Page 16 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MADDY

I wake with the echo of shattering glass in my ears, the dream clinging to me, sharp and vivid enough to yank me upright, heart racing, pajamas soaked with sweat.

In the dream, I stood in a town square I didn't recognize. Quaint little shops lined the streets, their signs hand-painted and charming, like something from a forgotten postcard. At the center stood a workshop, its windows filled with shimmering glass sculptures that caught the light.

Then Mason appeared.

He didn't look at me, only stared at the workshop in that same charcoal suit he wore the day he arrived, his expression unreadable. He gave the smallest nod, and the windows imploded. The sculptures shattered.

He never flinched.

His shark. Mrs. Patterson's voice loops in my mind like a warning I didn't want to hear.

The words follow me into morning. Sunlight cuts across my quilt, bright and warm, and wrong against the cold dread lodged in my chest.

I don't linger. No hiding under the covers. No doom-scrolling. No rereading texts I already wish I hadn't sent.

I shower. Pull on jeans and a sweater, easy, familiar. Nothing that requires effort. Nothing he hasn't seen.

I skip the bakery.

It was never about the croissants.

It was always about him.

And now he's gone.

I don't want to go to the barn. Not today. Maybe not ever again. But I will. Because Savvy and Ivy are counting on me. Because I said I'd show up.

So I drive the same road I've driven every day, the one that used to feel like coming home. Today, it feels heavier.

The air still smells like sawdust and old roses, but now there's a trace beneath it, a presence I can't name. A ghost of smoke, maybe. Or the residue of what burned too hot and fast.

This place used to be mine.

My sanctuary. My mess. My magic.

Now it feels like the scene of a crime I didn't realize I was part of.

And there it is.

The mug. Waiting on the corner of my worktable, steam curling into the quiet morning air. Dark roast. Right on time.

Yesterday, it would've made me smile. That tiny flutter of being thought of and seen.

Today, it makes my stomach turn.

I never asked for it. It started showing up, like he did. Present but uninvited. Thoughtful in a way that, at the time, felt romantic.

But now? It feels calculated.

My hand trembles as I pick it up. The ceramic is warm, familiar, deceptively comforting.

Too easy.

Too much like a lie.

I carry it to the sink and pour it out. The coffee vanishes in a slow swirl, taking hope with it.

It's a quiet funeral for a feeling I should've never trusted.

The barn is too still. Like the air's bracing for what I'll do next.

And I don't know what that is.

Not yet.

I march to the sound system, scrolling through playlists I used to love. "Uplifting Pop Anthems" feels cruel now. "Indie Darling Daydreams" belongs to someone else, someone softer, someone still willing to believe.

Then I find it.

The playlist I made after Daniel. The one who stole my most personal proposal concept and used it to propose to a record executive's daughter like it was his own brilliant idea.

That playlist came from betrayal.

Today, it fits.

I crank the volume. The opening crash of distorted guitars ricochets off the rafters. It's angry. Ugly. A KEEP OUT sign in sound. Everything Ever After, Inc. isn't supposed to be, and what I need it to be right now.

Let him sit in his polished little loft and hear it. Let him feel it vibrating through his perfectly stacked folders.

I started this war yesterday. I didn't know how personal it was until now. There's no truce in sight. Not until I figure out who the hell I've been sharing my mornings with.

I try to work. Ben and Clara's enchanted forest proposal needs final sketches. I stare at the page, glowing mushrooms, starlit trails, but the magic's gone.

All I see are numbers. Risks. Red flags he would've circled with a polite smile and a tone that made me feel stupid for not seeing them first.

I close my eyes, and the memory plays again. The drone lesson.

He stood close behind me, his voice low, his hands over mine. At the time, I thought it was connection. Now I wonder, was it intimacy, or a move more calculated? Was he guiding me, or keeping me still? Helping, or showing how easily he could take the lead?

When the drone landed, I thought we'd done it together. Now it feels almost rehearsed. Like he was making a point, how seamlessly he could step into my world and take the reins.

Maybe he never wanted to share it with me. Maybe he wanted to own it.

Or maybe I'm seeing it all wrong, twisting it to match what I've learned. I don't know which version of him is real. And that's what scares me most.

I grip a pencil until my hand aches and try to draw a willow. It should look soft and dreamy. But the lines come out jagged. The branches don't weep, they claw.

This isn't a fairy tale sketch. It's a warning sign.

I crumple the page and toss it on the growing pile. He didn't influence my work. He's poisoned the way I create.

The music blares on, shrieking and snarling.

I don't hear his steps on the stairs, but I feel him. A shift. A drop in pressure. He's here.

"Morning," he says, voice raised to cut through the sound.

I don't look at him. "Kincaid," I say flatly. His name, the name.

He pauses. Processes. I feel him. I feel the tiny pause in his breath, the pivot of his attention. He's analyzing. Calculating. Trying to make sense of the continued ice.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

No. Nothing is okay. The man I started to fall for doesn't exist.

"I'm fine," I lie. "Busy."

He tries again. Professional. Measured. "I was thinking about the marine batteries you'll need for the enchanted forest proposal. That battery supplier has a three-week lead time. You may need to"

"I'll handle it," I cut in.

I don't need his help. I don't want his insight. I don't want anything from him.

I glance up. Once. Enough to catch it, that flicker in his expression. Confusion. Maybe even hurt.

He sighs. Shakes his head. A quiet, almost imperceptible movement. Then he turns, walks back toward the stairs. Each step measured. Distant. He doesn't say another word.

And it wrecks me. Because what if I'm wrong?

What if I misjudged him? But then again, what if I didn't? I don't know which version of him to believe.

The man who steadied my hands and made me feel seen, or the one who took apart a town like it was another contract?

Every time I think I've figured him out, the ground shifts.

And now I don't trust my instincts. Because if I can't trust myself, who can I trust?

My laptop pings. I glance at the screen, and his name is there.

Mason Kincaid.

Subject RE: Proposal Logistics – Enchanted Forest.

Cold. Efficient. Corporate. Perfect.

Maddy,

Per our conversation, please see below for three alternative suppliers for the high-capacity marine batteries. I've included current lead times, cost-per-unit, and a summary of their service reviews

Supplier A Lowest cost, four-day lead time. Mixed reviews on customer service.

Supplier B Mid-range cost, seven-day lead time. Excellent reviews, local to upstate NY.

Supplier C Highest cost, two-day lead time. National chain, reliable but impersonal.

Let me know which you'd like me to contact for a formal quote.

Best, Mason

It's helpful.

It's meticulous.

It's infuriating.

This is his weapon, competence. He takes the messy magic of my world, turns it into bullet points and lead times, and leaves me feeling amateurish in my own business.

I slam the laptop shut. The barn feels too small, too sharp. I can't stay here.

I grab my keys and walk out without turning off the music. Let it scream into the empty space.

It's the one sound loud enough to drown out the ache.