Page 101 of Her Ex's Father
I’m just surprised he even wanted to.
“I’m not here to start shit,” he says quickly, voice glum. “I’m not staying. Just came back because…” He hesitates, shoulders hunching. “Because Dad asked me to.”
The word Dad jars me, makes me stiffen. Derrick’s gaze flicks to the floor.
And then, as if summoned, Ben’s voice rolls through the room. “Because it’s time.”
I turn. Ben strides in from the hallway, every line of him composed, calm, like he’s been preparing for this moment. He looks at me first, his eyes softening, and then at Hugh. “We should be fine, Hugh. Thank you.”
Hugh nods, turning to head out, commenting quietly: “I’ll bring breakfast here, Maddie, if that’s okay.”
My stomach growls like the traitor it is, and Derrick’s eyes flick to me, amused but still sullen. The nausea has thankfully subsided, but now I’m ravenous all the time—even at odd hours.
Once the three of us are alone, Benedict moves toward his son and sits in the armchair closest.
“I should’ve done this years ago,” he says simply.
I shift, uncertain. “Maybe I should give you two privacy?—”
“No.” Ben’s voice is firm, steady. He comes to stand beside me, his hand brushing mine, grounding me. “Stay. You’re family now. You should hear this too.”
The words sink deep, warm and solid, even as nerves prickle under my skin. Just like back in Sweden I realize that it finally feels like we’re equals—that hewantsme here with him.
Derrick exhales hard, rubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
We end up in Georgiana’s old sitting room. It feels strange to be here—even after my brief stint at this end of the lodge, it never really felt like mine. Only now, it doesn’t feel like she’s competition either. I wonder if Derrick can sense that too.
Ben stands tall in the center, Derrick leaning against the far window, me hovering near the door. I don’t want to intrude, but Ben’s look earlier was clear:stay.
He drags in a breath. “Derrick, I should’ve told you the truth a long time ago. About what happened.”
Derrick’s mouth twists. “I already know what happened. You checked out. After Mom died, you put the business before me. Before everything.”
Ben shakes his head. “That’s not the truth. That’s what I let you believe, because I thought it would protect you. And that’s not what I’m talking about—at the river, you accused me of having a part in her death. You need to know that isn’t true.”
Derrick scoffs, but there’s no bite in it. Just exhaustion.
Ben steps closer, his voice low, raw. “Your mother chose to die peacefully. She was sick for years, and I shielded you from how bad it really was. You were a kid, Derrick. You didn’t need to carry that.”
Derrick’s head jerks up, eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about? I know she was sick, I?—”
Ben cuts him off, the words coming in a rush now that they’re finally having this out. “She begged me not to let you see her like that. Not to let you remember her weak, gasping, begging for relief. I honored her wish. I kept you away in those last months so you could remember her as vibrant, as whole. I thought I was doing right by you.”
The silence that follows is heavy. My throat aches just listening.
Derrick’s hands flex on the windowsill, his knuckles white. “So, all those nights you said you were working?—”
“I was at her side,” Ben admits. “Holding her hand. Listening to her cry. Trying to keep the world together for both of us.” His voice cracks, barely, but enough that it cleaves the air. “And when she passed, I didn’t know how to reach you without breaking that promise to her. I didn’t know how to tell you that shechoseto leave us, or that I was okay with it—because she was finally not in pain anymore.”
Dragging a hand down his face in the silence, Benedict murmurs: “I’ve always wondered if Ididhear her say ‘goodbye’ instead of ‘goodnight’ that night. And if I ignored it on purpose. But I swear, Derrick, I don’t think I did. I was so exhausted and scared and trying to keep the company from falling apart because I was missing so much. I didn’t know she was going to…”
Derrick stares at him, disbelief and grief warring across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why let me hate you all these years?”
“Because I thought my silence would spare you pain.” Ben’s jaw tightens, his eyes glinting. “Instead, it left you carrying resentment. And having to hear the rumors that I gave her those pills, that I was complicit in her death. That’s on me. I should’ve trusted you with the truth.”
The room is thick with everything unsaid, with the weight of years that can’t be rewound. I want to move closer, to touch Ben, but I stay still, letting this play out.
Finally, Derrick lets out a rough laugh that sounds more like a sob. “God, you’re such an idiot.”
