Chapter 24
Benedict
The chopper’s blades cut the sky like knives, their roar vibrating through my bones as we stand on the landing pad behind the resort. The pilot gives me a nod, waiting for us to climb aboard, but Derrick lingers on the edge of the gravel, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding his eyes.
“This is ridiculous,” he mutters.
“It’s two days,” I say evenly. “You used to like fishing.”
“I was a kid.”
I bite back a sigh. “You were happy then.”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment I see the boy he used to be, before Georgiana’s illness, before his nights became a blur of liquor and tabloid photos. Back when a Saturday morning meant dawn light on the water and the thrill of a trout on the line.
Hugh is standing in front of the French doors that lead to Bronson Hall’s interior. His dark gaze is distrusting, his mouth set as he looks at me as if to ask: Are you sure?
Only days ago, Hugh told me that Derrick has been sneaking around. Not just Bronson Hall, but the lodge. It’s why he was there that day, following Maddie in the woods. The question is, why?
I’m so far removed from my son that I can’t be sure; he was drunk enough that on the way back to the resort, I’m told he puked in the backseat of the car several times. That he woke up apologizing incoherently, scared.
Of me. Of what he thought I might do to him after what he tried with Maddie.
The realization was like a nail in my heart, and it’s still there as I look at my son—who used to be a boy, and used to trust me. Losing his mother made him vulnerable. Unfortunately, it also made him listen to the whispers about what had happened. That I’d been involved somehow.
I know he’s angry. I know he’s hurt. And I want to salvage our relationship, if I can, but I need to know that he won’t try and harm Madeline.
I’ve booked the retreat because of that boy. If there’s even a shard of him left, maybe I can reach it. Maybe we can fix this before it breaks completely. Hugh, though, doesn’t agree; he thinks that for once Derrick would be better off countries, continents, away.
The pilot checks his watch. I gesture toward the helicopter. “Coming?”
Derrick huffs, mutters something I can’t hear, then finally climbs aboard. Progress, however reluctant.
I follow, settling into the seat opposite him as the machine lifts. The lodge shrinks below us, the town beyond fading into a patchwork of green and brown. Mountains rise ahead, jagged and timeless.
For a while, we don’t speak. The noise is too loud, but even if it weren’t, Derrick’s gaze is fixed on the window, headphones muffling any attempt at conversation. His reflection stares back at me in the glass—my son, my failure, my burden.
And yet. My boy.
The lodge in northern Colorado is as secluded as promised: a stone-and-timber masterpiece set against a river that cuts silver through the valley.
Staff in crisp uniforms meet us at the helipad, whisking our bags inside.
Derrick tosses his to a bellman and disappears toward his suite without a word.
There’s still an air of embarrassment, guilt, trailing after him because of what he did.
I let him go. He’ll need space before we can find common ground.
My own room is a study in rustic luxury—leather armchairs, antler chandeliers, windows opening onto endless pine. But I don’t linger. After changing into waders and boots, I head to the river, rod in hand, praying he’ll follow.
He does. Eventually.
I hear him before I see him, crunch of boots on gravel as he trudges down the bank, rod slung over his shoulder like a reluctant soldier’s weapon. His hair is messy, his jaw shadowed. But at least he’s here.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” I say as he joins me on the rocks.
“I was bored.” He shrugs, but his eyes flick to the water, lingering there. “Smells the same.”
“Some things don’t change.”
We wade in, the cold bite of the river wrapping around our legs.
The current pulls steady, insistent, but familiar.
I cast first, the line singing through the air, landing with a soft plunk.
Derrick watches, then mimics the motion, rough at first, then smoother, like muscle memory waking after years of sleep.
“Do you remember,” I call over the sound of the river, “the first time we came here?”
He’s turned away from me, but the pause lets me know he’s trying. “No,” he says finally. “Maybe. I’m not sure; there was an elk…”
I shake my head. “That was a few years later. The first time, you were two.”
Now he turns to look at me, his line rising and sinking effortlessly without focus to drag it down. “Well of course I don’t remember that, Dad.” The roll of his eyes, familiar, lacking cruelty for once.
I open my mouth to tell him about it: how Georgiana and I hadn’t intended to stop, hadn’t booked a room. We were both exhausted after driving to a possible location in Idaho that we were considering for a resort, but decided against. The trip was tiring, a letdown, and then… this place appeared.
Derrick had been fussy and sleepless almost the entire trip.
We could’ve and probably should’ve brought help; a nanny or two.
But all we wanted at that point was each other, alone.
Chatting together in the car. Marveling at the small things Derrick did.
