Chapter 5 #2
"Good. I hope he rots."
"Scarlett—"
"Don't defend him." Her voice cracks.
"Please don't defend him."
"I wasn't going to." I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
"What he did is unforgivable. I've known Miles was impulsive his whole life, but this..." I shake my head.
"This is beyond anything I could have imagined."
She studies me for a moment, mascara-stained eyes searching my face.
"Where are your friends?" I ask.
"Jane and Sarah?"
"They've been with me all day. Trying to make me feel better."
She takes another drink.
"I told them I needed some time alone. They went back to their rooms. I guess they're probably worried, but I just..." She trails off.
"I couldn't be around anyone anymore."
"And yet here I am."
"Here you are." She looks at me.
"Why?"
"I needed air. Saw you out here."
"You could have gone back inside."
"I could have."
"But you didn't."
"No."
Another silence. This one is different. Charged with something I can't name. Scarlett takes another drink, then sets the bottle down on the bench between us.
"I don't even know why I'm surprised," she says quietly.
"Deep down, I knew. There was never real passion between us. Never that spark everyone talks about. We were... comfortable. Safe."
"That doesn't make what he did acceptable."
"Doesn't it?" She looks at me.
"Maybe he was brave enough to admit what I couldn't. That we were settling. That we were going through the motions of what we thought we were supposed to do instead of what we actually wanted."
"There are better ways to end a relationship than abandoning someone at the altar."
"Are there? Or would it have just been a slower kind of cruelty?" She laughs bitterly.
"At least this way it's quick. Like ripping off a bandage."
"This isn't a bandage, Scarlett. This is public humiliation."
"I know." Her voice breaks.
"Trust me, I know."
I watch her, this woman I barely know, falling apart in her ruined wedding dress. She's right—I don't know what this feels like. I can't imagine the depth of the pain she's experiencing.
But I know rage. And I know betrayal. And I know exactly who's responsible for putting that broken look in her eyes.
"You barely know me," Scarlett says suddenly.
"Why do you care?"
The question catches me off guard. Why do I care? This isn't my problem. I should be in my suite, dealing with the work issues, not sitting on a terrace with her. But I meet her eyes and tell her the truth.
"Because no one deserves this."
The air between us shifts. Something changes in the way she's looking at me.
"He always ran," I continue.
"Even when we were kids. When things got hard, when pressure built, Miles would find an excuse to leave. To pivot. To start something new instead of finishing what he started."
"And you?" Scarlett asks.
"What do you do when things get hard?"
"I stay. I fight. I finish what I start."
"That must be exhausting."
"Sometimes."
"But you do it anyway."
"I do it anyway."
She picks up the champagne bottle again, but doesn't drink. Just holds it, running her thumb over the label.
"I feel like such a fool. Everyone tried to warn me.
My friends, my mom in her passive-aggressive way.
Even Miles himself, with all his cold feet and second-guessing.
But I didn't listen. I just kept pushing forward because that's what you're supposed to do when you're in a relationship, right?
You work through problems. You don't give up. "
"You're not a fool for believing in commitment."
"Aren't I? Commitment requires two people, Dax. I was the only one showing up."
She's right. And the truth of it makes my anger at Miles burn even hotter.
"He doesn't deserve you," I say.
She looks at me, something vulnerable and raw in her expression.
"You don't know me well enough to know what I deserve."
"I know enough."
The words hang in the air between us. I should take them back. I should stand up, tell her to get some rest, and go back to my suite. But I don't move.
Scarlett stands abruptly. The champagne bottle slips from her hand and clatters to the ground, rolling away. She's unsteady on her feet, swaying slightly. I stand too, reaching out to steady her. My hand closes around her arm.
Electric. That's the only word for it. The moment my skin touches hers, something jolts through me.
Her eyes widen, and I know she feels it too.
We're standing close. Too close. I can smell her perfume beneath the champagne and tears—something floral and expensive.
I can see the rise and fall of her chest as her breathing quickens.
"I should go inside," she whispers.
"Should you?" My voice comes out lower than I intended.
Her eyes meet mine. Blue and devastated and burning with something that isn't just pain.
She leans forward as if almost an involuntary reaction—and then she kisses me.
