Page 20 of Her Ex's Father
“No,” I admit. “He didn’t.”
Silence stretches between us, filled with the faint tick of the clock on the wall. Her eyes are bright, angry, but underneath it—hurt. The same kind I saw when Rupert couldn’t be bothered to make an excuse for Derrick’s absence at the engagement party. At forty-eight, I’ve had my fair share of resentment and know the feeling well.
I should tell her the truth about Derrick. About the plan. Instead, I hear myself say, “He’s an idiot.”
She blinks. “My father?”
“Both of them.”
That startles a laugh out of her, quick and unguarded. The sound curls low in my gut.
“I mean it.” The conversation comes easier now that she’s loosening, even if I haven’t even had a sip of whisky yet. Not Crown & Range; no, I’ve lost my taste for the stuff, I think. “It’s obvious what you brought to the table, that your family’s success had a lot to do with the PR you were spearheading. He should recognize that and realize it’s his loss.”
Maddie’s head tilts as she considers me. There’s a beat of silence, and then she says softly, “He won’t have to worry; I hired my own replacement, made sure they understand the direction we’re aiming for in the five-year plan. I have every confidence that it’ll all work out, whether I’m in Montana or not.”
Smart girl.
I straighten, putting distance between us before I let her—or rather, this desire to keep listening to her speak, to ask her more about her life—pull me in. “You should get some sleep.”
“I tried,” she says, gaze following me as I cross to the sideboard. “Didn’t work. Turns out marrying a man you barely know is… unsettling.”
I pour two fingers of scotch. “I imagine it is.”
When I glance back, she’s still watching me, blanket slipped off one shoulder, exposing the smooth line of her collarbone. I take a slow sip, willing my attention back to the burn in my throat.
Her hair’s half-down now, the pins loose so the strands spill over her shoulders in a messy halo.
It makes her look softer. Younger.
Too young.
I remind myself of that even as my eyes track the way the blanket slips from her shoulder, revealing the slope of the collarbone to the dip at her throat. A piece of me — the older, wiser one — knows I should look away. Another piece, the selfishone that’s been restless for years, wants to see what happens if I don’t.
She isn’t just beautiful. She’s… alive. There’s a current in her, a restless energy that makes me feel the faintest echo of who I used to be before the responsibilities, before the constant weight of keeping the empire steady.
She tucks her bare feet under herself, leaning back against the couch cushions. It’s a pose I’ve seen a dozen women use — casual, unconcerned — but in Maddie it reads differently. Controlled. Deliberate. Like she knows exactly what it looks like to have her hem slip a little higher over her thigh.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she says without glancing up.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already decided who I am.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. “Haven’t I?”
She smirks faintly. “I don’t think so. If you had, you wouldn’t still be here.”
I take a sip, letting the burn travel down my throat before answering. “Maybe I’m here because I don’t like loose ends.”
“Or maybe,” she says, tilting her head, “you just like being in control.”
There’s no bite to the accusation. No heat. Just curiosity — and that’s somehow worse. Because she’s right. I do like control. It’s the only way I’ve kept my life and my business from unraveling completely.
I cross the room slowly, stopping just in front of her. I can smell my soap on her body. She must’ve showered already when I was downstairs sorting out this mess. My mind betrays me, supplying the thought of pressing my face into her neck and inhaling until I can’t think about anything else.
I set the glass down on the table beside her, close enough that my knuckles brush her knee. The touch is accidental. Or maybe it isn’t.
She doesn’t flinch.
