Chapter 38
Benedict
Routine. I never thought I’d crave it, not after decades of living like every day was a battle to win or a contract to secure. But with Maddie eight and a half months pregnant, routine is the only thing keeping me sane.
Our mornings start in the kitchen, light spilling through the windows, her laptop open while she sips tea.
She’s been planning the Sweden event from home, her spreadsheets and color-coded notes taking over the dining table.
I watch her sometimes when she isn’t looking, the way she cradles her belly absentmindedly while she types, the way her face glows with focus.
I’ve never seen anyone look so powerful and so vulnerable all at once.
We even got to skip New Years, or at least the New Years I’m used to—galas, champagne towers, rooms full of strangers all vying to be the center of attention.
Instead, it was a quiet night in with Hugh, Caroline, Leo and Maddie, and for the first time I felt nothing but relief to have traded the glitter of Aspen for something smaller, warmer, and more real.
My days are more traditional: calls with the board, reviews of Bronson Estates expansions, the usual power plays and politics. But every hour, my mind drifts back to her.
To them.
This morning started like all the rest with a breakfast filled with laughter and then a drive into town.
I’m meeting with the board at our base of operations in the heart of Aspen, and Meredith took Madeline out to buy a few last-minute things she’s been fretting over: extra little beanies for the Colorado winter, a bottle sanitizer that we initially decided against, and a first-aid kit specifically for newborns.
It all seemed like overkill, but I just can’t say no—especially when I worry just as much as she does, even if this is my second time around.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow swirls in soft drifts down from the sky.
We’ve already had a few days since November of a solid dumping of the stuff, but this is just a dusting.
As I listen to my team debate at the table around me, I can’t help staring off into the hazy sky that masks the buildings around us.
The idea that Maddie is out there somewhere, wrapped up in one of my scarves, snowflakes catching on her pale eyelashes and our child warm under a layer of sweaters, warms my soul.
The board is mid-discussion about quarterly returns when the door to the conference room bangs open. Hugh stands there, pale, his phone pressed tight to his ear. I half-rise from the chair immediately, fearing the worst.
This kind of snow—light, fantasy-like—is pleasing to look at. But also, dangerous.
“Ben.” His voice is sharp, urgent. “It’s Meredith.”
Before he says anything else, a hundred scenarios go through my mind, most involving cars skidding in the slick powder or a fall down black-iced steps.
“Maddie went into labor. They’re on the way to the hospital.”
Everything in me stops.
The boardroom disappears—the charts, the suits, the polite bickering. All I hear is that one sentence. Maddie. Labor. Hospital.
I’m on my feet before the chair can slide back. “Get the car.”
Hugh nods, still holding the phone to his ear. “This doesn’t look bad, but the roads aren’t sanded yet. Meredith says it’s moving fast. And they’re predicting a storm rolling into town just about now.”
My blood runs cold as I glance toward the window, where the sky is in fact darkening to the east. A storm. Labor. Maddie.
She’s only thirty-four weeks. That’s too early.
I don’t remember leaving the boardroom, don’t remember taking the stairs two at a time. My chest is a drumbeat of dread as I stride into the snow.
The air only a few miles away is thick with electricity, the sky a bruised black. A wind picks up, swirling the flakes ominously so that they feel like little darts across my face.
The driver pulls up, headlights glowing faintly through the thickening powder. I wrench the back door open and barrel inside, Hugh slipping into the passenger seat, phone still to his ear and face grim.
We make it through a few streets only to be met with the sight of a downed tree across a narrow one-way road, branches like broken bones tangled in the snow.
Getting out of the car, I assess the situation. It’s no small tree, but one that the city probably should’ve taken down sooner rather than later, rot darkening the splintered core.
“Goddamn it!” My voice cracks, carried off by the wind as it gusts louder.
The driver gets out, stammers, “Sir, we’ll need a saw—”
“No time.” I shove past him, splinters biting into my hands as I grip the trunk. My muscles strain, my shoulder burns, but all I can think is, I can’t lose them. Not her. Not Juniper.
I heave, rage and fear giving me strength, until the tree shifts just enough for the car to squeeze by. My breath saws out, my hands raw, but I don’t stop.
“Drive.”
We lurch forward, tires sliding on wet asphalt.
My mind spins with images I can’t stop: Maddie pale and screaming, the baby somehow caught, doctors shaking their heads. Georgiana’s face flickers in my memory, the memory of getting to her too late, and bile rises in my throat.
I press my fists against my knees, forcing myself to breathe. Maddie isn’t Georgiana. This isn’t then. But fear claws up anyway, vicious and unrelenting.
I’ve built empires, crushed rivals, stared down men who’d kill me without hesitation. None of it prepared me for this. For the thought of losing her. Losing both of them.
Eventually the hospital looms ahead, lights flickering under the assault of the storm now in full-force. Down the length of the streets, orange plows move like monsters, pushing out through the haze.
I shove the car door open before it stops, snow immediately packing into my collar and covering my shoes. The hospital lights glow in the darkening city despite it being only just after noon.
Stalking toward the glass doors, my breath catches in my throat and I gasp, praying with each heavy step.
Chaos. Nurses rushing, voices raised, monitors beeping.
“Bronson?” someone calls, and Meredith appears, soaked from melted snow and frantic. Relief floods her face when she sees me.
“She’s here. She needs you.”
She leads me down the hall, and I nearly falter when I see Maddie.
She’s on the bed, sweat dampening her hair, her face pale but determined. Every contraction wracks her, her hands clutching the rails, but when her eyes find mine—God, she tries to smile.
“Ben.” Her voice is hoarse. “You made it.”
My chest cracks wide open. I’m at her side in two strides, taking her hand, pressing it to my lips. “Of course I did. I’m here.”
She squeezes my hand so hard it hurts, and I welcome the pain. At least, I tell myself, she’s here and not caught out in the storm or in a vehicle that can’t move.
The doctor steps in, urgency written all over her face. “She hasn’t had an epidural. Labor is progressing too quickly, but the baby is in distress. We need to move to an emergency c-section. Full sedation.”
The words slam into me like a fist. Sedation. Surgery. Maddie unconscious while they cut her open. This isn’t anything like what I experienced with Georgiana, with Derrick—that was just a normal labor, a long one but steady.
This feels anything but steady, with a handful of people already coordinating the surgical room and equipment needed.
“No,” I rasp, instinctively.
“Yes.” Maddie’s voice is firm despite her exhaustion. She grips my hand, her eyes blazing. “Ben. Sign it. Please.”
I shake my head, reeling. “Maddie—”
“Trust me,” she says, fierce and clear. “Like I trust you.”
The nurse hands me the clipboard, the consent form, the pen. Her signature is already on it, allowing me to make any decisions while she’s unconscious. My hands shake. For a moment I can’t breathe, can’t think.
She’s giving this to me. Her life, our daughter’s life. The weight of it nearly brings me to my knees.
I scrawl my name. The pen nearly snaps under my grip.
The team wheels her away, and I follow as far as I can until a nurse blocks me at the OR doors.
“Sir, you can’t come in.”
My chest heaves. The storm rages outside, a mixture of snow and sleet rattling the windows, blocking out the city around us. Maddie’s last look burns in my memory—tired, in pain, but brave. Sure.
The doors swing shut.
And I’m left outside, drenched in fear, praying to a God I haven’t spoken to in decades.
Please. Don’t take them from me.