59. Addy
Chapter fifty-nine
Addy
T he curtain swings shut, Saint's dark silhouette disappearing beyond it, and I'm left with the echo of his promise. A reward. The words hang in the air, mingling with the scent of cologne and new fabric, wrapping around me like a tangible shiver.
"Addy, look what I've snagged!" Gen bursts into the room, arms laden with colors and patterns that spill from her embrace onto the small bench. My mind still swims in the undercurrent of Saint's voice, but I force my attention to the here and now.
"Wow, you've been busy," I manage, my voice steadier than the pounding of my heart.
"Busy is an understatement." Gen plunks down the armful of clothes and grins at me. She surveys her work, hands on hips, a general assessing her troops. "This is just the beginning."
I can't help but smile back at her enthusiasm. "A good start, huh?"
"Definitely," she says, eyes twinkling as she starts sorting through the mound. "Come on, let's dive in."
"Alright." I step forward, tugging at a soft sweater. It's cozy, uncomplicated—like the safety I've yearned for. Each piece we try on is like stepping further away from the shadows of my past.
"Let’s find you something that feels like you," Gen says, nodding approvingly as she hands me another outfit, a silent promise to help me navigate this sea of silk and cotton.
"Thanks, Gen," I say, a warmth blooming in my chest that has nothing to do with the layers of clothing. Decisions have always been made for me, but here, with Gen, I get a say. And that means everything.
I slip into another outfit, the fabric soft against my skin, and turn to face Gen. Her gaze sweeps over me, a critical eye that somehow doesn't feel judgmental. She tilts her head to one side, her lips pursed as she considers the fit and flow.
"Do you like it?" she asks, breaking the silence with her directness.
"I do," I admit, tugging gently at the hem of the shirt. "I'm not sure I'm much help with how it looks though. I've never been allowed to choose things for comfort and that seems to be all I can focus on. But I still want to look... good."
"Addy, you could make a burlap sack look like haute couture," Gen laughs, but nods in understanding. "We'll find the perfect balance for you. Let's keep looking."
As we continue the search, I start to enjoy it—the brush of different textures, the way colors can alter the mood of an ensemble. It's like discovering a part of myself that got lost or maybe was never found in the first place.
"Okay, brace yourself," Gen says with a mischievous glint in her eye, handing me a hanger with a red dress draped on it. Chess's choice. With the leather jacket Dre chose folded on top and Saint's suggested ankle booties on the floor, it's a combination that screams bold and daring—so unlike me, yet strangely appealing.
"Here goes nothing," I mutter and change behind the curtain.
The dress clings and releases in all the right places, the jacket adds a layer of rebellious sophistication, and the booties... they're just the cherry on top. I step out, almost shyly, to present myself to the boys.
"Damn, Snowflake," Dre breathes out, his eyes wide. The tattoos on his arms seem to dance with approval.
"Whoa..." Chess trails off, his usual playful demeanor silenced by appreciation.
"Fuck," Saint breathes.
Their reactions send a surge of unexpected confidence through me. I twirl slowly, letting them soak in the view, and I can't help the smile that blossoms on my lips. For a moment, all the harshness of life fades away, and I'm just a girl in a dress, making the boys lose their minds.
I try on eleventy-seven more options, show the boys a couple more outfits, and am finally making progress.
The mountain of fabric on the 'yes' side of the dressing room looks insurmountable. Each piece whispers a story of newfound confidence and comfort—soft sweaters, flowing skirts, and those jeans that fit like they were tailored just for me. Gen beams at the collection, but my stomach knots when I see the cashier tally up the numbers.
"Wow, Addy, you're going to need a whole new closet for these," Gen chuckles, nudging my arm with her elbow.
I gulp, watching as Saint steps forward, his dark curls bouncing across his forehead. His presence commands the space as he hands over his credit card. The total flashes again, and I feel a pang of guilt gnawing at my insides.
"Saint, I can't let you do this," I whisper, my voice almost lost amidst the bustle of shoppers.
He turns to me, locking eyes with an intensity that halts the world for a moment. "Princess," he says firmly, yet there's a tenderness in his gaze that belies his steely exterior, "I promised you a reward, didn't I?"
Before I can protest, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to my lips, sending warmth cascading through me. It's an oasis of sweetness from a boy who's known too much bitterness.
"Get used to it," he murmurs against my mouth, his breath a ghost of mint and something darker, something like promise. "I'm going to spoil you rotten."
My cheeks flame with heat, not just from the kiss but from the idea of being someone worth spoiling. I nod, mute, unable to argue with him when he's looking at me like that—like I’m something precious.
