Chapter 36
Ben isn’t shocked—he shouldn’t be, really. But that doesn’t stop the irritation that builds in his chest as he stares down at the letter in his hands.
A court summons.
A demand for a statement.
A legal battle.
Charlie has never been one to fight. Not really. Charlie was always the one who bit his tongue, who swallowed down whatever was thrown at him, who let himself be molded into whatever Ben wanted. It was part of why he had been so easy to control. So easy to manipulate.
But now?
Now Charlie is putting up a fight.
And that pisses Ben off.
He scoffs, tossing the letter onto his desk before leaning back in his chair, rubbing his temples. Really, Charlie? He had thought Charlie would be smarter than this. Thought he would know better than to drag this through the courts. After all, Ben is the one with the resources, the one with the money, the one with the power.
What does Charlie have?
Nothing but some run-down little house, a kid that isn’t even his by blood, and—what?—a preschool teacher playing house with him?
Ben sneers, shaking his head. He should have known Charlie wouldn’t just roll over and take this. Should have known that the moment he showed back up, Charlie would start grasping at whatever scraps of control he could find.
But this?
Dragging him to court? Trying to make this legal?
Ben exhales sharply, already grabbing his phone. Fine. If Charlie wants to fight, they’ll fight. But Ben doesn’t lose.
The thing is, Charlie never was very good at playing this kind of game.
And Ben?
Ben always plays to win.
Ben barely lifts his head at the sound of knocking on his office door, already irritated before he even acknowledges who it is. He doesn’t bother with a proper greeting, just mutters a clipped, “Come in,” while his fingers drum impatiently against his desk.
The door swings open, and there he is.
Nick Nelson.
Ben resists the urge to sneer, instead schooling his expression into something carefully neutral as Nick steps inside, hands tucked into his pockets, his posture just a little too casual, a little too cocky. Ben doesn’t miss the way his jaw is tight, the way his eyes flicker with something just shy of contempt.
"You, uh, wanted to see me, sir?" Nick’s voice is polite, but there’s a bite to it, an edge lurking beneath the surface, and Ben hears it. Sees it.
He smiles anyway. A slow, measured thing.
"Aww, Mr. Nelson," he says smoothly, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. "Wonderful to see you. Please, have a seat."
Nick hesitates just for a second before he steps forward, pushing the door shut behind him with a soft click. The sound settles into the room, quiet and final, and the moment it does—Ben lets his mask slip.
His polite, professional smile fades in an instant. His posture shifts, shoulders rolling back as he leans forward just slightly, his gaze sharpening like a predator who’s just cornered its prey.
Nick notices.
Ben sees it in the slight twitch of his fingers, the way his weight shifts onto the balls of his feet. But Nick doesn’t move. Doesn’t waver. Just lifts his chin, like he’s waiting.
Ben lets the silence stretch between them, lets it settle thick and heavy before he finally speaks.
"Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we?"
Nick doesn’t sit. He stands stiffly, arms crossed, eyes sharp and guarded. There’s something cold in his gaze, something that tells Ben he won’t be easily intimidated. Pity. Ben loves when people squirm.
“You wanted to see me, sir?” Nick says, voice tight, that last word dripping in something almost mocking.
Ben waves a hand dismissively. “No need for formalities, Nick. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”
Nick doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t even blink.
Ben exhales dramatically, feigning disappointment. “Shame. I was hoping we could have a civilized chat.”
Nick’s jaw clenches, the muscle there twitching. “If this is about Remy—”
“Oh, it’s about much more than just Remy,” Ben cuts in smoothly, tilting his head, watching for any flicker of weakness. He finds none. “Though, since you brought him up, let’s talk about him, shall we?”
Nick shifts, arms tightening. “I don’t see how Remy is any of your concern.”
Ben hums, standing slowly, moving around his desk like a predator circling prey. “You don’t?” He scoffs. “See, that’s interesting, because I distinctly remember a time when my name was on his birth certificate. When he was mine.”
Nick bristles, hands curling into fists at his sides. “He was never yours.”
Ben lets that sit between them for a moment, studying the way Nick holds himself. Strong, tense, like he’s ready to pounce. Good. Let him get angry.
“That’s not what the law says,” Ben finally murmurs, voice dangerously low. “I simply want what’s fair. A father deserves to know his son, don’t you think?”
Nick scoffs. “You’re not his father.”
Ben chuckles. “And what are you, then? His new daddy? You’ve been playing house for what—weeks? Months? Do you really think that gives you the right to tell me what I can and can’t do when it comes to my own blood?”
Nick’s breathing is heavier now, his body coiled tight, but he doesn’t lash out. Not yet.
