Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Dax
The quarterly reports blur together on my laptop screen. Revenue projections, market share analysis, acquisition targets. Numbers that would excite most CEOs barely register as I force myself to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me.
I'm thirty thousand feet above the ground, my private jet cutting through the morning sky toward Chicago.
The leather seat is comfortable, the cabin quiet except for the low hum of the engines.
My assistant stocked the bar before we left New York, and there's a full breakfast spread on the table beside me that I haven't touched.
I can't concentrate.
Miles is getting married on Saturday. My younger brother.
The kid who used to follow me around our father's office, asking a million questions about everything.
The teenager who declared he wanted nothing to do with the family business and ran off to study journalism instead.
That was over ten years ago. A lifetime.
I close the laptop and lean back, rubbing my eyes. When's the last time I saw Miles in person? Two years? Maybe closer to three? We text occasionally. Birthday messages. Holiday check-ins. The occasional phone call that never lasts more than fifteen minutes before we run out of things to say.
We used to be close. When we were kids, before everything got complicated. Before Dad died and I had to step into shoes I wasn't sure I could fill. Before Miles decided the Blackwell name was a burden instead of a legacy.
Ten years. That's how long it's been since our father's funeral.
Ten years since I took over Blackwell Media Corp and turned it from a respectable regional operation into one of the top five media conglomerates in the country.
Ten years of eighteen-hour days, brutal negotiations, and strategic acquisitions that our competitors never saw coming.
Miles chose a different path. Moved to Chicago right after Dad died, started working for a small journalism outlet covering local politics. He was good at it too, from what I heard. Won some awards. Made a name for himself that had nothing to do with being a Blackwell.
I respected that, even if I didn't understand it.
Miles always needed to prove he was his own person.
Always pushing back against expectations, against structure, against commitment.
Even as a kid, he'd start a dozen projects and finish none of them.
Sign up for activities and quit after a few weeks.
Make plans and change them at the last minute.
Dad used to say Miles would grow out of it. Find something he cared about enough to stick with.
I guess he found journalism. And now, apparently, he's found someone to marry—Scarlett Bradford. I’ve never met her. Miles mentioned her a few times over the past couple years. The wedding invitation arrived six months ago, formal and impersonal, like something you'd send to a distant cousin.
I wonder what she sees in him. What makes her think Miles won't wake up one day and decide marriage isn't for him after all. The thought is uncharitable. I push it away.
My own engagement ended four years ago. Rachel.
She was perfect on paper—intelligent, ambitious, came from the right family.
We were together for two years before I proposed.
She said yes. We made it eight months before she gave the ring back and told me she couldn't marry someone who was already married to his company.
She wasn't wrong.
I haven't dated anyone seriously since. A few dinners here and there, nothing that went anywhere.
Work consumed everything. Building the empire Dad started became my entire life.
Blackwell Media Corp expanded into digital platforms, acquired three major newspapers, launched two streaming services.
The company tripled in value under my leadership.
But I'm forty-eight years old, and I sleep alone in a Tribeca penthouse that's too big for one person. Miles is nine years younger than me, and is now getting married, settling down, building a life with someone.
The irony isn't lost on me.
"Mr. Blackwell?" The flight attendant appears from the front of the cabin, her smile professional.
"We'll be landing in about twenty minutes. Can I get you anything before we begin our descent?"
"I'm fine. Thank you, Rebecca."
She nods and disappears again. I look out the window at the clouds below, trying to remember the last wedding I attended. One of my executives got married two years ago. I stayed for the ceremony, skipped the reception, and flew back to New York the same night.
This time I can't leave early. This is my brother. I'm expected to be there for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night, the wedding Saturday afternoon. Maybe some kind of family brunch Sunday morning if I can't find an excuse to leave earlier.
I can manage a few days.
I open my phone and check my messages. Seventeen new emails since we took off an hour ago. A text from my COO about a meeting that got moved. Another from my assistant confirming my hotel reservation at the Waldorf Astoria.
And one from Miles, sent twenty minutes ago.
