Page 126 of Claimed By The Other Brother

Mark studiesme. "You really care about her."

"Yes."

"Then you need to be prepared for the fallout. Because when Miles finds out—and he will—it's not going to be pretty."

"I know that too."

We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of what I've admitted settling over the conversation.

"For what it's worth," Jeff says, "I hope it works out. If she makes you this happy, she's worth fighting for."

Mark nods. "Just be ready for the fight."

"I am."

***

The following week, I'm standing in a converted warehouse in Brooklyn, surrounded by donors and media professionals attending a small fundraiser for independent journalism. The event is lowkey, private—exactly the kind of thing Scarlett and I can attend together without drawing too much attention.

She's across the room, talking to a group near the silent auction table. She's wearing a deep blue dress that hugs her curves, her hair pulled back, her smile warm as she chats with a woman I recognize as a documentary filmmaker.

I'm in conversation with one of the event organizers, a man named Robert who runs a nonprofit supporting investigative reporting.

"The landscape has changed so much," Robertis saying.

"Corporate consolidation, shrinking newsrooms, the rise of social media. It's harder than ever to fund real journalism."

"Which is why events like this matter," I respond.

"Supporting independent voices ensures diverse perspectives."

"Exactly. And having someone like you here sends a message." He gestures around the room.

"Your presence validates the cause."

I nod, but my attention keeps drifting to Scarlett. She's moved to a different group now, laughing at something a man in a navy suit is saying. He's standing too close.

The familiar jealousy flares, but I push it down.

"Will Blackwell Media be considering any partnerships with independent outlets?" Robert asks.

I force my focus back.

"Potentially. We're always looking for content that aligns with our values. Send me a proposal."

His face lights up. "Really? That would be incredible."

We exchange contact information, and I move on to the next conversation. A woman who runs a fact-checking organization. Then a journalist who won a Pulitzer for investigative work on corporate fraud. All the while, I keep track of Scarlett. Where she is. Who she's talking to. Whether she's looking for me.

Finally, our eyes meet across the room. I hold her gaze for a moment, then tilt my head slightly toward the exit. A subtle gesture. An invitation. She gives the tiniestnod. I excuse myself from my current conversation and make my way toward a corridor that leads to the back of the venue. It's quieter here, away from the crowd and the noise.

I wait.

Thirty seconds later, Scarlett appears, glancing over her shoulder before stepping into the corridor.

"Hi," she says, a smile playing at her lips.

I don't waste time. I pull her close and kiss her, my hands sliding down her back to grip her waist. She kisses me back, her fingers threading through my hair.