Ben steps closer, just enough to lower his voice. “I know Charlie. Better than you ever could. I know how to get in his head, how to make him doubt himself. You think this little fantasy you’re playing at will last? That he won’t eventually push you away like he does everyone else?” He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re nothing but a placeholder, Nick. And when he finally realizes it? When I’ve reminded him just how much he needs me?” His smirk widens. “You’ll be nothing to them. Just another failed attempt at happiness.”
Nick exhales through his nose, sharp and slow, like he’s holding something back. When he finally speaks, his voice is steady, dangerous.
“You’re right about one thing,” he says. “I’m not Remy’s father.”
Ben grins.
Nick steps forward. “But I’m sure as hell a better man than you’ll ever be.”
Ben’s smirk falters for just a second. Just a flicker.
Nick takes that and runs with it. “You think you know Charlie? That you still have a hold on him?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You don’t know shit. Charlie’s stronger than you ever gave him credit for. And he doesn’t need you. He never did.”
Ben opens his mouth, but Nick cuts him off.
“You’re wasting your time,” he says coldly. “Because you will never get Remy. And you will never get Charlie back.”
Ben’s jaw tightens, his fingers flexing at his sides.
Nick leans in slightly, voice dropping to something lethal. “So go ahead. Try to manipulate him. Try to weasel your way in. But just know, the second you try to take one step too far? I’ll be there. And I won’t let you win.”
Silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating.
Then, Ben chuckles. “We’ll see about that." Ben smirks, leaning back against the desk, arms crossed like he’s already won. Like this is a game to him. Like he hasn’t spent years making Charlie’s life hell, and now he’s extending his cruelty to Nick, too.
“Do you really think Charlie is going to win this, Nick?” His voice is smooth, smug. Poison laced with honey. “How stupid could you be?”
Nick grits his teeth, hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t take the bait. Not yet.
Ben exhales, shaking his head like he’s disappointed. “I’ve been here, haven’t I? I’ve seen the way Remy gets hurt under Charlie’s care. A bookshelf, was it? Collapsed right on top of him? Doesn’t seem like such a safe home if a simple piece of furniture wasn’t secured properly.” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Now, tell me, what do you think the court will say when they hear about that?”
Nick’s jaw tightens.
“And what about that bruise on Remy’s cheek last week?” Ben continues, his voice turning falsely sympathetic. “Poor thing. Must’ve been so painful. And then you—Charlie’s ‘trustworthy’ boyfriend—just suddenly absent for a few days? Suspicious, don’t you think?” He tsks, shaking his head. “I don’t need anyone to spell it out for me. We all know what happened. You lost your temper, didn’t you?”
Nick sees red.
Ben leans forward slightly, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “So tell me, Nick—how do you think the court will react when they hear that Charlie brought an abusive boyfriend into the house? How do you think they’ll react when they realize that poor, innocent Remy has been stuck in a home that clearly isn’t safe?”
Nick doesn’t hesitate.
He steps forward, close enough that Ben’s smirk wavers just slightly, and lowers his voice to something quiet, something lethal.
“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” he says, his words like steel, cold and sharp and unwavering. “And you sure as hell don’t know a damn thing about Charlie. But let me make something very clear, Ben—if you think for one second that you can manipulate your way into Remy’s life, that you can twist things and lie your way into winning this, you’re dead fucking wrong.”
Ben’s smirk twitches, just for a second, before he schools his expression back into something smug, something calculating.
Nick doesn’t care. He’s done playing. He leans in just enough for Ben to hear him clearly, his voice steady, unwavering.
“Charlie is going to win,” he says, voice calm, certain. “Because Charlie is the one who has been raising Remy. Charlie is the one who has been loving him, protecting him, taking care of him every single day. And there isn’t a single damn thing you can do to change that.”
He tilts his head slightly, a smirk playing on his lips as he says, "Yeah? And what proof does Charlie have? If he tries to use whatever ‘receipts’ he’s gathered from our marriage, I’ll counter with the information I’ve collected. The statements I’ve gotten from Remy."
Nick stiffens.
Ben's smirk widens at the reaction. "And if the court deems both of us unfit, then what? Foster care? Is that really what’s best for Remy?" He sighs dramatically, shaking his head. "See, that’s why I’ve brought you in, Nick. You’re going to tell Charlie to delete whatever evidence he has against me. Every record, every note, every doctor’s report he’s clung to over the years. Because if he doesn’t?"
Ben leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper, his words curling like smoke around Nick’s throat. "I’ll just have to tell the court about that little... mishap with the bookshelf. How Charlie watched helplessly as you hit his son. How he knew, long before this, that you had anger issues. Because, I mean—let’s be real here, Nick—it wasn’t much of a jump, was it?"
