Page 17 of The Proposal Planner (Ever After #2)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MASON

The cold war is four days in. We've spent hours locked in silent, simmering tension. The barn, once full of energy and accidental teamwork, feels like neutral ground in a battle neither of us will admit we're fighting. We move around each other like ghosts, careful not to collide. It's maddening.

But it's the silence that gets me. After those first two days, when she blasted angry noise through the speakers like a weapon, she went quiet. And somehow, that's worse. The quiet makes everything louder, the clack of my keys, the scratch of her pen, the creak of the rafters.

I'd take one of her chaotic, glitter-covered outbursts over this hollow stillness any day.

I've settled back into my work, the loft giving me a brief escape from the self-loathing curling tighter after Mrs. Patterson's words. I'm the shark. And Maddy knows. The weight of it lands hard, carving out the space where confidence used to live.

The music came first, loud, raw, impossible to ignore. Then nothing. Four days of silence that felt louder than the noise. Now, every note from that morning plays on a loop in my head, sharp and punishing. A soundtrack to everything I did wrong.

She stays on the main floor, a queen ruling over a kingdom of fabric swatches and half-finished dreams. We communicate when necessary, via emails so formal they could be filed as legal documents.

My work has become a refuge. I finalize the grant application framework for the Morrison Center with efficiency born of deep frustration.

My files are immaculate. My schedule is optimized.

My focus is, on the surface, absolute. And I've never felt more disconnected or out of place.

My mind, wired to spot patterns and root causes, replays every moment leading up to the break, searching for where it all went wrong. The drone lesson. The meeting with Clara. Every memory circles back to the same, undeniable truth, we were building something. A partnership. A friendship. More.

Her sudden, complete withdrawal strikes hard, a verdict handed down without a trial. A judgment without explanation. The angry music, the smothering silence, her way of stacking walls against the monster she believes she's seen. And she's right to build them.

I know the real reason, the one I don't want to say out loud. She knows my past. She's protecting herself from me.

But instead of sitting with that, I latch onto another theory, one that stings a little less.

Maybe this is her holding firm to our agreement.

Maybe, after days of letting her guard down, she took a hard look at the situation and decided she was right all along.

We're a bad idea. We don't work. This distance is her pulling the emergency brake before we crash.

I'll take that version. Because if she truly believes I'm the threat, everything she was warned about, then stepping back is the right move.

If she needs space, I'll give it. I match her silence, her distance, her careful restraint.

I know how to survive in this kind of cold, I was raised in it.

I stepped away from that version of myself long ago, but now I'm wearing him again.

Not to take control. Not to win. But because staying soft might hurt her more.

Funny how trying to be better makes me look more like the man I never wanted to be.

Maybe her light doesn't redeem me. Maybe it sharpens the shadows.

Late Thursday morning, the crunch of tires on gravel announces an arrival.

A sleek, silver BMW. I know from a clipped email, "Client meeting, 11 AM.

The Jacksons.", that this is an important pitch for her.

From my vantage point, I watch them step out of the car.

They look like their vehicle suggests, expensive, polished, and radiating casual superiority.

This will be a difficult negotiation for her.

I find myself leaning forward in my chair, my work forgotten, subtle, involuntary concern stirring within me.

I try to focus on a trust amendment, but their voices carry up to the loft.

I hear Maddy move into her bright, public-facing pitch, a sound that now feels like it's from another lifetime.

I hear the genuine passion in her voice as she describes a complex concept, recreating the night sky inside the barn.

It's a beautiful idea, the kind of impossible magic she somehow brings to life.

I also hear the clients' sharp, skeptical questions, each one a small, deliberate probe at her confidence. My jaw tightens, a familiar instinct to defend her flaring, despite the tension between us.

"And you're sure this won't appear ... amateurish?" the woman, Mrs. Jackson, asks, her tone dripping with condescension that makes my jaw tighten involuntarily.

"Absolutely not," Maddy replies, her voice strained but holding steady. "The fiber optics are theater-grade, and the fog effect will create a sense of depth, as if you're floating in a nebula..."

