Page 6 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"Right." I force enthusiasm into my voice.

"Can't wait."

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

The cab drops me in front of my building twenty minutes later. It's a nice brick building in a good neighborhood, well-maintained with a clean lobby and working elevator. I've lived here for four years, and I love this place.

I take the elevator to the fourth floor, keys already in hand. The hallway is quiet, carpeted, smelling faintly of the lavender air freshener the building management uses.

Home.

I unlock my door and step inside, immediately kicking off my heels. My apartment is my sanctuary. One bedroom, but spacious and filled with light from the large windows. The living room is open and airy, with my favorite oversized couch positioned to face those windows. The kitchen is small but modern, with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. I've decorated carefully over the years—framed prints on the walls, a bookshelf filled with novels and PR textbooks, plants on the windowsill that I somehow manage to keep alive.

I set my portfolio on the dining table and head straight for the bedroom. My wedding dress hangs on the outside of my closet door, encased in its garment bag.The sight of it should make my heart race with excitement.

Instead, I feel... nothing. Just a vague sense of resignation.

I shake my head, annoyed at myself. This is pre-wedding jitters. Everyone gets them. It's completely normal.

I change out of my work clothes into yoga pants and an old Northwestern sweatshirt, then pad to the kitchen in bare feet. The kettle goes on the stove. Tea might help settle the restlessness crawling under my skin.

While the water heats, I lean against the counter and pull up my texts.

A message from Jane from this morning:

Jane: Can't wait for next Saturday! You're going to be the most beautiful bride.

One from Sarah:

Sarah: Rehearsal dinner Friday! I'll bring the extra bobby pins you wanted.

Nothing from Miles since yesterday afternoon. I send him a quick text.

Scarlett: Just finished with Christina. Everything's confirmed and ready. How are you?

Three dots appear immediately, then disappear. Then appearagain. Finally:

Miles: Good. Busy day.

I frown at the screen. Something's been off with him lately. Distracted. Distant. I've chalked it up to work stress—he's been covering a big investigative piece about city council corruption—but there's something else I can't quite put my finger on.

The kettle whistles. I pour hot water over a chamomile tea bag, watching the water turn golden. Steam rises, carrying the scent of honey and herbs.

I carry my mug to the couch and curl up in the corner, pulling a throw blanket over my legs. My laptop sits on the coffee table, and I flip it open out of habit. Email is a mistake—three new messages from my boss about Monday's client presentation—but I can't seem to stop myself from checking.

Work. That's something I understand. Something that makes sense. PR campaigns and media strategies and crisis management. I'm good at my job. I know what I'm doing.

Marriage, though? I'm about to promise forever to someone, and I can't even muster proper excitement about the wedding.

I close the laptop and stare at my wedding dress across the room. It's beautiful. Ivory lace, fitted bodice, flowing skirt. I looked at dozens before finding this one. When I tried it on the first time, the consultant at the boutique actually teared up.

"You look like a princess," she'd breathed.

I'd felt like I was playing dress-up. I linger on thethought as I place the dress back in the garment bag and zip it up.

My phone buzzes.

Miles: Can I come by in a couple hours? Want to see you.