Chapter 9
Maddie
Ben’s house looks like a luxury architect’s take on a lodge.
All stone and log, weathered but solid, with big-paned windows reflecting the sweep of pine trees and distant peaks.
The courtyard is wide and circular, a fountain in the middle still trickling despite the season, framed by planters dusted with frost.
It’s gorgeous. But it’s also isolated in an interesting way.
Instead of a paved driveway, the first half-mile was a dirt—or actually, mud thanks to the late spring weather—track. If it wasn’t for the driver Ben sent with me to Montana, I wouldn’t have ever found this place.
Which makes me wonder… does he not want to be found?
My hand hesitates on the door handle. I’m married to this man, yes, but I don’t want him to feel like I’m intruding on his life. On his solitude.
The ranch in Montana was sprawling and wild; this is quieter.
The mountains here feel closer, like they’re leaning in to see who’s moved into the neighborhood.
I catch a glimpse of the river through the pines, a silver thread weaving through just-new grass, and my chest tightens in a way I don’t expect.
This isn’t home, but it feels… welcoming.
I step out of the mud-splattered SUV, boots clicking against the cobblestones. A tall, lean, dark man steps out of the home, with a friendly smile on his face. We’ve already met—back at Bronson Hall—and it’s nice to feel genuinely welcomed.
“Hugh,” I greet, trying my best not to be distracted by the beautiful facade of the building.
“Hello, Madeline. How was the drive?”
“Um, it was a lot,” I smile, biting my lip. “Actually… if it’s okay can I soak in a bath or shower for a bit? I think I pulled something.”
His laugh is deep and true. He gestures to the movers as they start to bring the smaller parcels up to the double doors.
“Living room’s through there. And yes, of course—there’s a full bath and separate shower in your suite. Are you hungry?”
I shake my head, giving up and staring in fascination at the large windows on the second floor. Hugh catches on quickly.
“A tour, then. Just a quick one. Mr. Bronson is wrapping up a call, but he asks that you join him for dinner—and I’m sure he’ll find you before then.”
Hugh gives me a light, straight-forward tour that my tired mind somehow manages to process. Inside the home doesn’t feel so massive, with rooms comfortable and close, nooks to tuck into and fireplaces ready to stave off the spring chill.
The wedding was six days ago. After breakfast the day after, Ben had told me the plan: send me, with a group of movers, back to Montana. He’d been amused by my insistence in driving down but orchestrated everything calmly and without fuss.
Now I’m… home.
Hugh takes me to the second floor, a short hallway with tall windows and a dark blue accent wall. A dark wood door opens onto a suite.
Ben had called it my suite. Said it like it was a practical arrangement, not something he’d decided in under a minute when I asked where I was supposed to sleep. I’d bet money he hasn’t set foot in this wing in years.
The movers follow me inside, efficient and silent. The space is bigger than my first apartment. The bed’s a four-poster, draped in linen. A writing desk sits by the window. Everything is covered in crisp white sheets, like the room’s been sleeping.
I trail my fingers over the sheet covering the dresser—dustless. Someone’s been cleaning in here. Regularly.
What was this room? Guest room? Office? Something else entirely? Hugh has disappeared, so I don’t get the chance to ask him. In the background, I hear water running and peek into a little bathroom.
The movers file in, carrying boxes and garment bags, stacking them near the closet door. I direct them to leave the larger trunks against the wall.
“Anything else, ma’am?” one asks.
“That’s it, thanks.”
When they’re gone, the house falls quiet again. I start unpacking, peeling back layers of tissue and bubble wrap, folding clothes into drawers, lining up toiletries.
The hours blur. By the time I’m done, my arms ache, my hair is falling out of a bun, and I’m starting to notice little islands of dust as I get to know the room.
I stand in the middle, surveying my progress. It looks lived in now, which is more than I can say for me.
The big soaking tub in the bathroom has been calling my name since I first walked in. I strip down, dropping clothes in a careless pile. My skin prickles in the cool air, but I like it—like shaking off the dirt from the drive.
