Page 15 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

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?"

My pulse jumps.

"Who?"

"Mrs. Patterson."

"What did she say?" I yell.

She doesn't answer. She walks to the sound system, grabs the cord, and yanks it from the wall.

The music dies mid-scream. The silence crashes down, thick, weighty. It presses against the walls and settles deep in my chest.

"She told me about a town," Maddy says, voice hard but shaking. "Silver Creek."

The name strikes hard, hitting me like a steel beam to the gut.

"She told me about the Hadleys. About the glassworks. A family-run business that lasted four generations. Until it didn't. Until it was wiped out because Richard Kingston wanted the land."

I stay frozen, every muscle locked.

"She told me how it happened," she continues. "Lowball offers. Lawsuits. Shell corporations. Anonymous tips. Surprise audit. The bank gets bought out, the loans get called in. Everything gone. And when the dust settles? A man's dead. His family's legacy, destroyed."

Her gaze pins me in place.

"She said it wasn't Richard pulling the strings. It was you."

I don't look away. Because I can't lie to her.

"That's what you meant, wasn't it?" she says. "When you told me you weren't proud of everything."

I meet her eyes. Everything else slips away.

"You weren't talking about bad business decisions or office politics."

Her voice softens, but it cuts sharper. "You were talking about casualties. Real ones. The kind that don't walk away. The kind you don't get to forget."

My chest tightens. My jaw locks. Because she's right.

I didn't carry it out. I didn't file the lawsuits.

I didn't call the state auditor or direct the bank acquisition.

But I built the plan that made it possible.

I was twenty-eight. Ambitious. Hungry to prove myself.

Proud of how airtight it was. I didn't know the family.

Didn't ask who lived there. It was flagged for acquisition, and I solved the obstacles like they were math problems. I thought I was doing my job.

Until I saw the fallout. Until I saw the obituary.

She doesn't know what came after. That I paid off the Hadleys' debts anonymously. That I funneled money through a fake insurance payout so his widow would receive a check, no strings, no name, enough for a lifeline.

That I covered her rent for five years, through a nonprofit that exists in name alone.

That I made sure her bills were always paid, that the heat stayed on, that her credit stayed clean.

That I set up college funds for both kids, labeled as scholarships from an anonymous foundation, so they'd never have to carry their father's ruin into their futures.

That I've carried this with me, quietly.

Not because I thought it would fix anything.

But because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try to give them a piece of their life back.

Not because I'm noble. Because I'm guilty. Because I didn't mean to destroy a man, but I did. And now I'm watching it happen again, only this time, I know the person breaking in front of me.

"I'm not that man anymore," I say. And I mean it. But the words feel thin. Like they can't carry the weight.

Her head tilts, like she's trying to recognize what's left of me.

"Aren't you?" she asks. "Because I see it now. The way you moved in. Took control. Cataloged everything. Everyone. I thought you were helping. But maybe you were managing. Like I was another broken thing to repurpose."

I want to say no. I want to shout it. But I hear it too. "That's not what this is," I say, though even I can hear the hollowness.

She steps back. Then again. Like being close to me physically hurts. "I can't," she says. "I can't be near someone who thinks that way, who uses their mind to tear things down."

Each word strikes with the finality of a gavel.

She turns. Walks to the table. Grabs her keys. Slings her bag over her shoulder.

No hesitation. No pause.

The barn door opens. Closes.

Her car starts. Gravel crunches beneath the tires. The engine fades, swallowed by distance.

And then I'm alone.

In the silence I used to crave.

In the space I thought I could control.

Tomorrow, will she come back? Will her mug be beside mine? Will there be toast crumbs on the table, sketches on napkins, her playlists looping through the air?

Or will the barn be sterile again?

Orderly. Controlled. Empty.

Some kinds of quiet are worse than any noise.

And the truth I buried has cost me the one thing I never saw coming, the woman who made me want to be someone worth redeeming.