a testament to his fury.
"Adelaide," Cheryl coos, her voice like ice cracking. "You've decided to grace us with your presence."
I spare her no words, moving toward the stairs. That's when she surges forward, her manicured fingers clawing for my arm. But I'm faster; I've learned to be quick, to predict their movements. My fist connects with her face, and she stumbles back, shock etched into her features.
"Touch me again," I spit out, "and it'll be the last thing you do."
"Adelaide, you ungrateful brat," William spits. "Come home this instant or—"
"Or what?" I cut him off, my voice a blade of ice. "You'll call the cops? Go ahead. We've done nothing wrong."
"Twenty-four hours," Cheryl chimes in, her voice dripping venom. "That's how long you have before we take action."
“Don’t think we’ll be lenient either. They’re harboring a runaway minor, Adelaide. That’s a crime.”
"Let's go, wife," Saint intervenes, his voice thunderous in the quiet room. The title hangs in the air, a pronouncement, a challenge. And it works. The Winthrops fall silent, their expressions morphing from anger to astonishment.
I release Cheryl's wrist, brushing past her with a newfound strength. Saint is by my side in an instant, his presence a protective barrier against the toxicity of my former guardians. As we make our way through the house, every step feels like shedding another layer of their hold on me.
"Quickly," I whisper, leading them toward the hidden trove of truths that could finally sever the ties that bind.
The door creaks open, an all-too-familiar sound that sends a ripple of unease through me. Saint’s hand is a vice around mine, grounding, while Chess's touch is a gentle reminder of the here and now. I step into the room, their fingers intertwined with mine—my lifelines in this place that is full of ghosts.
I’m not even surprised by the scene before me. Drawers hang limp like broken wings, their contents vomited out onto the hardwood floor. Pictures and porcelain dolls, torn from their perches, gaze up at me with glassy eyes full of betrayal. I step over a sea of clothes and shattered picture frames, each one a crack in the facade of a happy childhood that never was.
"God, what have they done?" Chess mutters, his voice low and dangerous.
"Looking for anything to use against us," Saint's growl vibrates through the room, his arm brushing mine in silent solidarity.
"Or maybe just to hurt me more," I murmur, my fingers skimming a shredded shirt. The memories are thick here, suffocating, but there's no time for them now.
"Focus, Princess. What are we looking for?" Saint's voice is a tether pulling me back to the task at hand.
"Something they'd never think was important." I let go of their hands, moving toward the shelves that once held my most prized possessions. The twin voids left by Saint and Chess's absence are instantly filled by determination. I start sifting through the knickknacks, each one a piece of a life I'm so ready to leave behind.
"Did they break much?" Chess asks, hovering close, his tone laced with barely suppressed anger.
"Doesn't look like it." I can't help but scoff at the small mercy. "They were too busy playing detective to play vandal."
Then, there it is. Among the scattered remnants of my past, the clock stands unassumingly, untouched by their grubby, desperate hands. I reach for it, my fingers tracing the familiar intricate carvings on its wooden surface.
"Got it," I announce, a surge of triumph cutting through the heaviness in my chest. "This is it."
"Are you sure?" Chess peers over my shoulder, his brow furrowed.
"Positive." Clutching the clock like a talisman, I turn to face them, allowing myself a moment to acknowledge the victory, however small. “Because that seems like something you could have just told us about, not something you had to retrieve yourself.”
"Alright, let's not waste any more time here," Saint says decisively, casting a wary glance towards the doorway as if expecting an unwelcome interruption at any moment.
"Sorry," I reply, tucking the clock under my arm. "There's one more piece."
I head into the closet and reach behind the pedastal’s mirrors, pulling out boxes. Finally, I find what I’m looking for. An old shoebox, faded with time. I brush aside the dust, a symbolic gesture more than anything else. Inside, buried beneath layers of forgotten trinkets, I find them—the boots. My fingers curl inside one, feeling for the hidden treasure.
"Here," I whisper, withdrawing a small, unassuming external hard drive. It's cold to the touch, yet it burns with the power of retribution.
