Page 19 of Her Ex's Father
The lawyer’s pen scratches over the paper. He better not have written that down. But judging from his disinterest, it’s more likely that he’s heard this kind of thing before.
I lean back in my chair, stretching my legs under the table. “You might want to consider the optics of that statement. Someone might think you don’t value your daughter.”
“Optics,” Rupert scoffs. “I value the contract. That’s what this has always been about.”
I know that. Hell, I orchestrated it. But hearing it said out loud like that—it makes something twist in my gut. Maddie walked down that aisle tonight with her spine straight, chin high, staring down a room full of whispers, and her father didn’t even have the decency to pretend pride. He doesn’t understand just how lucky he is to have a child who would sacrifice everything for the family name. Even when treated like shit, apparently.
“I’ll be in touch about next quarter’s orders,” he says, standing without offering his hand.
The lawyer packs up his papers, mutters something about sending the final copies for our records and follows him out.
When the door clicks shut, the silence is thick. I drag a palm over my jaw, staring at the faint imprint of Rupert’s signature on the tabletop. We’ve been in one of the conference rooms, unoccupied this late at night, as the wedding reception winds down.
She’s yours to do with what you wish.
What I wish is… inappropriate. Dangerous.
I have no business even letting the thought form. Maddie is my son’s intended. Or was. The plan is still to talk some sense into Derrick, get the marriage annulled quietly, and let him take the place he abandoned today. If I can manage to get him to stand still for five minutes.
I stand and curse under my breath. Having one child should’ve made it simple. All my focus, all my resources poured into him. Instead, it’s made every failure sharper, every disappointment permanent. Georgiana was the bridge between us. Without her… there’s just this endless gulf.
She would’ve found tonight hilarious. Maddie, in that dress, cutting a path down the aisle while I stepped into my son’s place like it was nothing. Georgiana would’ve smirked into her wineglass and said I always did have a flair for spectacle.
I shake the thought away before it digs in.
In the lobby, only a few guests—well beyond their tolerance limit—sway toward the doors and their awaiting drivers. Bronson Hall is quieter, the staff noiseless and watchful. With a nod to the night manager, I key into a private hallway.
The penthouse elevator is silent except for the low hum of the cables. The suite doors open into shadow and muted lamplight. Someone—probably Hugh—thought to draw the curtains, but the sliver of mountain moonlight through the gap glints off the glassware on the sideboard.
It’s well past midnight. She should be asleep.
She isn’t.
Maddie is on the couch, knees drawn up, hair spilling out of whatever pins she wore for the ceremony. The dress is gone; tossed into a corner, judging by the mass of white that must be the overskirt. She’s in something soft and pale, her feet bare, a blanket pooled in her lap. Her eyes lift to mine the second I step in, and there’s nothing soft about her expression.
“You have some nerve,” she says.
I drop my keys onto the bar. “Good evening to you, too.”
Her laugh is short and sharp. “Evening? Ben, it’s morning. 1:15 a.m., to be exact. And my ‘good evening’ was four hours ago when my new husband disappeared without a word.”
I cross the room slowly, loosening my tie. “I had business to handle.”
“With my father?” Her tone makes the word father sound like an insult.
“Yes.” I stop at the arm of the couch. “We finalized the contract. It’s secure.”
“That’s great,” she says, voice carefully trained to be neutral. I squint, noticing the way her gaze goes distant, like a well-trained dog. But it’s not hard to see the resentment underneath. “Glad the deal’s safe. Too bad the bride’s not worth checking in on.”
The jab lands somewhere I don’t want to acknowledge. “I offered to let you stay in Montana. Keep working at the distillery.”
Her brows lift, the blanket rustling as she shifts. It makes my heart ache, this slight hint of enthusiasm, especially given how little Rupert cared about her happiness.
“And my father said what, exactly?”
I hesitate. “That it was your choice.”
Her mouth curves, humorless and knowing. “He didn’t say that.”