Miles: Landed yet? Want to grab drinks this afternoon? Catch up before the wedding chaos.
I stare at the message. Miles wants to catch up. Like we're old friends who drifted apart, not brothers who barely speak anymore.
I type back:
Dax: Landing in twenty. I'm at the Waldorf Astoria. There's a bar downstairs. 3 PM?
His response comes immediately:
Miles: Perfect. See you then.
The plane begins its descent. Chicago spreads out below us, the skyline emerging from the autumn haze. I've been here for business dozens of times, but it never felt like Miles's city. He always seemed like a New York kid to me, even when he was trying to escape everything New York represented.
I close my laptop and slip it into my bag. The quarterly reports can wait. Right now, I need to prepare myself to see my brother for the first time in over two years and pretend we're not strangers.
***
The Waldorf Astoria is pure elegance. The lobby soars with ornate details and glittering chandeliers, the kind of place that commands attention and respect.
Guests move through the space with purpose—businesspeople in sharp suits, well-dressed couples, staff attending to every detail with practiced precision.
I bypass the main desk and head straight for the executive floor check-in. The woman behind the counter recognizes me immediately.
"Mr. Blackwell, welcome to the Waldorf Astoria. We have your penthouse suite ready."
She's efficient, professional, exactly what I prefer. Within minutes, I have my key cards and a porter is leading me to the elevator.
Top floor. The penthouse suite. The porter opens the door and I step into a space that's larger than most Manhattan apartments. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the Chicago skyline. Lake Michigan stretches out in the distance, gray-blue under the October sky.
The suite is impeccably decorated. Living area with a full bar, separate bedroom with a king bed, marble bathroom with a soaking tub, office space with a mahogany desk. Everything I need.
"Will you be needing anything else, Mr. Blackwell?" the porter asks after setting my bags down. I hand him a folded bill.
"I'm fine. Thank you."
He leaves and I'm alone with the silence and the view. I check my watch. Two fifteen. I have forty-five minutes before meeting Miles.
I unpack efficiently, a habit from years of business travel.
Suits hung in the closet. Shirts organized.
Toiletries in the bathroom. Everything in its place.
I change out of my suit from the flight into fresh charcoal trousers and a crisp white button-down, rolling the sleeves to my elbows.
No tie. This is supposed to be casual, after all.
My phone buzzes with another email. Work never stops. I scan it quickly—nothing that can't wait until tomorrow—and toss the phone on the bed.
Three PM. Drinks with Miles. Then the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night where I'll finally meet Scarlett and make small talk with relatives I haven't seen in years. Then the wedding Saturday.
I pour myself a finger of scotch from the suite's bar and stand at the window, looking out at the city. Somewhere down there, Miles is living his life. Working his journalism job. Planning his wedding. Building something that has nothing to do with the empire our father built.
Part of me envies him. The freedom to walk away. To choose something simpler. Most of me thinks he's wasting his potential. I finish the scotch and head downstairs.
The bar is dim and upscale, the kind of place where businesspeople close deals over expensive whiskey. I arrive first, claim a table in the back corner, and order a Macallan neat.
The bartender brings it just as Miles walks in.
I see him before he sees me. He looks...
different. Older, obviously. The last time I saw him, he was thirty-seven.
Now he's thirty-nine, and it shows in the lines around his eyes, the way he carries himself.
He's wearing khakis and a blue button-down, his dark hair slightly messy like he forgot to comb it after his shower.
He spots me and waves, weaving through the tables.
"Dax." He reaches the table, and there's a moment of awkwardness before we both stand and embrace. It's brief, masculine, the kind of hug brothers give when they're not sure what else to do.
"Miles." I clap him on the shoulder.
"You look good."
"You too." He sits down across from me, signaling the bartender.
"I'll have what he's having."
We settle into our chairs, and the silence stretches. Two years. How do you bridge two years of barely speaking with a single conversation?
"So," I start. "Getting married. That's a big step."
Miles grins, and for a second he looks like the kid I remember.
"Yeah. I still can't quite believe it's happening. Saturday feels both far away and right around the corner."