Page 114 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"I'm sure she's fine," I say.

We talk for a few more minutes—her garden, her book club, the usual topics. But my mind is elsewhere, processing what she just told me.

Unfinished business. What a fucking excuse.

After I hang up, I sit at my desk, staring out at the city.This information changes things. Not for me—I already knew Miles was no good for Scarlett. But now I have confirmation. Proof of exactly how little he values her.

And when the time comes to confront Miles, I'll use it.

The morning passes in a blur of meetings. First with our legal team about the MediaLink settlement. Then with two potential acquisition targets. Then a call with investors who want updates on our Q4 projections.

By the time noon rolls around, I'm ready for a break.

I head to the kitchen for coffee. The espresso machine is a lifesaver on days like this.

As I approach, I see Scarlett inside, laughing with Daniel. They're standing by the coffee station, and she's holding a mug, her head tilted back as Daniel says something that makes her smile.

The jealousy flares; immediate and irrational.

I force myself to keep walking, entering the kitchen like I have every right to be there. Which I do—it's my office

"Afternoon," I say, my tone neutral.

Daniel straightens. "Mr. Blackwell."

Scarlett's eyes meet mine, and I see the flicker of awareness there.

"Good afternoon."

I make my espresso while they finish their conversation. Daniel excuses himself, leaving Scarlett and me alone. She rinses her mug in the sink.

"Busy morning?"

"Very." I watch her dry her hands.

"You?"

"Same. Strategy sessions with Karen and Brad."

We're being professional. Careful. Anyone could walk in. She heads toward the door. I let her leave first, then follow a few minutes later. I give it ten minutes before I walk to her office. Long enough that it doesn't look suspicious.

I knock on her door.

"Come in."

I step inside and close the door behind me. Not allthe way—just enough for privacy. Scarlett is sitting behind her desk, laptop open, looking every bit the professional consultant she is.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwell."

The formality is deliberate. We both know it.

"Scarlett." I move toward her desk.

"I wanted to discuss the media strategy for the final phase of the crisis response."

"Of course." She folds her hands on the desk.

"What did you have in mind?"