That's when I hear it. A low, sick gurgle from the main floor, followed by a violent, sputtering cough.

I close my eyes and press my fingers to the bridge of my nose.

The fog machine. Of course. A burnt, chemical odor, the unmistakable smell of failing electronics, drifts up to the loft.

It's the smell of a deal going south. Cold dread begins to trickle down my spine.

"What is that smell?" the man, Mr. Jackson, demands, his voice edged with irritation.

"Technical difficulty!" I hear Maddy say, her cheerfulness stretched so thin it's transparent. "Sometimes the atmospheric generators can be a bit temperamental..."

I hear frantic clicking. Then a curse, low and sharp. Maddy. Panic rides her voice, tight and unguarded, and it hits me in the chest.

Then it happens. A loud POP, followed by silence so thick it presses against the rafters. The silence that doesn't fall, it plummets and hits with a thud.

I can't see her from up here, but I don't need to. I know that sound. I know what failure looks like in a room full of people with money and opinions. I know how Maddy stands when she's trying not to crumble, too straight, too still.

I picture the Jacksons trading looks, checking out, writing her off. And her, burning with frustration and too much pride to show it.

Fury claws at me. At the equipment. At the distance I swore to keep. At myself.

My first instinct is to stay put. I'm a tenant here, not a partner.

If her equipment fails, that's her problem.

She built this wall between us, and I've respected it.

Getting involved now would break every rule we've silently agreed on.

She doesn't want my help. I should put on my headphones, turn away from the railing, and get back to work. That would be the smart thing.

The disciplined thing.

But then Mrs. Jackson's voice cuts in, every word edged with finality. She delivers her verdict in a sharp, dismissive tone.

"If this is what happens during a demo, I can't imagine the actual proposal."

And that's it. My pride, my hurt, my measured distance, gone in an instant.

The logic that kept me planted up here snaps under the weight of it.

I can't stand back and listen to her get torn apart.

I can't watch her business, Henry's wife's business, the one running out of the barn I'm working in, take a hit I know I could stop.

This isn't about my feelings anymore. This isn't about our broken whatever-this-was. This is a problem. And I am still good at solving problems.

I stand, straighten my shirt, and head for the stairs. My face is calm. My movements are measured. I'm not going down there as a partner or a friend. I'm going down there as someone who fixes things when they break.

The last few steps echo in the sudden quiet.

The air reeks of burnt electronics. Maddy stands there, pale and shaking, her eyes wide with panic that catches on me the moment I appear.

An emotion flashes across her face, surprise, confusion, maybe even hope.

I meet her gaze for a second, acknowledging nothing, before I turn to the real problem, the Jacksons.

They stand with arms crossed, disgust written all over their faces. Mrs. Jackson wears that expensive sneer I've seen a thousand times. The broken fog machine lies on its side, smoking pathetically.

"Well, I think we've seen enough," Mrs. Jackson says, her voice hard and cold as frosted glass. "If you can't even get the basic props to work, I'm not sure how we can trust you to handle the most important moment of our daughter's life."

"Give me a moment," I say, my voice cutting through the tension with an authority that surprises even me.

I walk toward them, my eyes sweeping over the broken machine, then Maddy's stricken face, and then settling on the Jacksons.

I offer a slight smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes.

"Mason Kincaid. I apologize for the hiccup.

Our atmospheric generator, while generally reliable, occasionally has a . .. dramatic streak."

Mr. Jackson snorts. "Dramatic and broken."

"Right," I say, stepping forward to examine the defunct machine like its failure is fascinating rather than catastrophic.

I crouch, pick up a burnt wire, then stand, holding it between two fingers.

"That's why we build in backups. What you witnessed isn't a flaw in Maddy's vision.

It's proof we plan for every possibility.

" I gesture around the barn. "The beauty of Ever After doesn't rely on one piece of equipment.

It's the full experience Maddy creates for your daughter's proposal.

