Chapter 15 Madeline
Madeline
The water is almost too hot, but that’s the way I want it. It releases the tight muscles in my calves and for once it feels like I might relax since Dr. Furman made his announcement.
Before I slip the rest of the way in, I pause and grab my phone. Type in Can you bathe in hot water while pregnant?
It seems like a silly question, but I’m realizing just how much I don’t know. Everything is different now, from the nausea to taking a simple bath, and I can’t just think about myself. But as the warm water licks at my collar bones, a thrill of excitement goes through me.
I hadn’t considered this possibility. And… I don’t hate it.
The phone returns: Extremely hot water can raise a pregnant woman’s core body temperature, potentially causing overheating—
Before I even finish reading, I turn on the tap again, this time set to cold. The water swirls to a more tepid temperature and I sink in again, not satisfied, but too on edge to do anything else.
Steam curls around me, fogging the mirror across the room and softening the edges of the marble.
My hair floats around my shoulders, the lavender bath salts Stella mailed me dissolving into a faintly sweet scent.
She doesn’t know yet, and I’ll have to tell her soon.
I can only imagine the comments she’ll have, especially after teasing me about my wedding night.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, I feel like I can breathe.
Yesterday is still lodged in my chest like a stone.
Dr. Furman’s voice, clinical and certain: you’re pregnant.
Ben’s silence, worse than anger, worse than anything I imagined.
I barely slept, tossing under sheets that smelled faintly of him, trying to ignore the ache of wanting him there—next to me, reassuring me.
Only a few nights ago, when he had me on the couch, I remember the logic of the act: the way he pulled out and finished on me instead of in me, a move I didn’t begrudge because we didn’t need consequences built into the contract too.
I couldn’t have guessed that it was too late.
I sink deeper into the tub, closing my eyes.
The warmth eases the nausea, calms the churning in my stomach that hasn’t stopped since I woke up.
So much for morning sickness. Maybe this is how I’ll survive the next few months—drowning myself in baths, floating between panic and calm, drinking ginger tea.
A knock rattles the door.
I jolt, water sloshing against porcelain. “Yes?”
His voice. Low, measured. “It’s me.”
I swallow hard, pulling my knees up to my chest, suddenly feeling exposed despite the handful of times Benedict—my husband—has seen me naked. “Come in.”
The door opens slowly. Ben steps inside, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt rolled at the sleeves, the contrast making his skin look tanner, his jawline sharper.
He pauses when he sees me in the tub, steam rising around my bare shoulders.
His gaze flickers once, then he looks away, closing the door behind him.
“I wanted to talk,” he says.
My pulse stutters. “About…?”
“You know about what.”
Please don’t ask me to end it.
I curve my shoulders in, trying not to feel annoyance.
We could’ve talked the night before, but I got sick again, and then Benedict suddenly wasn’t available—sending Hugh on a wild goose chase for the tea, ginger chews, little things he thought might help.
Not that Ben told me that himself; Hugh let it slip when he dropped everything off, unable to ignore my sullen attitude.
Maybe Hugh’s way of reassuring me that Ben was thinking of me, even as he was hiding away somewhere in the lodge, unable to face the consequences of getting carried away by whatever has been drawing us together since the moment we laid eyes on one another.
There’s no point denying it anymore. I want him.
I think he wants me too, though from the way he refuses to look at me, doubt settles like a stone in my gut.
“Okay. Talk.”
He crosses the room but doesn’t sit, just braces a hand on the counter, towering over me like judgment itself. “I wasn’t ready for this. I never planned—never wanted—to be a father again.”
The bluntness stings, but I lift my chin. “Well, I never planned on marrying you. Life’s full of surprises.”
His mouth twitches, almost a grimace, almost a smile. “You don’t understand. I did it once, and it didn’t go well.” Fingers rub at his jawline, a habit I now recognize as anxiety.
I let out an accidental snort. “You mean Derrick.”
Ben nods once, curt. “I gave him everything—money, opportunity, protection. And still, he’s…” His jaw flexes. “He’s a disappointment. And that’s on me.”
We both know where Derrick is. Or, where he was a week or two ago at least; Croatia, Thailand. Who knows where now.
The words are so bleak, so unexpectedly self-loathing, that a laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. It startles us both.
Ben’s eyes narrow. “You find that funny? That I failed as a parent?”
“A little,” I admit, covering my mouth with a wet hand.
“Sorry. Just—you’re Benedict Bronson. You can intimidate CEOs and senators, but your son doesn’t call you back, so you think you’ve failed as a father?
That’s… kind of humanizing. And a little ridiculous, Ben.
Just because Derrick doesn’t want to live the life you built for him doesn’t mean he’s a failure. ”
His brow furrows, like no one has ever dared laugh at his insecurities before. Maybe no one has, because from the sudden air of vulnerability in the steamy room, I’m not sure Ben has ever admitted them to anyone.
