Chapter 16 Benedict
Benedict
Aspen gleams in the sunlight. Shops line either side of the street, all dark wood and glass fronts polished within an inch of their lives. Luxury brands, boutique mountain outfitters, galleries that sell “rustic” paintings for the cost of a car.
It is not my world, not truly. I built resorts to cater to this clientele. I learned their tastes, but I do not belong in the crowds of vacationing trust-fund children and newly retired executives who think skiing twice a year makes them rugged.
And yet here I am, because Maddie wanted to come.
She insisted on it this morning over coffee, her eyes bright even though she was queasy again.
She’d read about a baby boutique in town that carried “the sweetest things” and wanted to see.
I told her we could have them deliver anything to the house.
She smiled, shook her head, said she wanted to walk, to feel normal, to be part of life.
So here we are.
She ducks into a small boutique with scarves in the window, promising she’ll be quick. That leaves me standing on the street, coat collar turned up against the sun’s sharp glare, alone long enough for the wolves to circle.
“Benedict.”
The voice drips with satisfaction, and I turn slowly.
Lawrence Whitman. The kind of man who inherited three ski lodges and thinks himself a titan because he hasn’t lost them yet, despite the fact that they’re outdated and he can’t afford to keep up with the maintenance.
He’s wearing a camel coat too fine for this street, flanked by two others—men of his set, faces I recognize from charity functions and the club.
I already dislike the tilt of Lawrence’s grin.
“You’ve been scarce,” he says, his eyes flicking toward the boutique where Maddie vanished. “Word is, you’ve remarried. And—” he pauses for effect, savoring it, “—expecting, apparently. Or so I've heard.”
My jaw flexes once. “Yes.”
The man at his elbow lets out a theatrical whistle. “Remarkable, Ben. Spreading your oats, are you? She can’t be more than thirty. What’s the gap?”
“Eighteen years,” Lawrence supplies, eyes glittering. “Quite the scandal in certain circles.”
“Circles I don’t care to travel in,” I reply, voice flat.
They chuckle, but it’s edged, knowing. One shakes his head as if in sympathy. “Doesn’t it feel… inappropriate? So soon after Georgiana. And with someone so young. What will people think?”
Anger spreads through my veins like a sickness at the mention of Georgiana. As if this man—who I’ve only seen fleetingly, who has never been welcomed into my home—should be allowed to utter her name.
It’s clear that these wolves don’t know anything about loss, grief, or maybe even love. My eyes narrow as I imagine their situations: loveless marriages, prenups, kids growing up with complexes because their parents are so cold.
At least Derrick feels things. Enough to be driven away from here, but still.
What they think doesn’t matter. But their tone—that easy contempt—sends a slow heat crawling under my collar. I force my hands to stay in my pockets when they want to close into fists.
“I’ll tell you what people should think,” I say quietly, cutting across their false laughter. “That I married a woman extraordinary enough to deserve better company than the three of you. She is my wife. She is carrying my child. That is all that matters.”
The silence is sharp, brittle as ice despite the warm day.
Then the boutique door opens and Maddie steps out, sunlight catching her hair, the soft blush scarf looped around her neck against the chilly spring morning. She looks pleased with herself, unaware of the men watching her, unaware of the venom they’ve already spilled.
“Sorry, Ben, I—”
I don’t let her finish. I slip my arm around her waist, draw her against me, and press my mouth to her temple.
Not a polite kiss but one that lingers, warm, proprietary, making my claim clear.
She gives a startled laugh, cheeks flooding with color, and glances up at me as if to ask what the hell I’m doing.
I only stare back at the men. “Perfect timing,” I murmur into her hair.
The group scatters quickly, muttering excuses, the satisfaction wiped from their faces.
When they’re gone, Maddie looks at me with wide, suspicious eyes. “What was that?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Which means something.” She tilts her head, studying me, but I lace my fingers with hers and lead her toward the baby boutique before she can press. The last thing I want is to expose her to high society’s vultures.
The store is a shrine to domesticity. Pastel walls.
Rows of impossibly tiny shoes. Cribs dressed like magazine spreads.
My chest tightens as Maddie drifts among them, her hand brushing over soft fabrics, her face bright with curiosity.
A flash across my eyes, and it’s Georgiana: not in this store, but a different one, looking over her shoulder with a smile.
