Chapter 13
Madeline
The full-length mirror reflects a complete mess, like a bomb went off—a bomb containing the contents of my closet. The discarded clothes are strewn over the floor, the bed, the hope chest. Dresses, skirts, silky tops, jeans.
Okay, obviously I wouldn’t wear jeans to dinner with Benedict Bronson. Knowing him, he’ll step out in one of those sinfully tailored bespoke suits. The ones that hint at his broad, hard body beneath, the smattering of chest hair…
My vision darkens for a moment with desire as I lose track of what I’m doing. It’s dangerous to think of him like that, to want him like that… because he’s not mine to want. Not really. He’s just a name on the contract, one thing holding this all together until we can get it fixed.
And dinner is just a “thank you.” Or so he says.
Every option strewn around the room feels safe, casual, too easy to dismiss.
Nothing feels right. Not for dinner with Ben.
Benedict Bronson doesn’t thank people, not really. He commands, he directs, he controls. When he says thank you, it feels like a shift in gravity. What’s worse: the way it lingered in his eyes yesterday, when he finally turned away from the window. The way he meant it.
Now I’m supposed to sit across from him at a table, wearing something that says what exactly? That I’m his wife, even if we’re still strangers? That this is just temporary?
That I want him?
My hands smooth over the dress. I finally chose black silk, simple in shape but with a neckline that dips low and a hem that brushes mid-thigh when I move. It’s the kind of dress I’d never wear back home. The kind that feels like a dare.
I slip on the heels Stella once forced me to buy for “when you’re finally brave enough.” Tonight, apparently, I am.
When Ben knocks lightly at my door, my stomach flips. I open it to find him standing there in a charcoal suit, crisp shirt, no tie. He looks like he belongs on the cover of a magazine, silver hair catching the hallway light, green eyes flicking down my body before he snaps them back to my face.
His jaw flexes. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” I manage, ignoring the heat climbing up my neck. He hasn’t said anything about the dress and doesn’t as he offers his arm. Does that mean he hates it? That it’s too much, too sultry or skimpy?
Insecurity has my shoulders hunching inward, and I fight them back, determined to stand tall by his side.
Especially if we’re going out on the town.
When we reach the stairs, he starts down first, then turns to look at me, his fingers catching mine.
And I see it then—it’s not that he doesn’t like the dress.
It’s that he likes it a little too much. His eyes trail up the slit, as if wanting to delve further underneath, run along my inner thigh.
I take a deep breath and focus on each careful step down, instead of the desire creating a steady, warm thrum inside me. The anticipation setting my skin on fire.
Aspen glitters under the evening spring sky. The streets are strung with lights, shop windows glowing, the mountains a dark silhouette beyond. The restaurant Ben’s chosen is tucked into a row of stone buildings, elegant but understated.
Inside, it’s warm, filled with a hum of laughter and the clink of glassware.
Firelight flickers along the walls, and the scent of roasted meat and truffle butter wraps around me.
It’s clearly the lap of luxury, a quiet place for both old and new money to get away from the tourist traps.
Heads turn when we’re led to our table, and I feel the weight of every stare.
I don’t need to guess what they’re thinking.
That’s Benedict Bronson. And that’s his new wife.
His much younger wife.
Ben orders for us—scotch for him, wine for me, a series of courses I can barely keep track of.
It should annoy me to have a man choosing my food, but the truth is, I’m relieved.
I don’t think I could concentrate even if I wanted to.
My hands are trembling too much to hold a menu.
There’s so much to look at, and it takes such control not to look.
Belonging out here is different than belonging back home, where all the rich families were rowdy ranchers.
The server doesn’t question Ben, only scribbles obediently, nodding here and there.
Once the drinks arrive, I wrap my fingers around the stem of my glass and say, “You didn’t have to bring me somewhere this fancy.”
“Yes, I did.” Ben’s voice is quiet, steady. “You deserve it, after everything. Not just the solve for Bronson Hall—but for…” He trails off, looking over my shoulder at nothing at all. His throat bobs.
The words shouldn’t mean so much. But they do. My chest feels tight, and I’m happy he’s not looking at me. I don’t want him to see the tinge of desperate happiness I feel at being recognized as worth something.
We eat slowly, course after course. The food is exquisite—melt-in-your-mouth beef, wild mushrooms in cream, a chocolate soufflé so delicate it collapses at the touch of a spoon. I moan around a mouthful and Ben looks up sharply.
