Page 38 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"That's unforgivable."

"I know."

"Have you talked to him?"

"He's not answering my calls."

"What about the fiancée ? Is she—"

"I don't know." I rub my eyes. "I don't know where she is or if she's okay."

"Wow. That's brutal."

We talk for a few more minutes. Mark offers to handle some of the work issues remotely so I can focus on the family crisis. I accept, grateful for the help even though I know work won't be a distraction tonight.

After we hang up, I try Miles again.Voicemail.

I pour another whiskey. It's my fourth. Or fifth. I've lost count. The clock on my laptop says it's nearly ten PM. I stand and walk to the terrace doors. I need air. Need to clear my head.

The terrace attached to my suite is small but private, with a few chairs and a view of the city. I step outside, the October air cool against my skin. The whiskey has dulled the edges of my anger, but it's still there. Simmering. Waiting.

I lean against the railing, looking out at Chicago. Somewhere in this city, Miles is hiding. Avoiding responsibility like he always does. I'm about to go back inside when I notice movement to my left. There's a shared terrace landing on this floor, a wider space that connects the penthouse suites. I'd forgotten about it.

A figure in white sits on one of the benches. My breath catches.

Scarlett.

She's still in her wedding dress, the ivory lace now wrinkled and stained. Her hair has fallen from its elegant updo, blonde strands hanging loose around her shoulders. Her makeup is destroyed—black streaks of mascara down her cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, and she's drinking champagne straight from the bottle.

I freeze, watching her. She hasn't noticed me yet. She's staring out at nothing, the bottle dangling from her hand. I should go back inside. Give her privacy. This is the last thing she needs—her ex-fiancé's brotherintruding on her grief. But my feet carry me forward before my brain can stop them.

"Scarlett."

My voice is quiet, but she hears it. She looks up, and when her eyes meet mine, there's no surprise. Just a weary resignation.

"Of course it's you," she says. Her voice is rough, raw from crying.

I approach slowly, like she's a wild animal that might bolt.

"May I sit?"

She gestures to the bench beside her with the champagne bottle.

"Why not? The day can't get any worse."

I sit, keeping a respectful distance between us. Up close, I can see the full extent of the damage. Her dress is torn at the hem. There's a stain on the bodice—wine, maybe, or tears. Her hands are shaking.

"I'm sorry," I say. "About Miles. About all of this."

She laughs, but there's no humor in it.

"Are you? Your brother just humiliated me in front of a room full of people who watched me get abandoned at my own wedding."

"I know."

"Do you?" She turns to face me, anger flashing in her blue eyes.

"Do you have any idea what that feels like? To stand there in your wedding dress, waiting for someone who's never going to show up? To have everyone stare at you with pity while you fall apart?"