"Got it?" Chess's eyes reflect the gravity of the situation.
"Got it," I confirm, clutching the hard drive tightly.
We've barely taken another step when Wesley blocks the doorway, his posture rigid with rage. "This is all your fault!" he seethes, pointing an accusatory finger that quivers with unchecked anger.
"Easy, Wes," Dre warns as he comes up behind my adoptive brother, his voice as cold as the steel in his gaze. "You don't want to do this."
Wesley scoffs, but the sound is hollow. "I've been kicked out of school because of you freaks. And my father..." He chokes on the words, his veneer of superiority cracking. "He had to buy my future back."
"Should've thought about that before you tried to hurt Addy," Saint says, stepping forward, a dark avenger in the dim light of my ruined room.
Chess's hand finds the small of my back, a gesture that grounds me. "We don’t have to be your enemy, Wesley. But keep pushing, and we'll show you what we can really do."
"Watch your back, Adelaide," Wesley spits, his threat hanging between us like a guillotine blade. "The deal was already done. You’re not safe, not anywhere."
"Neither are you if you don't get out of the way," Dre's warning is a silken menace. I know he means every word.
"Come on," I say, sidestepping the wreckage of my past, pulling strength from the three who stand with me. "We have what we came for."
With a final glare that promises retribution, Wesley steps aside, and we pass him, leaving behind the chaos of a life I'm ready to forget. I'm Adelaide Saint now, and nothing else matters.
"Let's get this over with," I murmur, more to myself than the boys flanking me. Saint nods, his jaw set with determination, while Dre and Chess exchange grim looks.
Mason stands by the black SUV, his presence solid and comforting. His eyes meet mine, and there's a silent exchange of understanding. He's been a constant in the chaos, a pillar of strength when everything else seemed to crumble.
I approach him, the small SD card feeling like the weight of the world in my palm. I hold out the harddrive and show him the SD card. “Mason,” I start, my voice wavering slightly, “This is everything. All of it. But… I need a favor.”
“Anything, Addy.”
“I need you to be the one to watch this. Please. No one else. The boys, they don't need to see what's on here unless it's absolutely necessary."
He nods, his face etched with solemnity. “Of course, Addy,” he replies, taking the card and tucking it safely into his inner jacket pocket.
"It's...bad Mason. I'd rather it be you, please, and not one of your employees."
“I’ll handle it personally.”
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, the tension seeping from my shoulders. With Mason on it, I feel a flicker of hope that justice might finally be served.
??????
The stillness of the night wraps around me like a shroud as I tiptoe down the grand staircase, seeking the solace of a cold glass of water. The house is quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood that speaks of its age and the stories it holds.
The light spilling from the half-open door of Mason’s office catches my eye, and curiosity nudges me closer. I peek inside, finding him sitting there, a solitary figure with a glass of whiskey cradled in his hand. His gaze is distant, lost in thoughts that seem to weigh heavily on him.
"Hey," I whisper, not wanting to startle him. "Is everything okay?"
Mason looks up, and there's a weariness in his eyes that makes my chest tighten. "It's done, Addy." His voice is rough, like gravel and heartache. "They won't be able to wriggle out of it this time."
A surge of emotions wells up within me—relief, gratitude, sorrow—and suddenly, I'm crossing the room, wrapping my arms around him in a fierce embrace. He returns the hug just as tightly, and we stand there, two people bound by a shared battle against demons of the past.
“They’re… they’re fucking monsters. I am so sorry. So sorry you had to go through this, Adelaide. I promise you that no matter what happens, you will always have my protection. You will never, never—” his voice breaks with barely restrained emotion, “—have to suffer again.
We cry together, the kind of tears that cleanse and heal, the kind that mark the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. It's a moment of release, of letting go of the anguish that has haunted us both.
"I couldn't have done this without you," I manage to say between sobs.
"Always, Addy," Mason replies, his voice steady even as his own tears soak into my hair. "Always.”