I pad barefoot toward the bathroom, glancing once at my reflection in the mirror over the dresser. My hair’s a mess. My cheeks are flushed from hauling boxes. The funny thing is, I don’t look unhappy… and yet…
I should be thinking about Derrick. About the fact that this entire arrangement is meant to be temporary. That when he finally decides to grace us with his presence, the plan is to annul my marriage to his father and slip seamlessly into one with him.
Never, ever mention the night Ben bent me over the couch and called me a good girl.
The thought makes me scowl.
Doesn’t anyone care what I want?
I’m halfway through the bedroom when the door bursts open.
I yelp, grabbing the nearest thing in reach—a neatly folded sheet from the bed—and clutching it to my chest.
He stops dead in the doorway. His gaze rakes over me, sharp and unhurried, before he drags it up to my face.
“What the hell, Ben?”
“I—” He shakes his head once, jaw tight. “Didn’t know you were—”
“Naked? Yeah, you could’ve knocked.” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, but my heart’s still hammering from the surprise.
His eyes flick, almost involuntarily, back down to where the sheet barely covers the curve of my hip. “This is my house.”
“This is my room,” I fire back.
His mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile. “Temporary room.”
I clutch the sheet tighter. “What do you want?”
“I came to ask—” He cuts himself off, like whatever the question was has just fallen clean out of his head. His gaze is dark, restless, the same look he had right before he shoved me against the wall in the resort suite.
He steps inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. The space feels instantly smaller.
“Ben,” I warn, but it comes out softer than I’d like.
His eyes meet mine, and for a second, neither of us moves. I can see his pulse in his throat. Feel the tension rolling off him like heat from a fire.
It would be so easy to make another mistake.
His hand twitches at his side, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me. My grip on the sheet tightens, because I’m not sure if I’d stop him.
Then, just as quickly, he takes a step back. Another. His gaze drags over me one last time before he wrenches it away entirely.
“Lock the damn door if you want privacy,” he says, and his voice is rough.
He’s gone before I can answer.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway, the sheet clutched tight to my chest, my heartbeat still pounding like it hasn’t gotten the memo that the danger’s passed.
The tub is still waiting in the bathroom, the water steaming. I let the sheet fall and sink into it, the heat lapping at my skin. For the first time in a week my muscles relax.
A cold bath might have been smarter.
Because now, with the water swirling around me and the mountain silence pressing in, I can still feel the ghost of his eyes on me.
Later in the evening, I take a deep breath and step out into the hallway.
Out of my suite.
Hugh gives a good tour, but I’m curious; I want to know more about the man who locks himself away here.
Barefoot, it’s easy to tiptoe down the hallways, feel the plush runners between my toes.
The evening sunlight through the windows is beautiful, but it also brings attention to the fact that there are more windows facing the back of the property—and the spread of nature, acres and acres of it—than at the front of the home, facing civilization.
Is it just privacy that Benedict Bronson wants?
With my eyes on the golden-hued horizon, I completely miss the person turning the corner.
“Oh—I’m so sorry!”
It’s a woman I recognize, though it takes me a second to place her. She’s pretty in a severe and tired kind of way, her grey eyes sharp, her dark hair lobbed off at the shoulders.
“Madeline.”
“Um, yes…”
A Cheshire cat smile curls her lips. “I’m Caroline,” she supplies, and I swear I could bang my head against the wall for being so stupid. Of course—Derrick’s aunt. Or… “Ben’s sister.”
I smile weakly, feeling suddenly like I’ve never looked stupider with my hands at my sides, aimless and guilty. “I apologize. I probably shouldn’t be wandering.”
Her grin sharpens, a blade that could cut into me if she wanted. A vague memory of her at the reception comes back—watching, eagle-eyed, and seeming to enjoy herself. Maybe she’s just another gossip monger, but I need to play nice, at least for now.