“Oh, Ben, look at this.” Maddie holds up a knit hat with bear ears. Her smile is so hopeful I can barely stand it. “Can you imagine?”
I can. Too easily. A small body wrapped in something so soft, fragile breaths against my chest. The image blindsides me, dredging up memories of Derrick—tiny fists, milk-drunk eyes, the smell of powder and skin.
“Derrick used to sleep best with a clock in the cradle,” I say before I can stop myself. “The tick sounded like a heartbeat. Calmed him every time.”
Her face softens. “That’s sweet.”
Sweet, yes. And cruel. Because the boy who once gripped my finger with perfect trust is now a man who can’t look at me without contempt. The reminder slices deep, and I turn away, pretending interest in a stroller with too many levers.
Maddie doesn’t press. She drifts on, humming to herself, holding little clothes against her body as if testing them. Her optimism is relentless, like sunlight through cracks.
By the time we leave, her arms are full of bags—blankets, onesies, that ridiculous bear hat. She’s glowing, flushed from the walk and the thrill of planning. I carry the heavier bags, silent, caught somewhere between the ghost of the past and the impossible future.
At home, the quiet is a relief. The house breathes around us, stone walls holding the warmth of the fire I had lit earlier in the living area. Maddie shrugs off her coat, scarf slipping loose, and stretches with a soft groan.
“You were quiet,” she says, watching me.
“Am I not allowed to be?”
She rolls her eyes gently. “You’re always allowed. But today… it felt different. Heavier.”
I study her. The way she moves through this house, no longer tentative but not entirely at ease. The way she meets my gaze, open where I am closed. She unsettles me without trying.
“I was remembering Derrick,” I admit finally. “When he was a baby.”
Her expression shifts, tender and cautious. “You must have been a wonderful father.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “You’ve met my son. Does he strike you as the product of wonderful fatherhood?”
She steps closer, hand brushing my arm. “Children make their own choices, Ben. That doesn’t erase what you gave him.”
The words scrape at the hollow place in me.
I don’t answer. There’s so much she doesn’t know, so much I don’t know how to talk about: what Georgiana’s death did to Derrick and me.
How it shoved us apart. How I’m sure it’s part of why he can’t set foot here; because it’s the place she breathed her last, willingly, the place she wrote him a note explaining that everything would be okay.
But he couldn’t have felt okay after losing her. I didn’t, even with a year to prepare—it wrecked me. What if I lose something all over again, with Maddie and the baby? A loss like that, I know, would break me.
She watches me another moment, then bites her lip, hesitating. “Can I tell you something without you… I don’t know. Without you retreating?”
“Try me.”
Her cheeks are already pink. “The hormones are… making me restless.”
I frown. “Restless?”
She lifts her chin, brave in her embarrassment. “Horny.” The flush on her cheeks deepens, but her body is all silk—draped toward me, breasts pushed out, lips parted.
The word cracks the air between us. For a moment all I can do is stare. Then a laugh rumbles low in my chest, darker than I mean it to. “Christ, Madeline.”
“I’m serious,” she blurts, then groans and covers her face. “God, why did I say that out loud—”
I catch her wrists, tug her hands gently away. “Because it’s true. And because you wanted me to know.”
Her breath hitches. “It’s actually really annoying,” she complains in a whisper.
“I’ve never been so…” Shaking her head, she takes a deep breath, and I can’t help dropping my gaze to her breasts again.
The shirt she’s wearing is thin, comfortable, doing nothing to hide the swell of her slight curves.
I step closer, shadows swallowing us both, and lower my voice. “I could take care of that. Right now. You’d forget everything else.”
Her pupils widen. She sways almost imperceptibly toward me. My restraint thins to a thread. This is what got us into trouble in the first place…
The scent of her—vanilla, warm skin, something sweet I can’t name—pulls me down like gravity. My hands slip around her hips, tugging her ever closer, closing the gap between us.
I’m an inch from her mouth when the slam of the front door shatters it.
“Madeline!”
Derrick’s voice.
She jerks back, startled. My chest hardens like stone, heat curdling into rage.
And when my son strides into the room—uninvited, unannounced, eyes already sharp with trouble—I know the fragile moment I just had with my wife is gone.
For now.