Chapter 61 The Trap Closes
Ben Hargrove stepped out of the black SUV, the cold January wind cutting through his coat like a blade. The estate loomed ahead, grand, silent, its windows dark except for the soft glow from a few rooms on the second floor. Snow crunched under his boots as he walked up the drive, the sound sharp and lonely in the night. He’d spent the last few days meeting with board members, quiet dinners, discreet coffees, careful words planted like seeds. Voss, Thorpe and a few others. They were all on his side now, nodding gravely, whispering about “stability” and “family values.” But every one of them had said the same thing: We need proof. Tangible evidence. We can’t move against Alexander without it.
Proof. That word had become his obsession.
The new private investigator he’d hired, more expensive, more discreet, had come back empty-handed again. “They’re careful,” the man had said over the phone, voice flat. “I’ve got footage of them in the car together, but nothing concrete. No hotel receipts, no compromising photos.”
Ben had wanted to smash the phone. Nothing. He didn’t pay to get nothing. He paid for the results.
Two nights ago, he’d noticed the house empty, both Alexander and Maddie gone. They’d returned past midnight, headlights cutting through the dark drive. If he’d known they were leaving, he could’ve followed. Could’ve caught them somewhere, anywhere, doing something he could use. But he’d missed it. Again.
Now, walking toward the mansion, he’d decided: no more waiting for investigators. He’d confront Maddie directly. Threaten her. Promise her more money. Whatever it took to make her admit the truth. If she was sleeping with Alexander, she’d crack. Women always cracked.
He pushed open the front door. The foyer was dim, lit only by wall sconces. The house smelled of lemon polish and woodsmoke, Clara’s doing. Quiet. Too quiet.
He climbed the stairs, boots muffled on the carpet runner. Maddie’s door was closed. He knocked, sharp, impatient.
No answer.
He turned the knob. It wasn’t locked.
The room was empty. Bed made. Lights off. She wasn’t back from campus yet.
Ben stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The room smelled faintly of her, lavender soap, the soft floral perfume she wore. He scanned it quickly, desk with textbooks, closet half-open, nightstand with a lamp. An idea sparked, hot and vicious.
He moved fast, quiet, and methodically. Wardrobe first: dresses, sweaters, nothing. Dresser drawers: socks, underwear, a few pieces of jewelry. Then the nightstand drawer.
He opened it.
An envelope, plain white, no markings.
He pulled it out, heart kicking up. Inside: a folded sheet of paper, hospital letterhead. Ultrasound report. Six weeks. The due date circled in red.
Ben stared at the words, the grainy black-and-white image of a tiny shape.
Pregnant.
Rage exploded in his chest, hot, blinding. She’d slept with Alexander. Not him. Never him. Alexander had the balls to impregnate his wife, fake or not. The thought burned. And no one knew, except Maddie.
Evidence.
He pulled out his phone, snapped photos of the report, clear, sharp, undeniable. Then he slipped it back into the envelope, closed the drawer, and left the room exactly as he’d found it.
Downstairs, he paced the living room, waiting. The grandfather clock ticked, slow, relentless. One hour passed. Then headlights swept across the windows.
Her old car, rusted, beat-up, pulled into the drive. Not one of Alexander’s sleek vehicles. Interesting.
Ben stepped outside, the cold air hitting him like a slap. Maddie climbed out, coat pulled tight, bag slung over her shoulder. She looked tired, pale, eyes shadowed.
He forced a smile. “Hey, darling. Long day?”
She nodded, wary. “Yeah. Tired.”
“Come take a walk with me.” He gestured toward the garden path. “Just a few minutes. Fresh air.”
She hesitated. “Ben, I’m exhausted. I had a long day at school…”
“You’re tired because of the pregnancy,” he said, voice low, “or because of the long day?”
Her face went white. The color drained so fast he almost laughed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, voice shaking.
He stepped closer. “Don’t pretend. I saw the result. Six weeks. Congratulations, by the way, who is the father, definitely not me.”
Her eyes widened, shock, fear, fury. “You went through my things? You violated my privacy?”
“You don’t have privacy,” he snapped. “Not when you’re sleeping with my stepfather or some lowlife in your school. Come with me. Now. Stop asking questions.”
She stared at him, chest heaving. Then, slowly, reluctantly, she nodded.
Ben smiled, cold, victorious.
He led her toward the garden, the path crunching under their boots, the night swallowing them whole.
The garden path crunched under our boots like brittle bones as Ben led me away from the house, the cold evening air whipping through the hedges with a low, moaning wind that carried the sharp scent of pine and frozen earth. My heart pounded in my chest, a frantic rhythm that echoed in my ears, drowning out the distant hoot of an owl. The estate lights faded behind us, the garden shrouded in shadows from the overcast sky, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. Ben's grip on my arm was loose but insistent, his fingers cold through my coat sleeve, guiding me deeper into the maze of trimmed bushes and iced fountains. The gravel bit into my soles, each step sending a jolt up my legs, but it was nothing compared to the terror clawing at my throat.
He stopped abruptly near the frozen fountain, the water's surface a dull, cracked mirror reflecting the dark night. The air here was colder, the wind sharper, carrying the faint, metallic tang of frost. Ben released my arm and turned to face me, his face half-shadowed, eyes glittering with a mix of rage and triumph. His breath fogged in front of him, and I could smell his cologne, spicy, overpowering, making my stomach churn.