Page 4 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"Cream roses with eucalyptus, just like we discussed. They'll set up the arch and centerpieces before the ceremony."

"Perfect." I check off another item on my mental list. The photographer is confirmed. The caterer is ready. Everything is falling into place like dominoes.

Christina looks up at me, her expression softening.

"How are you feeling? Nervous?"

I open my mouth to say I'm excited, thrilled, ready. The words don't come. Instead, I settle for, "I'm okay. Just ready for it to all be here, you know?"

"One more week." She smiles warmly.

"It's going to be beautiful, Scarlett. I promise."

Three years with Miles. Three years of comfortable dinners and lazy Sunday mornings. Three years of him reading the New York Times while I worked on PR campaigns at the kitchen table. We got engaged a year ago, and it felt... right. Safe. Like the logical next step.

So why doesn't this feel more exciting?

I push the thought away, focusing on Christina as she walks me through the timeline once more. Ceremony at four PM. Cocktail hour at five. Dinner at six thirty. Dancing by eight. It's all planned to perfection.

"Your dress pickup is confirmed for Tuesday," Christina says, checking her notes.

"The alterations are done, so you're all set."

"Tuesday works perfectly." I gather the copies of theseating chart and timeline she's prepared for me, sliding them into my leather portfolio.

"I think we're all set."

Christina stands, smoothing her pencil skirt.

“You've been the easiest bride I've worked with this year. Everything's organized, everyone's confirmed, and next Saturday is going to be absolutely perfect."

I rise from my chair, slinging my purse over my shoulder.

"Thank you for everything, Christina. Really."

"That's what I'm here for." She walks me to the door, giving my arm a gentle squeeze.

"Try to relax this week. Enjoy these last days before the wedding."

I manage a smile, hoping it looks more genuine than it feels.

"I will."

The hallway outside her office is quiet, just the muted sound of traffic from the street below. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, needing the movement, needing to shake off this strange restlessness that's been creeping under my skin for weeks.

Three years with Miles. Next Saturday, I become his wife. This should feel more exciting than it does.

My phone rings as I push through the building's front door onto the sidewalk. The Chicago afternoon is crisp, October air carrying the scent of fallen leaves and exhaust fumes. I glance at the screen.

Mom.

I consider letting it go to voicemail. I'm not in themood for her particular brand of anxiety right now. However, if I don't answer, she'll just keep calling, each subsequent voicemail more frantic than the last.

I press accept. "Hi, Mom."

"Scarlett! Finally. I've been trying to reach you all morning." Her voice is sharp with that familiar edge of manufactured urgency.

"I was in a meeting with the wedding planner." I start walking toward the corner where I can catch a cab.