Page 22 of Her Ex's Father
“Maddie—”
“No,” she says, stepping closer. “You don’t get to smooth this over. You don’t get to stand there like you’re above it when you’ve been part of the problem from the start.”
I straighten, shoulders squaring. “You think I planned for this?”
“I think you planned for me to be property in a merger,” she snaps. “You’re just as bad as my father. A pawn to be moved where it’s convenient. And now I’myourpawn instead of his.”
Her voice trembles on the last word, not with fear, but fury.
I take a step toward her, then another, until we’re a breath apart. “Careful,” I murmur.
Her chin lifts, defiant. “What? Afraid I might say something you don’t like?”
“I’m afraid you don’t know when to stop.”
“Maybe I don’t,” she says, eyes locked on mine. “Maybe I’m done pretending this isn’t a disaster. That your son’s a coward. That you’re?—”
“Say it,” I press.
She exhales hard, chest rising against the thin fabric of whatever she’s wearing under that blanket. “That you’re worse than him. Just better at hiding it.”
She doesn’t believe it; it’s obvious from the tremble in her voice, but there’s fear there. Maddie is afraid it might be true.
My jaw tightens. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
Her gaze flicks to my mouth, just for a second, then back to my eyes. “Then maybe you should enlighten me.”
The blanket slips off her shoulder. Underneath, white silk catches the low lamplight—wedding-night lingerie she must have put on for someone else.
For my son.
Every muscle in my body locks, and it takes everything I have not to look lower. Not to take that last half-step and find out if she’d push me away or pull me in.
“I should go to bed,” I say, voice sounding distant to my own ears.
“Then why aren’t you?”
Her challenge hangs between us, heavy as the scent of her skin—vanilla, faint tobacco, something warmer underneath.
Because I’m not ready to.
Because the part of me that should be thinking about annulments and contracts and damage control is thinking about the heat in her eyes.
Chapter 7
Maddie
The silk strap slips again, and I don’t bother fixing it.
It’s not like this night can get more humiliating.
I should be curled in bed, pretending this never happened. Instead, I’m chest to chest with a stolen groom, in my wedding-night lingerie—white silk, delicate lace, meant to be peeled off by a man who didn’t even show up. The only reason I’m wearing it is because it’s what got packed. And because I want him to see me like this.
Not Derrick.
Ben.
The thought makes me bite down on my lip hard enough to sting.
