Page 81 of Her Ex's Father
Turning the phone over, I put a hand to my chest and try to swallow down the nausea and guilt. But it doesn’t work, and in moments I’m in the ensuite, hunched over and retching. Lucky that I haven’t had breakfast yet.
Sitting here on the cold tile floor, I can’t help picturing Jack: his perfect posture, crew cut, the ever-serious look on his face. So different from the little boy he was running around the ranch. Dreaming of traveling.
Which he got to do, only…
With a sigh, I stand and push memories of Jack away, resolved now toactuallyleave. Maybe it’s what we need—space.
It’s hard to be here with Ben every day, feeling like I’m failing over and over. Feeling like I’m already messing this up for our daughter.
I fold a dress, smooth the fabric with trembling hands. I add jeans, socks, and the soft pajamas Stella bought me when I first told her I was pregnant. I pause over a scarf, holding it to my face, the scent of cedar clinging to it faintly—Ben’s scent. My throat tightens and I put it to the side. Summer will be full-on in Philadelphia and the last thing I’ll need is a scarf.
Tears blur my vision. I blink them away, shove the last few things into the suitcase.
The zipper waits. Half-closed, half-open.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my chest heaving. I can still hear his voice, low and accusing:An old friend you tell you wish things had turned out differently?
I meant the past. He thinks I meant him.
And maybe that’s the real fracture—no matter how much I love him, no matter how much I want this family, maybe he’ll never believe it.
The house is silent, but I swear I can feel him on the other side of the walls, pacing, waiting, hurting.
And still, I press my hand to the suitcase zipper and wonder if I should finish what I started.
Chapter 30
Benedict
I’ve walked every hallway, checked every room twice, called her name until my throat feels raw. And still—no Maddie. No trace of her soft laugh echoing back to me, no trail of vanilla-strawberry perfume lingering in the air like it always does when she’s been bustling about.
Panic presses in at the edges of my ribs, squeezing tight.
I tell myself not to overreact. She’s probably sitting out on the patio, soaking in the night. Or down by the preserve, staring into the cottonwoods. Just the thought makes me anxious and exasperated; my little wife, always testing the boundaries.
Maybe she’ll be in the library, curled into that ridiculous armchair she insists is “hers,” even though it’s been in this house for three decades.
But I’ve already checked those places.
She’s not here.
I stride toward Hugh’s office, nearly colliding with him in the hallway. He’s carrying a sheaf of papers, his face unusually pale.
“Mr. Bronson?—”
“Where is she?” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be. It cuts through the air, an accusation.
Hugh swallows, glances away. He looks guilty, which turns my simmering panic into something far hotter.
“What do you know?” I demand.
“She… she asked me to schedule the jet for her,” Hugh admits quietly. “To Philadelphia.”
For a moment I don’t understand the words. They don’t make sense in sequence. Philadelphia? Maddie has no reason to be there. She has no family, no business connection, no?—
“Why the hell would she?—”
“She made it sound like you’d approved it,” Hugh rushes, shame twisting his features. All these years working at my side, and I’ve never seen him like this. “Said you wanted her to take some time. I… I believed her. I’m sorry, Ben. I should’ve checked with you. I only realized when one of the maids said you’re tearing the house apart. I should’ve?—”