“Not at all. This is your home too now, Maddie. You can wander as much as you want.” Her eyes flicker to the windows, then behind me down the hall. “You should know that this late in the evening Benedict usually takes a walk on the trails.”
O…kay. Not exactly sure what to do with this information, I try to fight a frown. Then there’s a brief ripple of kindness in Caroline’s face. “I, on the other hand, prefer to stay inside. Did you know that we have cougars in Aspen? And grizzlies?”
She shudders as I laugh.
“Eh, that doesn’t worry me too much. We saw grizzlies now and then on the ranch, but I agree—I wouldn’t want to be stalked by a mountain lion. And it’s getting close to dusk.”
What is this, exactly? Some kind of pep-talk to nudge me into being a black widow? Plenty of ways to get rid of a man here Maddie…
I just can’t quite get a read on her, until she smiles again and says, “Normally Benedict spends time in the gallery. It’s on the first floor, in the west hall, but I’m sure Hugh wouldn’t have shown it to you; it’s a little secret that Ben likes to keep for himself.”
A wink.
Oh.
She’s telling me where to go snooping.
I press my lips together to hide a smile. “Thank you. That’s good to know. Maybe one of these days I’ll join him on a walk.”
Caroline hums in agreement, then briefly touches my shoulder before continuing on down the hallway. “It was nice to meet you,” she calls over her shoulder, and it seems genuine.
I wait until she disappears around a corner and then scurry down the stairs, feeling like a naughty kid all over again; sneaking into the distillery with Stella when we weren’t supposed to, or hiding in the hay in the stables.
Only now I’m running through a lodge in Aspen, looking for a secret gallery.
Two staff members appear from the area of the dining room, most likely cleaning up after the near-silent dinner earlier. What do you talk about with a man who not only fucked you over a couch, but walked in on you naked only hours before?
“Oh, hello.” I slow down my pace, trying to look casual… despite the flush on my cheeks that appeared at the memory of Ben’s eyes raking down my body.
And the simmering tension I felt from him at dinner.
Now, though, somehow… I can tell he’s out of the house. I can feel it. Caroline only confirmed that, and told me where he was.
Chin tipped up, I walk toward the archway of the west hall as if I’m meant to be there.
The gallery isn’t hard to find—it’s hidden behind an ornate wood door with an elk-head handle.
I open it slowly, fearing that it’ll creak. That somehow Ben will hear it out in the woods and know I’m here.
Why would he keep a gallery secret, or off-limits? Not that he told me directly not to come here… but Hugh must’ve been directed not to show me this.
When the door swings open, it all makes sense.
Because Benedict Bronson—the real Benedict Bronson—is here, in this hall.
The high-ceilinged walls are lined with paintings. Gorgeous, expressive paintings; some bigger than a man, others as small as the palm of my hand. I step in, enraptured and not sure where to look first.
The textures, colors, and depictions come to life as lights overhead snap on. Each painting has a little ticket next to it with the artist’s name, medium, the year, the title. It’s like being in a museum.
And as I turn slowly, it isn’t hard to see what Benedict Bronson loves most in the world.
All of this art, including a handful of sculptures in the center of the room, shows nature, wildlife. Not those classic hunting oil paintings or still-lives of pheasants and fish draped over tables, but true nature.
Birch trees in endless stands, their shadows and bark like an optical illusion. Mink painted in pinks, blues, and greens, landscapes of lonely cabins in winter, a painting of a bison so life-like that when I step up to it I can see each individual eyelash.
I get so lost in the art that it takes a moment to notice just how long the shadows on the floor have gotten.
Benedict will be back soon—unless he’s insane and walks the grounds at night. That would be dangerous.
Stepping slowly away from a collage that beautifully depicts Crystal Lake, I realize that I’m not going to say anything about this to him.
Not yet.
I’ve gotten a taste of the real Benedict Bronson; the man behind that iron gaze, that immoveable body.
If he wants to keep this a secret for now, fine; I’ll keep it for him.