Chapter 55 Calm Before the Storm
"Deadly." Ben took another sip, letting the burn steady him. "The shopping trip in the city. The intimate dinner. The way he looks at her, like she's his. They didn't come back to the estate that day. Vanished for hours. And the estate itself... something happened. Security lockdown, repairs. I think they were hiding something."
Grant set his glass down slowly, the clink sharp in the quiet. "Alexander? That's... unexpected. The man's always been cold, controlled. I never expected this from him."
Ben nodded, leaning in. "That's what makes it dangerous. If it gets out, if the board hears that the CEO is sleeping with his stepson's wife, the shares will tank. Investors will flee. The company's reputation will be in tatters. Someone who can do that... someone who can betray family like that... he's not fit to lead."
Grant's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Do you have proof?"
"Not yet." Ben's jaw tightened. "But I'm close. And if it's true, the fallout will be catastrophic. The conservative members, Voss, Thorpe, yourself, you've always valued stability, tradition. This is the opposite."
Grant stared into his glass, swirling the whiskey. "If this is true..."
"It is," Ben said, voice low, certain. "And when it breaks, it won't be good for the shares. Or the company. Or the board's legacy."
Grant exhaled slowly. "I'll speak to the others. Quietly. See how they react."
Ben allowed a small, grim smile. "That's all I ask. I care about the company, Reginald. And I care about Alexander. But I'm heartbroken. I think he manipulated her. Forced her. She's so naive."
Grant's expression softened, pity, disgust, resolve. "I'll handle it."
He finished his drink, slid off the stool, and left without another word. Ben watched him go, the door closing with a soft thud. The bartender refilled his glass without asking.
Ben lifted the whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. Grant was on his side. One down. Voss and Thorpe next. A few more calls, a few more quiet conversations. The board would turn. Alexander would fall.
And Maddie? She'd be collateral. A shame, really. But necessary.
He smiled into the amber liquid, the reflection of his face distorted, triumphant.
The game was tilting.
And Ben Hargrove intended to win.
A week had passed since we returned from the cabin, and the estate had slipped into a deceptive kind of peace. Christmas and new year had passed in a blur of forced cheer and unspoken tension.
Safe to say peace had returned, but it looked like the calm before the storm.
I resumed classes yesterday, the campus air sharp with winter cold and the comforting smell of coffee from the student lounge. Architecture finals loomed in two months, and the weight of my degree felt heavier than ever. I needed to focus, needed something solid to hold onto amid the chaos inside me. The pregnancy still hadn’t shown outwardly, no swelling, no obvious changes, but the symptoms had deepened. The hunger was constant, a hollow ache that woke me before dawn. The nausea came in waves, triggered by smells I once ignored: Ben’s cologne, the chemical cleaners Clara used, even the faint metallic hint of blood from the repaired walls. I could hear the distant hum of the estate’s security system from my room, and smell the pine trees outside long before I stepped onto the balcony. It was overwhelming, exhilarating, terrifying. My body was changing, and I was terrified of what it meant.
I hadn’t seen much of Alexander lately. Work had resumed after the holidays, and he was buried in the office, new projects launching, board meetings, pack matters still simmering in the background. He came home late, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, but he always found me first, slipping into my room, pulling me close, kissing me until the tension melted. We hadn’t talked about the future, about marriage, about kids. I kept putting it off, waiting for the right moment. Soon, I’d decided. When we had time. When I could indirectly bring up a topic that related to family so I could ask his take on marriage and kids without him suspecting the real reason.
Ben was scarce too, always “out on business,” always returning with that polished smile that never reached his eyes. I avoided him when I could, keeping interactions brief, polite, distant. The fake marriage felt heavier every day, a chain I couldn’t quite break.
I was driving in from campus when I saw Alexander’s black SUV turning into the estate gates ahead of me. The winter sun was low, casting long shadows across the snow-dusted drive. I parked beside him in the garage, the engine ticking as it cooled, the air inside still carrying the faint scent of leather and pine from his coat.
He stepped out, coat slung over one arm, tie loosened, hair slightly tousled from the wind. When he saw me, his expression softened, the exhaustion lifting just enough for a small, tired smile.
“You’re back early,” I said, closing my car door.
He nodded, crossing to me, pulling me into a quick, hard hug that smelled of city air, coffee, and him. “Missed you,” he murmured against my hair. “Want to spend some time together? If you’ll permit it.”
I laughed softly, the sound muffled against his chest. “That’s fine. I missed you too.” My voice came out shy, almost embarrassed, but the truth was there, warm, undeniable.
He kissed my forehead. “Freshen up. I’ll tell Clara, or whoever’s around, to bring food and dessert to the garden. We can eat outside. It’s cold, but the heaters are on.”
I nodded, hurrying inside, the warmth of the foyer enveloping me like a hug. The house smelled of wood polish and fresh flowers, Clara’s doing, always. I took the stairs two at a time, heart lighter than it had been in days.
In my room, I showered quickly, the hot water easing the ache in my muscles, steam filling the bathroom with the scent of lavender soap. I changed into a floral red gown, soft, flowing, the fabric whispering against my skin as I moved. I pulled my hair up into a messy bun, strands escaping to frame my face. A touch of lip gloss, a quick glance in the mirror, cheeks flushed, eyes bright despite the shadows beneath them, and I was ready.
Downstairs, Alexander waited at the foyer, already changed into a dark sweater and jeans, sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms. He looked up as I descended, his gaze darkening with appreciation.
“You look beautiful,” he said, voice low, sincere.
I smiled, heat rising in my cheeks. “You don't look bad either, I said shyly.”
He offered his hand. I took it, fingers intertwining with his, and he led me through the house to the garden doors.