Nick feels his pulse thunder in his ears.
Ben smiles, slow and cruel, knowing he’s struck something raw. "Wasn’t it you who decided to push O—"
Nick moves before Ben can finish the sentence.
In a blink, Ben is pinned against his desk, Nick’s forearm pressing into his throat, cutting off whatever venomous words were about to spill out. His jaw clenches, his breathing ragged, as he leans in close, voice low and dangerous.
"You say his fucking name," Nick growls, his entire body shaking with barely restrained fury, "and I don’t care how long I sit in jail—I will make sure you regret ever opening your mouth."
Ben’s smirk falters, his hands gripping at Nick’s arm, struggling against the hold, but Nick doesn’t budge.
"You don’t get to talk about him," Nick snarls. "Not like that. Not ever."
Ben’s fingers twitch at his sides, his expression flickering between shock and something darker, something more amused—because of course he enjoys this, he enjoys getting under people's skin, twisting the knife just to see how deep it’ll go.
Nick knows this. He knows Ben’s game.
But right now?
Right now, Nick doesn’t care.
He just leans in closer, his voice nothing more than a whisper of a promise.
"You try to take Remy away from Charlie? You try to twist this into something it’s not? You try to use his name as a weapon against me?" His arm presses just a little harder, just enough to see the flicker of discomfort in Ben’s eyes. "And I swear to God, you won’t have to worry about a courtroom, because you’ll have to worry about me."
And for the first time, Ben is silent.
Nick leans in, his voice a low, dangerous growl—one Ben has never heard from him before.
“So you listen to me, Ben,” Nick says, each word sharp as a blade. “Fire me. Take me to court for assault. I don’t fucking care. But this is how it’s going to go.”
Ben glares at him, but Nick doesn’t waver.
“Charlie is taking you to court,” Nick continues, his grip never loosening. “And he’s going to use every single piece of evidence he has against you. And when you try to weasel your way out of it with whatever bullshit statements you’ve gathered, I’ll make sure the world sees exactly what kind of man you are.”
Ben scoffs, recovering quickly. “And how, exactly, do you plan on doing that?” He smirks, feigning confidence, though there’s an edge of unease creeping into his voice.
Nick tilts his head, considering him with something almost amused, almost condescending. “Oh, I don’t know,” he muses. “Maybe I’ll start with how you bribed your way into this school. Or how you used your position to get closer to Remy.”
Ben stiffens, but forces a chuckle. “And how are you going to prove that?” he challenges. “Prove that I spent my money well by securing my position here? That I manipulated my way’ into getting close to my son? That I, spent day and night searching for Charlie so I could finally reconnect with Remy? That I, Ben Fucking Hope, CEO, used my name to get here?"
Nick pulls back slightly, just enough to reach into his pocket. And for the first time, Ben’s confidence wavers entirely.
Because there, in Nick’s hand, is his phone, the screen glowing red.
Nick taps the little square to stop the recording.
Ben’s stomach drops.
Nick steps back, fixing him with an icy stare. “Already did.”
Ben’s throat goes dry.
Nick pockets his phone, straightens his shirt, and flashes the smallest, most infuriatingly smug smirk. “So, you want to play dirty?” he says, voice calm but lethal. “Then I will too. I’ll see you in court.”
And with that, Nick turns on his heel, walking away without another glance, leaving Ben standing there, frozen, heart pounding, for the first time in his life truly afraid of what comes next.
Fuck. Ben is going to court.
And he isn't in control.
Ben has always been in control. Always the one holding the power, the one making the rules, the one deciding the game before anyone else even realized they were playing. Ben doesn’t lose. He doesn’t allow himself to lose.
And now—now, for the first time, he’s on the outside of something he thought he had a grip on.
He isn't in control.
And that is absolutely unacceptable.
He can feel it in his bones, this sick, twisting rage that coils and tightens with every breath he takes. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Charlie wasn't supposed to win. Charlie was nothing but a pathetic, desperate little thing who clung to him for scraps, a stray dog who should have thanked him for every piece of affection he ever deigned to give.
Charlie never had control. He wasn’t allowed control.
Ben clenches his jaw so tightly he swears he can feel his teeth crack under the pressure. He grips the arms of his chair, digging his fingers into the polished wood, imagining—willing—the universe to shift in his favor. Because it has to.
Because he decides how this ends.
Not Charlie.
Not some fucking judge.
And certainly not that smug bastard of a preschool teacher who’s suddenly playing house with his son.
No.
Ben will win.
Because he always does.
Because the alternative?
The alternative is losing, and Ben Hope does not lose.