The atmosphere changes.
Suddenly it’s just the two of us, and I can’t ignore the direction the night has been going.
The way his eyes linger on me when he thinks I’m not looking. The way his voice drops when he asks if I’m enjoying myself. The way his hand brushes mine briefly when he reaches for the breadbasket, and how the touch lingers in my skin long after.
“Are you okay?”
I blink back to reality. Ben is watching me through his lashes, chin lowered, those pine-green eyes locked on me.
“Madeline?”
Clearing my throat and sitting back, I answer, “I’m fine. Sorry, I was distracted for a moment. This was amazing Ben, thank you.”
He waves the thanks off. “I should have taken you out long before this. I’m sorry you’ve been cooped up at the lodge.”
I shake my head, not wanting him to think I see it like that: as being trapped. “No, home is beautiful. I couldn’t have picked a better place. I hope it doesn’t seem like I’m restless, I just…”
I just can’t stand being so close to you.
My lips press together before the words can slip out, but I can’t look away from his steady gaze. Benedict nods slowly, as if he understands exactly where my mind is.
By the time dessert is cleared, I’m flushed and lightheaded, from wine or from him, I can’t tell. “Um, I’m just going to step away to the lady’s room before we leave.”
Ben acknowledges me with a small smile, but looks absently across the room, stroking his stubble in thought.
As I stand and weave my way toward the back, I can’t help noticing people noticing me.
The way their eyes trail after me, narrow and curious, judgmental and scandalized.
Surely there must be one or two people here who attended the wedding and witnessed the moment Ben stormed down the aisle, set on claiming me and securing the future of Bronson Hall.
That’s when I hear it.
Two servers by the bar, whispering, but not trying very hard to be discrete.
“Can you believe it? That’s his wife. She looks younger than his son.”
Derrick is actually only a year older than me. My steps falter, ankles wobbling on the heels.
“Disgusting. Gold digger, for sure. She probably trapped him. You know, with a baby.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I glance back at Ben. He’s much too far away to hear, but his eyes have been on me this whole time—he looks worried at the way I’ve hesitated, his palms pressed to the table like he might stand.
Something sharp rises in me—shame, anger, defiance all tangled together. I turn abruptly, take three strides toward the servers.
The room hushes. Heads turn. The pair at the bar blanch when I stop in front of them.
“You’re right,” I say flatly, every word clear. “I am younger. By seventeen and a half years, to be exact. And yes, people love to call it a scandal. But let me tell you something.”
I lean in, voice low but carrying. Behind me there’s murmurs, movement.
“You think a younger man is automatically better? They’re selfish. They’re careless. They don’t know how to treat a woman. Benedict Bronson is more of a man than any thirty-something I’ve ever met. He’s stable, calculated, fair, and knows a woman’s body better than they ever could.”
Gasps ripple through the room. One server stammers an apology. The other flushes scarlet. I straighten, smooth my dress, and walk back to the table with my head high.
Ben hasn’t moved. His expression is unreadable, carved from stone, his hands flat on the table.
I sink into my chair, suddenly aware of what I’ve done. My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. “I… I’m sorry. That was—”
He raises a hand, stopping me. Pays the bill with a flick of his card. Stands.
The walk out of the restaurant and to the curb, where the car is waiting, is silent. But just briefly his hand ghosts under mine, a gesture of support as I slip into the passenger seat. We don’t speak on the drive back to the lodge.
I chew my lip raw, convinced I’ve ruined everything. That he’ll be furious, humiliated, disgusted. I open my mouth to apologize again, but the look on his face—tight jaw, eyes blazing and straight ahead—shuts me up.
When we arrive at the house, he doesn’t speak. He just takes my hand, firm and unyielding, and leads me up the stairs. Down the hall. To my suite. It’s quiet, the servants all home for the night, security settled into the little gate house out at the back of the drive.
My heart is a wild animal in my chest.
“Ben,” I whisper, “I didn’t mean—”
He presses me back against the door before I can finish. His mouth claims mine, hot and bruising, his hands gripping my hips like he’s been starving for weeks.
There’s no hesitation this time. No distance. No restraint.
He kisses me like he’s furious, like he’s grateful, like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. His hand grips my ass, and my legs wrap around his waist instinctively, back arching as he lifts me, carries me inside, kicks the door shut.