"Come on," Saint says as he takes my hand, leading me out of the shop, "there's more to see."
We drift through a few more stores, each one a blur of colors and textures. Dre points out a pair of boots with buckles that jingle like a whispered challenge with every step I take. Chess finds a hat, a wide-brimmed thing that makes me feel like a character in a storybook, mysterious and unknown.
"Looking good, Addy," Chess grins as I model the hat, spinning around to show off its flair.
"Definitely a keeper," Dre agrees with a nod.
But as we continue, my legs begin to protest, and a heaviness settles into my bones. I lean slightly on Saint, and he steadies me without a word, his arm a band of iron wrapped in velvet.
"Maybe just one last place?" Gen suggests, eyeing a boutique with a twinkle in her eye.
"Sure," I breathe out, determination pushing me forward. After all, this is more than shopping—it's a reclaiming of self, a patchwork of pieces that together create the girl I'm meant to be. And maybe, just maybe, with each step I'm a little less the girl who can't trust, and a little more the one who dares to hope for something better.
??????
The grandeur of the Whitmore house never ceases to startle me. It's not the old world elegance of the Winthrop estate, but that's what I like about it. It feels like a home, despite the size.
We trudge up the stairs, a caravan of laden shoppers, bags rustling like autumn leaves with each step. Saint leads the way, his back a landscape of strength beneath his shirt, his curls catching light from the chandelier above.
"Here," he says, pushing open a door to reveal an empty bedroom awash in the late afternoon sun. "This is yours."
"Mine?" My voice is a ghost in the bright space.
"Your room for your stuff," Saint clarifies. He sets the bags on the bed, a mountain range of fabric and possibilities.
My heart thrums a rapid beat at the thought of my own space here, among them. "My room?"
"Yours." His gaze holds mine, a silent promise and a boundary all at once. “I know you think you can't yet, but you can stay here whenever you want, Princess. And, your outfits can stay here indefinitely so they're safe. I don't trust your parents to leave it all alone. But you can pair outfits together, and whoever is staying the night with you can bring a couple options along.”
I nod, the weight of my almost-freedom settling into my bones.
"It's a blank slate, Addy." Gen's voice breaks through my thoughts as she starts unpacking the bags, laying out my treasures like artifacts from a newfound land. "You get to pick out the paint color and the linens, too. This is your room."
I bite my lip and try to ignore the burning at the back of my eyes. Instead, I turn my attention back to the massive amount of clothing we have to put away.
"Got some good stuff," Chess comments, his eyes dancing with approval as he holds up a blouse against me, imagining the fit.
"Definitely going to turn heads," Dre adds, pressing against my back and nipping at my shoulder.
As I watch them move around the room, I'm struck by a wave of gratitude so strong it threatens to knock me over. They're building a fortress of normalcy around me, brick by brick.
"I see you got quite the haul." The deep timbre of Mason's voice pulls my attention and I find him leaning casually against the doorframe. His presence is a solid thing, grounding yet unobtrusive.
"We totally did," Gen answers, her hands on her hips as she surveys the work they've done.
"It's...a lot," I manage to say, even though words feel inadequate to express the tumult inside me.
"Good," Mason nods, his eyes meeting mine for a moment. There's an unspoken understanding there, a recognition of the storms I've weathered and the sanctuary they offer now.
"Addy, can we talk?" Mason's voice is low, just a touch above the hum of conversation from the others. I glance up at him, his figure a solid mass against the light spilling in from the hallway. There's a gravity to his request that anchors me on the spot for a beat too long.
"Sure," I manage to say, my voice steadier than I feel. My heart hammers against my ribcage as I follow him down the stairs.
With each step toward Mason's office, the familiar weight of apprehension settles over me. Men like him—powerful, commanding—have only ever meant one thing in my life: pain. But Saint trusts him, and I'm trying to trust Saint.
We move through the corridors of the Whitmore house, the walls lined with photos and achievements, each one a testament to the kind of life I've never known. Then, we pass by some of Mason's employees. They're clad in tactical gear, looking like they belong on the set of an action movie rather than in this grandiose home.
"Hey," one of them greets, a friendly smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
"Good afternoon," another says, nodding in my direction.
"This is Addy," Mason introduces me like I'm someone worth knowing, not just the girl who's been tossed from one bad situation to another. "You'll be seeing her around more often."
"Hi," I reply, my voice small but genuine. Their smiles are a comfort, a soft glow in the shadow of my fears.
