It's a blueprint for control.
And the worst part? I handed it to him. Like I handed it to Daniel.
The realization crushes me. My breath turns shallow. My stomach churns.
Above me, his footsteps move across the loft floor.
I go still. Then I move.
I reach for the stereo, not for inspiration or creativity, but for noise. For anger. For armor. I crank the volume until the bass rattles the rafters. The sound is industrial and merciless. Nothing pretty. Nothing soft.
A warning.
Not to him.
To me.
To the part of me that still wants to believe in fairy tale fixes and hand-over-hand drone lessons. The part that doesn't want to admit I've been here before. That I fell for a polished man who made me feel seen, until I realized his gaze isn't tender. It's tactical.
The music screams louder than my heartbreak. I let it.
Because this time, I'm not going to lose myself to someone else's version of me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MASON
I'm mid-sentence, restructuring our pitch for the redevelopment deal with Henry, when it hits.
A wall of sound explodes from below, raw, distorted, and relentless. It tears through the floorboards and reverberates through the rafters. Not music. Not even close. This is rage turned all the way up, fury unleashed and unfiltered.
I step to the railing.
Maddy stands at the sound system. Her back is rigid. Shoulders squared. No glitter at her feet. No steaming mug in her hands. No hint of the whimsical energy that so often surrounds her like a cloud of cinnamon and silk.
She doesn't move to the music. Doesn't sway. Doesn't smile.
She's braced, like she's holding back an avalanche.
I descend, each step careful, deliberate. Like I'm approaching a storm that might tear me apart if I move too fast.
"Maddy," I call softly, halfway down.
She flinches. Then turns.
And the sight of her unravels me.
Tear-streaked cheeks. Mascara smudged like bruised ink. Eyes that once sparked with mischief and color now dulled, glassy, hollow. Like someone switched off the light and walked away with the switch.
"What's wrong?" I call, pushing my voice through the roar.
She laughs, sharp and splintered. "Everything!" she shouts. "Everything's wrong!"
The music keeps pounding, distorted guitar and drums like gunfire.
"Turn it off!" I shout again.
Her head snaps toward me, eyes wild and wide. "Turn it off?" she screams. "So I can hear her voice again, telling me what you are?"
