Picture Perfect - Page 177

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice low and slightly hoarse.

“Morning,” I reply, tracing the outline of his tattoo with my fingertip. “It’s been two days.”

“Two days since what?” A playful note laces his words, but I can tell he knows exactly what I mean.

“Since we stood in front of everyone we care about and promised ourselves to each other.” The memory brings a smile to my face. “Since I became yours.”

“Princess,” he says, his tone suddenly serious. He brushes a lock of blonde hair from my face. “You’ve always been mine. In every way that counts.”

My heart swells at his words, at the promise they carry. “I can’t wait to legally be Adelaide Saint,” I confess, the thought sparking a joy that’s tinged with the edge of reality. The Winthrops… They’re still out there, a dark cloud on our horizon. The ink on my marriage certificate is barely dry and I’m worrying about my adoptive family.

I trace the lines on Saint’s chest, the rise and fall of his breathing a soothing rhythm against the chaos of my thoughts.

“We’ll make it happen,” Saint vows, his protective nature rising like a shield around us. “Once all the paperwork is submitted, we’ll get your name legally changed, Princess. I promise.”

“I love you,” he mumbles, his voice still thick with sleep. His arm tightens around me as he pulls me back into his chest and presses a soft kiss against the back of my neck.

But the peace is fleeting.

Before we can sink further into the comfort of the morning, Mason’s voice crackles through the intercom system, sharp and urgent. “I need everyone in my office. Now.”

We exchange a glance, wordlessly communicating a thousand thoughts in a single look. Tension coils in my stomach as we untangle from the sheets and find our footing. We don’t bother with pretense; whatever Mason has to say, it won’t be good.

His office is all dark wood and leather. It’s masculine, but comforting. Chess and Dre beat us there and stand waiting. I take one of the leather chairs. Mason stands behind his desk, his expression grim as he meets our gaze.

He waits until we’re all settled—Saint, Dre, Chess, and me—before he drops the bombshell.

“The charges against William and Cheryl aren’t going to stick,” he announces without preamble.

I feel nothing. Not shock. Not outrage. Just a hollow sense of inevitability. They always wriggle their way out, don’t they? This is why I never run in the first place.

“Of course, they aren’t,” I respond, my voice flat, resigned. Inside, I’m steeling myself for the next battle. Because there will be a next one. There’s always a next one when it comes to the Winthrops.

Saint’s hand finds mine, squeezing it tight as if to remind me we’re in this together. And I squeeze back because that connection, that unbreakable bond, is what will see us through the storm ahead.

“How?” Dre’s fist slams against the wall, a crack in plaster echoing the turmoil in his ice-blue eyes. I flinch. Mason’s news has lit a fire inside him, and his anger radiates through the room like a storm about to break.

Mason sighs, running a hand through his hair. “They’ve got resources. Good lawyers. And a lot of connections. They’re slippery fish, and they’re wriggling through the net as we speak.”

“Then we find a better net,” Chess demands quietly. “They cannot get away with this. After everything they’ve done to her? No. Fuck that.”

Dre is pacing, his breaths sawing in and out in ragged puffs. “This is bullshit!” he explodes, his ice blue eyes blazing with fury. I can see him looking for something, anything to destroy to help ease the tension building in him. I’m worried he’ll take off and try to handle this on his own.

“Easy, Dre,” I say softly, reaching for him. He’s all sharp edges and electric energy, but I know how to soften the jagged lines of his rage. “Getting angry isn’t going to fix this.”

He fights me, shaking off my hands at first, but when he looks at me and sees how much I need his calm, he gives in. I guide him to the leather chair that looks far too imposing for any sort of comfort. But right now, it’s not about the chair; it’s about grounding him.

He sits, a taut line from clenched jaw to coiled legs, every muscle ready to spring. I crawl into his lap, the familiar warmth of his body seeping into mine, grounding me as much as I hope to ground him. Running my nails gently across his scalp, I watch the tension begin to ebb away from his features, his eyes closing with a sigh as he leans into my touch. “We’ll figure this out,” I murmur, believing it with every fiber of my being.

Mason clears his throat, drawing our attention back to him. “They’re not going to win this time,” he says, the promise fierce in his voice. He has always been the immovable object to every unstoppable force they’ve faced and I know I can trust him with this. “You’re legally Saint’s wife, Addy. The Winthrops can’t touch you anymore.”

I nod, feeling the weight of his words. Legally Saint’s, beyond their reach at last. Yet, there’s still so much more at stake than just a paper claiming my freedom.

Saint turns to look at me, his dark curly hair shadowing intense eyes that miss nothing. He sees right through my composed exterior to the storm raging inside. I’ve been bracing for this moment, ever since we started down this path. There’s a reason I never came forward with what I know, a reason why I kept my trump card hidden close to my chest. It was naive to think I could leave it behind, unplayed, that we would somehow outmaneuver the Winthrops without it.

“Addy, talk to us.” Saint’s voice is a command, soft but undeniably insistent.

I had really hoped it wouldn’t come to this.