Page 37 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"He said something about not being sure if he was ready. About wondering if he was doing the right thing. But like I said, we thought it was just nerves."

Not being sure. Wondering if he was doing the right thing.

The rage intensifies, volcanic and barely contained.

"Thanks, Eric." I turn away before I say something I'll regret.

I walk back to my mother.

"Come on. Let me take you to your room."

She stands, leaning on my arm. We take the elevator in silence. Her room is on the fifth floor, elegantly appointed but empty of the joy that should have filled this day.

"Will you be okay?" I ask at her door.

"I don't know." She looks up at me, tears in her eyes.

"I’m just worried about Miles. He’ll regret this. My son just destroyed that poor girl's life. How am I supposed to be okay?"

"Get some rest. I'll keep trying to reach him."

She nods and disappears into her room. The door closes with a soft click. I'm alone in the hallway, my phone heavy in my hand. I dial Miles one more time.

Voicemail.I put my phone away and take the elevator to the top floor.

My suite is exactly as I left it this morning. Laptop on the desk. Suit jacket draped over a chair. The view of Chicago stretching out beyond the windows, the city lights beginning to glow in the early evening darkness.

I loosen my tie and pour myself a whiskey from the bar. Three fingers. I drain half of it in one swallow. My phone sits on the desk, silent and mocking. I pick it up and try Miles again. It rings once, twice, three times.Voicemail.

Dax: What the hell did you do? Call me back.

I send the text and set the phone down. Pour more whiskey. Stand at the window. Scarlett's face keeps flashing through my mind. The way she looked standing in that corridor, her wedding dress perfect, her makeup flawless, confusion turning to horror as Eric delivered the news.

The humiliation. The devastation. He did that to her. My reckless, impulsive, commitment-phobic brother who has spent his entire life running from anything that requires him to stand still and be accountable. I grimace at the thought and I down the rest of my whiskey.

Hours pass. The suite grows darker. I don't bother turning on more lights. I open my laptop, thinking workmight distract me. There are emails from my COO, questions about an acquisition we're finalizing. A message from my assistant about next week's board meeting.

I try to focus. Read the same paragraph three times. Can't retain a single word. My phone rings. I grab it, hoping it's Miles.

It's Mark.

"Hey," I answer.

"How was the wedding?" His voice is cheerful, oblivious.

"It didn't happen."

Silence. Then, "What?"

"Miles didn't show up."

"Jesus Christ." Mark's tone shifts immediately.

"Are you serious?"

"He called his best man an hour before the ceremony. Said he couldn't go through with it."

"That's..." Mark struggles for words.