Page 73 of Claimed By The Other Brother

My boss, Linda, called me into her office that first morning.

"Scarlett." She gestured to the chair across from her desk.

"How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," I lied.

"Ready to get back to work."

She studied me for a moment, her expression sympathetic but professional.

"If you need more time—"

"I don't." I sat up straighter.

"I'm here. I'm ready. What do you have for me?"

Linda nodded slowly, then slid a folder across her desk.

"Small client. Short duration project. Nothing too demanding. I thought it might be good to ease you back in."

I took the folder without looking at it.

"Thank you."

"And Scarlett?" Linda's voice softened.

"If you need anything—time off,adjusted schedule, anything—you let me know."

"I will."

I left her office with the folder and dove into the project immediately. It was a local tech startup needing help with their product launch messaging. Simple. Manageable. Exactly what I needed. Work has become my escape. My refuge. The one place where I can control the narrative, where I could be competent and useful and focused on something other than the wreckage of my personal life.

I established a routine quickly. Wake up at six. Go for a run or hit a Pilates class. Shower, dress, arrive at the office by eight. Work straight through lunch. Stay until six or seven. Go home. Eat something simple. Read or watch mindless television. Go to bed. Repeat. The routine kept me sane—kept me moving forward instead of spiraling.

Jane and Sarah check in regularly. Texts throughout the day. Calls in the evening. Offers to come over, to take me out, to distract me. I appreciate it, but mostly I tell them I'm fine. I'm busy. I'm handling it. They don't push, but I can hear the concern in their voices.

The truth is, I am handling it. Better than I expected. The humiliation has faded into something duller, easier to carry. The anger at Miles has cooled into resignation. I'm starting to feel stable again. Grounded.

Except for the moments when I think about Dax—which is more often than I'd like to admit. His texts sit unanswered in my phone. Two simple messages that I've read dozens of times but never responded to.

Dax: How are you?

Dax: Scarlett.

I don't know what to say to him. Don't know how to navigate whatever it is that happened between us. So I say nothing. And I tell myself that's for the best.

***

It's late on a random weeknight when the knock comes. I'm on my couch in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, reading a novel I picked up at the bookstore in New York. The knock is unexpected, pulling me out of the story.

I set the book aside and walk to the door, peering through the peephole.

My heart stops.

Miles.

He's standing in my hallway, looking disheveled in a way I've never seen him. His hair is messy, his shirt wrinkled. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. I haven't seen him since the wedding. Since he abandoned me at the altar in front of all those people.