Page 141 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"Mr. Blackwell, I'm not sure I can—"

"Find it. Now."

Then I call my concierge.

"I need you to handle something for me. I'll send details in a few minutes."

I walk out of the apartment, the pamphlets still in my hand, and head straight to my car.

"Take me home," I tell my driver.

Back at my penthouse, I throw clothes into a bag. I don't think about what I'm doing. I just move. My jet is on standby. I make thecall.

"I need wheels up first thing in the morning. Chicago."

"Of course, Mr. Blackwell. Six AM departure work for you?"

"Perfect."

I spend the rest of the evening making calls. Clearing my schedule. Delegating urgent matters to my executive team. Emma calls to ask if everything's okay.

"I'll be out of the office for a few days," I tell her.

"Handle what you can. Route anything urgent to Mark."

"Is this about—"

"Yes."

She doesn't ask anything else.

***

I barely sleep. My mind won't stop turning over the possibilities. Scarlett is pregnant, and she's been dealing with it alone. While I've been in New York, buried in work, she's been in Chicago facing this by herself. The thought makes me sick.

At five AM, I'm in the car heading to the airport. By six, I'm in the air.

The flight to Chicago is short, but it feels endless. I sit in the leather seat, staring out at the clouds, my mind churning.

I might be a father.

The thought should terrify me. I've never thought it was an option. Never planned for it. My life has alwaysbeen about the company, about building the empire my father left me, about control and strategy and keeping emotions locked down.

But instead of terror, I feel... certainty. Scarlett is carrying my child, and I want it. I want her. I want all of it. The implications crash over me in waves. A baby. A family. Commitment. Everything I'd thought had been avoiding me for years.

But with Scarlett, none of it feels like a burden–it feels right. The jet lands at Midway. My driver is waiting.

"Where to, Mr. Blackwell?"

I give him Scarlett's address.

The drive through Chicago feels familiar and foreign at the same time. I've been here before—for the wedding that never happened. For business meetings. But now everything looks different.

The driver pulls up in front of a brownstone in Lincoln Park.

"Wait here," I tell him.

I walk up the steps and find her name on the buzzer. My finger hovers over the button. Then I press it. Static. Then her voice, cautious.