Mason leads me into his office, the room exuding the same quiet strength as him. The fact that he leaves the door wide open washes a wave of relief over me. The gesture feels like a promise—that he's different, that I might be safe here.
"Take a seat, please," he gestures to the chair across his desk, and I do, crossing my ankles and folding my hands in my lap, attempting to appear composed.
"Thank you for... everything," I start, not wanting the silence to stretch too long.
"Of course," Mason responds, settling into his chair with a grace that contradicts his size. "It's the least we could do. You're part of this family now, Addy." His voice carries an earnestness that nudges at the walls I've built around myself.
"Family," I echo, the word foreign yet warming on my tongue.
"Anything you need, you just let us know," he continues, and I can't help but think how this man—this stranger—is offering me more kindness than I've ever known. It's enough to make hope flicker in a heart that's known too much darkness.
Mason reaches into a drawer, his movements methodical, and slides a debit card across the polished mahogany desk toward me. It’s sleek, a piece of plastic that feels like freedom under my fingertips.
"Saint wanted you to have this," he says, watching me carefully. "There's an account set up for you with a monthly allowance. No strings attached. You're in full control."
I trace the embossed numbers on the card, confusion knotting my brow. "But why? I don't understand."
"Because it's important to him—important to all of us—that you have your own resources." He leans back, locking his hands behind his head, a gesture that somehow doesn't seem intimidating despite his imposing presence. "You're not beholden to anyone here, Addy."
"Thank you," I whisper, still grappling with the concept of such unconditional support. The weight of gratitude presses against my chest, making it tight.
"Of course." Mason unfolds his arms and straightens, then opens a folder that's been lying on his desk. "Now, about the betrothal. Your father had some... ideas about what should be included in the contract."
"Stipulations?" I ask, a chill running down my spine at the thought of what my father might want.
"Nothing that will stand now," Mason assures me, his voice firm like a hand laid over mine in silent solidarity. "I've made sure the contract protects you. Your safety, your comfort—it's paramount to us."
"Safety," I repeat, tasting the word. It's new, unfamiliar, yet desperately coveted.
"Here, with us, you'll always be safe," Mason confirms with a nod. "The boys—they're quite protective of you. We all are. We can't erase the past, but we can offer you a haven for the future."
"Protective..." I let the word linger between us, a fragile bridge I'm tentatively considering crossing. I feel like a parrot repeating what he's telling me. "That means a lot."
"Good." Mason smiles faintly, his eyes holding mine. "We just want you to know that this is your home as much as it is ours. And if there's anything else you need—"
My fingers nervously twist the fabric of my shirt as I sit across from Mason in his office, the door open wide enough to let the light from the hallway spill in. His desk is a barrier between us, yet he leans forward, bridging the gap with his earnest expression.
"I'm stuck until I'm eighteen," I admit, the words tumbling out like prisoners escaping confinement. "I don't know who I can trust. I've never..." My voice trails off, the weight of a lifetime without trust heavy on my tongue.
Mason nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. "I completely understand, Addy." He pauses, then adds, "But I hope that you'll see you can trust me. And just so you know," his voice carries an edge of something determined, "with your parents' permission, you could marry before turning eighteen. I'm working on it."
The thought seizes my breath. Marry. Before eighteen. It's a possibility I hadn't let myself consider, trapped as I've been under the thumb of expectation and parental authority.
"Really?" The word is half-whisper, half-disbelief.
"Really," he confirms, the corners of his mouth lifting in a reassuring smile. "If that's something you want."
Then he shifts the conversation, his tone changing to something more formal. "We're also planning an engagement party," he says, watching for my reaction. "It's... well, it's going to be quite the spectacle. Your father wants to showcase his connection to me."
I feel my eyebrows knit together, a sense of unease creeping in. A showcase for my father—the idea leaves a sour taste.
"But," Mason continues, "Saint wanted it too. He believes it's important. I agreed because of that. Is that okay with you?"
Engagement parties signify celebration, a public declaration of unity. But this feels like stepping into an arena where every eye will judge and scrutinize. Yet, if Saint sees it necessary—if he desires it—can I find the strength to stand beside him in the spotlight?
"Okay," I finally murmur, feeling the word carve out a decision in the stone of my resolve. "If it's important to Saint, then... yes, it's okay with me."
"Thank you, Addy." Mason's approval is warm, comforting. "Your willingness to support this means a lot—to all of us."
His gratitude wraps around me like a security blanket, offering a shred of courage. Maybe, just maybe, I can face the world as long as I'm not standing alone. Maybe they are what I've been waiting for.