Ben exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter.
“You want to keep it,” he says, not a question, and not a response to my attempt at comfort. The change in topic is abrupt.
“Yes.” My answer is immediate, steady despite the fear fluttering in my ribs.
“I always wanted to be a mother. I thought it might not happen, the way life was going, or rather it wouldn’t happen.
..” I trail off, not sure how to admit that I never thought Ben would want to have a child with me.
That kids with Derrick was a guarantee, as was the promise of him being an absent father. What kind of father would—will—Ben be?
“But now…” My throat tightens. “Now it feels like maybe I get another chance. Even if it wasn’t how I pictured it. And if you don’t want it,” I hurry on, “then I’m happy to leave. To annul this, if you want.”
My eyes lock on his, sending him a silent message: I’m not giving this up. I’ll let my family’s business crash and burn before I give this up.
He studies me for a long time, his face unreadable.
The water laps gently against porcelain as I shift, suddenly needing to fill the silence. “Baths help with the nausea. I figured that out this morning.”
His gaze softens almost imperceptibly. “They helped her, too. My wife.” His voice drops, roughened at the edges.
“Georgiana. When she was carrying Derrick, the sickness was bad. She spent hours in the bath. Said it was the only place she felt like herself.” He shakes his head, his features softening into something like calm.
“I used to call her my mermaid. Wasn’t sure she’d join us on land again, even after he was born. ”
Something twists inside me, not quite jealousy, not quite sorrow. I tread carefully. “Did it go away eventually? The nausea?”
Ben shrugs. “Not until the very end, no, but she found ways to cope with it.
The tea. The ginger treats he had Hugh bring me. Were they an olive branch? Why do I find it reassuring that he knows how to navigate this instead of feeling resentful that he’s already experienced it with someone else?
“We tried for a long time, Georgiana and I. Derrick took his time coming. The pregnancy took a toll on her, but she was happy. I was… scared, mostly. Then excited.”
Ben’s features are strained as he tells me about the past, his eyes far away. The urge to stand, dripping wet, and comfort him almost overwhelms me. But what if he doesn’t want that from me? What if that drives me away?
“I didn’t know,” I finally whisper, the water cool enough to pebble my nipples and make me consider getting out. “I didn’t want to ask if it was something you didn’t want to talk about.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know.”
He pushes off the counter, crossing the room to the door that connects my suite to the smaller sitting room—the one that was covered in sheets when I first arrived. He rests his hand on the frame, not looking at me. Tilting his head.
“That used to be hers.”
I blink. “Georgiana’s?”
“Yes.” His voice carries a faint ache, almost hidden. “She used it for book clubs. Nights with her friends. Laughter spilled down the halls. She was social, loved having people over and doing big dinners, until—” he clears his throat, voice suddenly rough. “Until she got sick and had to slow down.”
I picture it—the room alive with women, glasses of wine, stacks of novels, Georgiana in the center, vibrant and loved. It’s the first glimpse I’ve had of her beyond whispers and shadows.
“I had it made into a guest suite later, since I stopped coming down this way.” The words crack, Ben refusing to look back at me.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “That you lost her.”
His shoulders lift, then fall, as though the weight is too familiar to notice anymore. “You don’t need to be sorry. It’s just… strange, sometimes, seeing you here. In the space where she was.”
I sink lower in the water, the warmth cradling me, and for once the silence between us doesn’t feel suffocating. It feels shared.
“I’m not her,” I say carefully. “But I don’t want to erase her, either. If I’m going to have this baby… if we’re going to do this… I need to know the past isn’t a ghost hanging over us.”
His eyes finally meet mine. There’s sorrow there, yes, but also something steadier. “You’re not her. And I don’t want you to be.” He shakes his head, determined, sad, but still here. “The past will never leave me Maddie, but the future seems to be making itself known. Whether I’m ready or not.”
The words land deep, a strange kind of reassurance blooming where fear had been.
For the first time since yesterday, I let myself imagine it—me, with a baby in my arms, this house echoing with new sounds, new life. Not Derrick’s resentment, not Georgiana’s laughter, but something ours.
It’s terrifying. Overwhelming. But also… possible.
I curl my arms around my knees and rest my chin there, watching him. “I’m scared,” I admit. “But I want this. I want to try.”
His throat works, his eyes unreadable again, but softer than before. Ben nods once, a man who has made impossible decisions and is trying, for once, not to run from this one.
Something fragile, something tentative, threads between us. For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff alone.
I have only one request: “Can we not tell anyone just yet? I’d like to keep it…” A hand ghosts over my belly under the water, and Ben’s gaze flickers there, his features softening again. “I’d like it to be just our secret. For now.”
“Of course, Maddie. Anything for you.”
And with that, he turns and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.