Groaning over roadside burgers, without the upper class to look down on us.
No; he wouldn’t remember any of that.
For a while, we fish in silence. The river murmurs, birds dart above, and the rhythm of cast and reel pulls me back to mornings years ago, when Georgiana would bring thermoses of coffee and stand on the shore, smiling faintly as she watched us.
Derrick catches the first trout. His laugh—short, surprised—cuts through me. For an instant, he looks young again, eyes lit with something other than spite. He releases the fish, shaking water from his hands.
“You’ve still got it,” I say.
“Guess so.” He glances at me, something like pride flickering before his mouth twists. “Don’t get sentimental, Dad.”
But I already am.
By late afternoon, the sun slants golden through the trees. Derrick leans on his rod case, calmer than I’ve seen him in years. It feels like the moment—the one I came for.
I clear my throat. “Derrick, we need to talk.”
His eyes narrow. “Here we go.”
“Maddie and the baby—”
“Don’t.”
“She’s your stepmother now. And soon, that child will be your sibling. We can’t keep tearing each other apart. I want you to be part of this family.”
He laughs, bitter. “Family? You mean the family where you marry the girl I wanted? Where you knock her up just to prove you still can?”
My temper spikes. “Watch yourself.” I take a deep breath in, let it out slowly, trying not to lose it on the riverbank. Trying to feel how Georgiana would want me to handle this. “Be honest, Derrick, you never wanted Maddie. She was just a business transaction—”
“One that you completed when I decided not to step up. And you’re acting like she means more to you than that.”
“She does. You need to respect that.” The flame of anger is growing in my chest, harder to keep at bay now that the boy I’ve been remembering has turned into the man who hates me.
“No.” He throws his rod onto the rocks, eyes blazing. “You think you’re the noble one here, the victim of circumstance. But you always get what you want. Mom, your empire, now Maddie. And everyone else—me, Mom—we’re collateral damage.”
“Don’t drag your mother into this.”
“Why not? Everyone whispers about it. How she died. The pills. The timing. You think I don’t hear it?” His voice rises, echoing off the water. “I’ve wondered it myself. Did you help her? Did you push her, so you could be free?”
My stomach twists, nausea making me sick. The memories come flooding back: finding her like that. On the floor. Too late.
“That’s enough.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You are.” My voice shakes with fury and something darker—pain. “I loved your mother. Her illness destroyed her, not me. She wanted out Derrick—”
Derrick sneers. “You say that, but the way you parade Maddie around—Jesus, Dad, she’s barely my age. How long before she realizes she’s trapped too?”
“She isn’t trapped.”
“Really? You leave her alone for days at a time. She’s young, beautiful, bored out of her mind. You think she’s faithful while you’re off playing mogul?”
The words hit harder than I expect. My instinct is denial. Maddie is strong, independent, not the type to stray. I trust her.
But Derrick’s smirk needles me. “You sure about that? You’ve always been blind when it comes to women. Mom. Now her. There are things about her,” he hisses between clenched teeth, “things you don’t know.”
Anger roars in me, but beneath it, a sliver of doubt pierces, sharp and cold. Maddie is loyal. She loves me. Doesn’t she?
“Hugh told me you’ve been sneaking around the resort, and the lodge as well. What are you doing, Derrick?”
“Worried I’ve gotten to her? That the punch to the nose was just an act?” His words are bitter, vinegar, acid, but they’re a bluff; I can tell. Whatever his reason for slinking around, he’s obviously not going to tell me. Not now.
“Go back to the lodge,” I say finally, voice like stone.
“Gladly.” He stalks off, boots splashing through the shallows, leaving me alone with the river and the hollow ache in my chest.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur to the water, the dragonflies, the trees. “I don’t know how to bring him back.”
Later, as dusk settles, I sit on the lodge’s balcony, drink untouched in my hand. The river glimmers silver below, steady, unchanging. But my mind is a storm.
I hear Maddie’s laugh in my memory, soft and bright. I feel the warmth of her belly beneath my hand, the promise of our child. I replay her whispered I believe you from that night we made love, her eyes filled with trust.
And still, Derrick’s voice coils around it all: She’s young. You leave her alone. You think she’s faithful?
The thrum of blades cuts the evening air. I rise, moving to the railing just as the private helicopter lifts from the pad. Its lights flash, rotors whirring, carrying Derrick away.
I don’t stop him.
I just watch, the wind tugging at my shirt, wondering if I’ve lost him forever.
And worse—wondering if I’m losing Maddie too. Derrick’s words have hit their marked, hooked my delicate skin.
What if there’s something she’s hiding from me?