Page 88 of Her Ex's Father
Benedict
The jet shudders as it begins its descent, the wings catching the gray Pennsylvania air. I brace my hand against the armrest, though it’s not turbulence that has me clenched like this. It’s the fact that for three days, Maddie has been gone.
Three days without her voice. Three days without the sight of her walking barefoot across the kitchen, laughing at some private thought. Three days without her scent clinging to the halls of my house.
The first morning I woke without her, I told myself she needed space. That she would call when she was ready. I poured myself a coffee, pretended to read the financial pages, and listened for her laugh echoing from somewhere down the hall. It never came.
By nightfall, I was pacing, restless, checking my phone until my eyes blurred. Hugh tried to distract me with updates on the Switzerland project. I didn’t care. The second day, silence pressed against the windows of the house like a weight. The staff whispered, Caroline watched me like I was a storm about to break, and still no word from Maddie.
On the third morning, I booked the jet. Screw patience. Screw pride. I’d waited long enough.
One of the hardest things, that I didn’t expect, was the edge of panic I can feel just under my ribcage at all times—the worry that I’m not protecting our daughter, that I’m failing her somehow already. And she hasn’t even opened her eyes to this world.
The seatbelt sign dings and I force myself to breathe evenly. I’ve been in more negotiations than I can count, sat across from men who would slit my throat for a chance at my empire, but nothing has made me feel so unsteady as the thought of Maddie choosing not to come back.
I rub a hand over my face. My friends would say I’m making myself sick over a girl who barely tolerates me. They don’t understand. This isn’t just about attraction. It’s about the way she’s shifted the axis of my life. The way every quiet room feels wrong without her in it.
The plane wheels hit the tarmac with a jolt. I close my eyes, exhale hard, and remind myself of the only fact that matters: Maddie is here, in this city. And I’m about to see her again. To ask her to come home.
I’ll beg if I have to.
The driver threads us through Philadelphia traffic, horns blaring on all sides. I can’t stand to sit idle, so I call Hugh.
“Tell me you’ve got something.”
Hugh clears his throat on the other end, uneasy. “I tracked down the man she’s staying with. Jack McAllister. Air Force test pilot. Clean record, decorated. His mother passed not long ago—lung cancer. He moved here after that. Ben… I feel like I’m crossing a line. Maddie’s entitled to her privacy.”
“Of course she is,” I murmur, though my jaw tightens. “But what else is being a billionaire good for, if not throwing money at private investigators until they hand me an address?”
“Not funny.” Hugh sighs, sounding older than he is. “Please go easy on her. She’s not running from you. She’s scared.”
“She should be,” I say quietly. Then I hang up before I can admit the truth—that I’m the one who’s terrified.
The car pulls up in front of a brownstone draped in ivy, bricks weathered with age. It’s modest, at least by my standards. But something about it strikes me as safe, solid, lived-in. I can see the appeal.
I step onto the sidewalk, straighten my jacket, and steel myself.
The door opens before I can knock twice. Jack McAllister stands there, framed by warm light from inside. He’s taller than I expected. Not quite my height, but close. Broad-shouldered, trim. His eyes are clear, his face open in that easy way military men often have—trained to put people at ease, to inspire trust.
I hate him instantly.
“You must be Benedict Bronson.” His voice is calm, polite, the cadence of someone who’s used to leading men into danger and bringing them back again. He extends his hand.
I clasp it, firm. “And you’re Jack.”
Our grips lock. Neither of us yields. He’s not aggressive—if anything, he’s cordial. That unsettles me more. I was prepared for hostility, for a challenge. Instead, he greets me like an equal.
We stand there too long, staring each other down, two men weighing the other in silence. Finally, Jack’s mouth quirks. He withdraws first, deliberate, like he’s gifting me the win.
“Come in.”
The apartment is neat, lived-in without being cluttered. Books stacked on a low shelf, a leather jacket draped carelessly over a chair. A faint smell of coffee and oil clings to theair. The kind of space a man builds for himself, practical and unpretentious. When I was much younger, this is what I dreamed of for myself—until my father told me I had to step up, be a Bronson.
Let dreams of bachelorhood and hiding away from society slip from my mind.
“Can I get you something? Coffee, water?” Jack offers, voice even.
“I’m fine.”
