Chapter 2 #2
"How long have you been together now?"
"Three years next month." His expression softens.
"We met at a PR event I was covering for work. She was there representing one of the firms. Started talking, and I just... I knew. She's incredible, Dax. Smart, beautiful, driven. I'm lucky she said yes."
The bartender brings his drink. Miles takes a sip, then pulls out his phone.
"Here." He swipes through his photos and turns the screen toward me.
"That's Scarlett."
I look at the image. A blonde woman with blue eyes and a smile that could light up a room. She's standing on a beach somewhere, wind catching her hair, wearing a sundress and sunglasses. She's beautiful. Objectively, undeniably beautiful.
Something stirs in my chest. I ignore it.
"She's lovely," I say, keeping my voice neutral. I hand the phone back.
"She works in PR, you said?"
"Corporate PR. She works for a firm here in Chicago. Handles crisis management, media relations, that kind of thing. She's really good at it." Miles sets his phone down and leans back.
"You'll meet her tomorrow night at the rehearsal dinner. I think you'll like her."
"I'm sure I will."
Miles takes another drink, and I notice his hand is shaking slightly. Nerves? Or something else?
"How's Mom doing?" I ask.
"She's good. Flying in tomorrow morning. She's excited about the wedding." Miles runs a hand through his hair.
"I haven't seen her since Christmas when she stayed in Chicago for a few days."
"I saw her in August. Flew down to Florida for her birthday." I swirl the scotch in my glass.
"She seems happy there. The weather agrees with her."
"Yeah." Miles stares into his drink.
"Sometimes I think about Dad. How he'd feel about all this. Me getting married. You running the company."
"He'd be proud of you," I say, though I'm not sure I believe it. Dad always wanted Miles to join the business. He never understood why his younger son chose journalism over legacy.
"Would he?" Miles meets my eyes.
"Or would he think I took the easy way out? Ran away from responsibility?"
The honesty catches me off guard.
"You didn't run away. You chose your own path. That takes courage."
"Or it's just me being indecisive. Again." He laughs, but there's no humor in it.
"Remember how Dad used to say I'd never stick with anything? How I'd start projects and abandon them halfway through?"
I remember. I also remember the arguments. Dad pushing Miles to commit to the business. Miles pushing back, insisting he wanted something different. Miles starting initiatives and dropping them when they got difficult. The pattern repeated itself throughout his childhood and into his twenties.
"You stuck with journalism," I point out.
"That's not nothing."
"I guess." He checks his phone again, frowning at the screen.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Yeah. Just work stuff. I'm finishing up this big investigation, and my editor keeps texting me questions." He types a quick response and sets the phone down.
"Deadline's right after the wedding."
"What's the story about?"
"City council corruption. Kickbacks, falsified contracts. It's going to be big when it drops." There's pride in his voice. This is what he cares about. This is what he chose over the family empire.
We talk about his work for a while. I ask questions, and he answers, animated in a way I haven't seen before. He's good at this. Maybe he did find what he was supposed to do.
"How's the company?" Miles asks eventually.
"Still taking over the world?"
"We're expanding into podcasting. Acquired a major network last month." I give him the highlights. Revenue growth. Market share. The streaming service launch that exceeded projections.
Miles listens, nodding along.
"You've done incredible things with it, Dax. Dad would be... I mean, he'd be blown away by what you've built."
"It's what he started. I just took it further."
"That's not true and you know it." Miles leans forward.
"You tripled the company's value. You turned a regional operation into a national powerhouse. That's all you."
The compliment sits uncomfortably between us. We're not used to this. Praise. Acknowledgment. Brotherhood.
"I never had your ambition for the corporate world," Miles says quietly.
"The drive to build something that big, to make those kinds of decisions every day. I couldn't do what you do."
There's an unspoken truth in his words. Miles has never been good at following through when things get hard. He shifts direction when the pressure builds. It's who he's always been.
"You have your own strengths," I tell him.
"Different doesn't mean less."
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
"You always were the one who stepped up. When Dad died, you didn't hesitate. You just took the reins and ran with it."