It's desperate, seeking. Her hands come up to my chest, fisting in my shirt.
Her lips are soft and taste like champagne and salt from her tears.
For half a second, I freeze. This is wrong. This is my brother's—
But then she makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and I'm lost. My hands move to her hair, tangling in the blonde strands that have fallen from her updo. I pull her closer, and she responds by pressing against me, the silk and lace of her wedding dress crushing between us.
My dick throbs in my pants as the kiss deepens and it becomes consuming. She's pouring everything into it—her pain, her anger, her need to feel something other than the devastation of this day. And I'm responding, giving her exactly what she's asking for.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her hands are still fisted in my shirt. Mine are still in her hair.
"Scarlett." I search her face, looking for doubt, for hesitation.
"You've been drinking—"
“—I need to feel something other than this," she interrupts, her voice breaking.
"I need you to make me forget. Please."
I should say no. I should tell her this is a mistake, that she's grieving, that we'll both regret this in the morning. But when I look into her eyes, I see the same desperation I'm feeling. The same need. The same pull that's been there since the moment I first saw her photo on Miles's phone.
"Come with me," I say.
I take her hand. It's small in mine, trembling. I lead her across the terrace to the door of my suite. We step inside. I close the door behind us. The lock clicks into place.
The room is quiet, save for the sounds of the city traffic through the open terrace doors and the faint echo of my pulse thrumming in my ears. I take the nearly empty champagne bottle that she's drinking and place it on the credenza next to the door.
Scarlett stands before me, her breathing uneven, her lips parted as she watches me with dark eyes. I step closer, my hand coming up to cup her face.
"Tell me to stop and I will," I say, my voice rough.
"Scarlett, if you want me to stop—"
"Don't stop," she breathes, cutting me off.
"Please don't stop."
That's all I need to hear.
I rush toward her, my hands cupping her face as I crash my lips against hers. She gasps into my mouth, her body softening before it tightens, her arms winding around my neck as she clings to me, pressing herself against the hard lines of my body.
The heat between us ignites instantly, sharp and all-consuming.
There's no hesitation, no second-guessing.
My hands move, sliding down the length of her curves, gripping the swell of her ass before traveling back up to her waist. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling, nails scratching lightly against my scalp as she deepens the kiss, desperate, hungry.
We stumble back, her spine hitting the cool wall of the suite. I brace my hands against it, caging her in, drinking in the sound of her ragged breathing, the way her body presses tighter against mine, as if she's trying to mold herself into me.
I slide my hands up the smoothness of her thighs, feeling the heat of her skin beneath my palms. My fingers brush the hem of her dress, teasing it higher as I skim the layers of fabric over her hips. She shifts, and I step back just enough to give myself room.
I reach for the zipper, pulling it down slowly, deliberately.
The sound of it fills the quiet room. My eyes never leave hers as I ease the dress off her shoulders, watching the ivory lace and silk slide down her body.
The wedding dress falls to the floor in a pool of white fabric, pooling at her feet like discarded dreams.
She stands before me in nothing but a lace bra and panties, and I take a slow step back, my eyes devouring every inch of her.
"You're breathtaking," I breathe, my voice hoarse, nearly wrecked.
She doesn't let me stand there long. Her hands are already at my shirt, fumbling impatiently with the buttons, but I don't have the patience for her slow pace. I take over, nearly ripping the fabric open.
She reaches for my belt, yanking at the leather, her fingers now feverish as she works the buckle open. She's rushing, just as desperate, just as ravenous, and it only fuels me further.
I shrug my shirt off, tossing it aside, before gripping her hips and slamming her against the wall once more. A sharp gasp escapes her lips as I press my body into hers, grinding my aching cock against her lace-covered heat.
She feels it. All of me. A quiet, breathless sound escapes her throat, her hands tightening on my shoulders as her hips shift, pressing herself closer, seeking relief against the hard length between us.
I grab both her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand as I lower my mouth to her throat.
I taste her skin, dragging my lips over her pulse, inhaling the sweet, subtle scent of her.
I move lower, my mouth trailing over the delicate lines of her collarbone, my tongue teasing the outline of lace covering her breasts.