Page 10 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"Dax is flying in Thursday morning too."

"I'm sure you're happy your brother's finally coming to town." I take another bite of my panini.

"When's the last time you saw him?"

His expression shifts, something complicated passing over his features.

"It's been over two years since I've seen him in person. We text occasionally, talk on the phone for birthdays or major holidays. That's about it."

"That must be hard. Only having one sibling and barely talking."

He shrugs.

"We're not close. Not really. Things changed after Dad died. Dax took over Blackwell Media Corp, threw himself completely into the business. Built it into one of the top media conglomerates in the country. He's incredibly successful. Ruthless, actually. Everything I never wanted to be."

There's something in his voice. Admiration? Resentment? Maybe both.

"Is that why you moved to Chicago? To get away from all that?"

"Partly. I didn't want to live in Dax's shadow. I wanted to make my own way, you know? Journalism felt like the right path. Something completely separate from the family empire."

I've heard bits and pieces of this before, but Miles rarely talks about his family in depth. His father died tenyears ago, around the time Miles was starting his journalism career. His mother moved to Florida not long after. Dax took over the company and apparently became a workaholic. The brothers drifted apart.

"What's he like?" I ask.

"I mean, I've never met him. You barely mention him."

Miles considers this.

"Dax is... intense. Focused. He's brilliant with business strategy, completely driven. He doesn't do anything halfway. When we were kids, he was always the one in charge, always making plans, always three steps ahead of everyone else."

"Sounds intimidating."

"He can be." Miles picks at the crust of his bread.

"He's not a bad guy. Just different from me. We want different things out of life."

"Well, I'll finally get to meet him this week."

Something flickers across Miles's face again. That same complicated expression from earlier.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Fine. Just hoping he actually shows up on time. He's always working. Even for this, he could only spare a few days away from the office. He flies in Thursday morning, stays through the weekend, then heads back to New York Sunday."

"He's making the effort. That's something."

"I guess."

We finish our lunch, the conversation drifting to safer topics. The rehearsal dinner logistics. Which groomsmenare most likely to embarrass Miles with their speeches. Whether Sarah and Jane are going to cry during the ceremony. Surface-level things that don't require us to examine whatever strange tension has settled between us.

When we're done, Miles pays the bill despite my protests, and we step back out into the cooling afternoon.

"I should probably get going," he says, checking his phone again.

"I told the guys I'd meet them later. Groomsmen stuff."

"Okay." I try not to feel disappointed that we're cutting our time together short.