There's something underneath his words. Guilt? Relief? Both, probably.
"Someone had to," I say simply.
"And I ran to Chicago." Miles takes another drink.
"Easier to chase stories than build empires."
I don't disagree. We both know it's true.
"Miles." I keep my voice level.
"You're getting married in two days. Let's not rehash ancient history."
He nods, taking the out I'm offering.
"You're right. Sorry. Pre-wedding jitters making me philosophical."
"Cold feet?"
"No. Not cold feet. Just..." He trails off, checking his phone again.
"Just a lot of change happening at once."
I watch him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way he can't seem to sit still. This is Miles. Always restless. Always second-guessing. Always one step away from backing out of whatever commitment he's made.
Some things never change.
"Marriage is a big commitment," I say carefully.
"It's normal to be nervous."
"Yeah." He finishes his drink in one swallow.
"Yeah, everyone keeps saying that."
We sit in silence for a moment. Brothers who used to share everything, now struggling to fill the gaps in a single conversation.
"I should get going," Miles says finally.
"I'm meeting the groomsmen for dinner tonight. Bachelor party stuff."
"Of course." I signal for the check.
"Tomorrow night. Rehearsal dinner at Marcello's. Seven thirty."
"I'll be there."
We stand. Another awkward embrace. Another shoulder clap.
"It's good to see you, Dax. Really."
"You too, Miles."
I watch him leave, weaving back through the bar toward the exit. My younger brother. Still figuring out who he wants to be. Still running from anything that requires him to fully commit.
I settle the bill and order another scotch. The bartender brings it, and I sit alone in the dim corner, thinking about responsibility and ambition and the different paths two brothers can take. Miles chose freedom. I chose legacy. I'm not sure either of us is happy with our choice.
By the time I get back to my suite, it's after six. The sun is setting over Chicago, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I stand at the window for a moment, watching the city transition from day to night.
My phone buzzes. Work emails. A text from my assistant about tomorrow's schedule. Another from my COO flagging an issue with one of our acquisitions. I respond to the urgent ones and silence the phone.
The shower in the marble bathroom is large enough for three people, with multiple jets and a rainfall head. I turn the water as hot as I can stand it and let the steam fill the space. The heat works out the tension in my shoulders from the flight, from the awkward conversation with Miles.
When I finally get out, I feel almost human again. I change into sweatpants and a t-shirt and open my laptop at the desk. The quarterly reports I abandoned on the flight are still waiting. I force myself to focus, working through the numbers methodically.
Revenue is up. Margins are healthy. The streaming service acquisition is performing better than projected. Everything is on track. I should feel satisfied. This is what I built. This is the empire I've spent ten years creating.
Instead, I feel nothing.
My phone rings. Mark. My best friend since Harvard, now one of my top executives.
"Hey," I answer.
"How's Chicago?" Mark's voice is warm with amusement.
"Met the future sister-in-law yet?"
"Tomorrow. Rehearsal dinner."
"And how's Miles? Still pretending he's not a Blackwell?"
I lean back in the chair.
"He's Miles. Nervous about the wedding. Still doing his journalism thing."
"You sound thrilled."
"I'm here, aren't I?"
Mark laughs. "Barely. You're probably going to leave Sunday morning at the latest."
He's not wrong.
We talk for a while about work, about the company, about the deals in progress. This is comfortable. This I understand.
"Try to have some fun this weekend," Mark says before we hang up. "It's a wedding, not a board meeting."
"I'll keep that in mind."
After the call, I close my laptop and pour myself a nightcap. The suite is quiet. Too quiet. I'm used to the sounds of New York—traffic, sirens, the constant hum of a city that never sleeps.
Chicago feels too calm.
I stand at the window again, drink in hand, looking out at the skyline. Somewhere out there, Miles is with his groomsmen. Celebrating his last days of freedom. Getting ready to marry a woman I've only seen in a photograph.
The image of Scarlett flashes through my mind. Blonde hair, blue eyes, that smile. I push the thought away as quickly as it came. She's Miles's fiancée. In two days, she'll be Miles's wife.
I drain the rest of my drink and head to bed.