The fog machine added atmosphere, sure, but the star projection still stands on its own. "

I feel Maddy's eyes on me, wide with confusion and a trace of terror. I don't look at her. This isn't for her.

"The fiber optics Maddy described," I continue, turning back to the Jacksons, "are theater-grade, designed for permanent installations far more complex than a single proposal.

They're independent of this unit. What you would have seen tonight, if this minor issue hadn't occurred, was the star field forming with perfect alignment.

And honestly, the atmospheric element, while striking, can sometimes detract from the clarity of that celestial effect, especially for guests with sensitivities.

We've found that true clarity often beats elaborate extras. "

I pause, letting the reframe settle. I'm turning failure into deliberate choice, a broken machine into evidence of Maddy's superior judgment.

"Consider this," I press on, my voice dropping, becoming more confidential.

"Tonight, you saw a momentary glitch. Imagine if this had happened during your daughter's actual proposal.

Truly catastrophic, right? But because we test everything thoroughly, because we push our equipment to its limits during demonstrations, we catch these vulnerabilities now.

This isn't a setback, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson.

This is risk management in action. This is the guarantee that when it truly matters, during your daughter's most important moment, every detail will be perfect, because we've found and eliminated any potential failure point. "

I hold up the burnt wire. "It's a simple wiring issue that's easily replaced.

But it's also an opportunity. We can now consider alternatives, perhaps a more subtle atmospheric effect that enhances rather than obscures the breathtaking starscape Maddy has designed for your daughter.

" I look directly at Mrs. Jackson. "Her proposal won't be good; it will be bulletproof. "

Mrs. Jackson's rigid posture softens. She glances at her husband. The sneer is gone, replaced by thoughtful consideration.

"So, you're saying this is a good thing?" Mr. Jackson asks, genuine curiosity creeping into his tone.

"It's an opportunity for perfection," I correct, my smile widening. "And it's why choosing Ever After isn't about artistry alone. It's about choosing a team that thinks through every variable. We don't plan your daughter's proposal. We guarantee it."

I transition smoothly into backup protocols.

"For instance," I add, my voice steady, "what if the primary projector failed?

Maddy has a secondary unit, pre-calibrated and set to deploy within minutes.

What if the power went out? We have silent, high-capacity generators on standby.

Every component, every potential failure point, has a backup plan.

This isn't about having beautiful ideas.

It's about making those beautiful ideas inevitable. "

I talk timelines, logistical redundancies, even touch on insurance policies and contractual guarantees, all delivered with understated confidence that suggests these are basic considerations for a business of this caliber.

Maddy stands silent, watching me with a strange mix of awe and horror.

I can feel her calculating, dissecting every word, every move.

By the time I finish, the Jacksons are nodding. The irritation has vanished, replaced by relief and even admiration.

"Well," Mrs. Jackson says, her voice surprisingly warm, "I must say, Mr. Kincaid, your practical approach is quite reassuring. We appreciate you addressing our concerns so thoroughly."

"It serves our mutual interests," I reply, my voice cool and professional, avoiding any hint of personal investment. "Maddy's vision is exceptional, and our goal is flawless execution."

They shake Maddy's hand, then mine, talking again about the "breathtaking starscape" and the "incredible attention to detail." As they walk out to their silver BMW, their conversation drifts back to enthusiasm about their daughter's proposal. The deal isn't saved. It's strengthened.

I turn to Maddy. She's still pale, but her eyes hold a new, unsettling intensity. She looks at me like I'm a puzzle she's desperate to solve. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken questions.

"Why?" she asks. "You've seen so many things go wrong with my work. Why did you defend me?"

I pause, a shift in my expression. "Because each moment is another chance for us to do something right."

The words hang in the air between us, and I watch the change in her eyes, an unspoken understanding, maybe even hope.

But I don't wait to see what comes next.

I give her a curt, professional nod, then turn and climb the stairs back to my loft.

My work here is done. The problem is solved. Now, to process what happened.