Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Dax
The afternoon light slants through my office windows as I review the final draft of a press release. It's damage control for the MediaLink situation—carefully worded statements about internal audits and commitment to transparency. Standard crisis management protocol.
A knock at my door pulls my attention.
"Come in."
Emma enters, tablet in hand, her expression professional but I catch the hint of satisfaction in her eyes.
"Mr. Blackwell, I just received confirmation from Whitman Communications."
I set down my pen, keeping my face neutral.
"And?"
"Scarlett Bradford has accepted the position."
Victory surges through me, sharp and immediate. I keep it off my face, maintaining the same neutral expression I've worn through a thousand business negotiations.
"Good," I say evenly. "What's the timeline?"
"She'll be here by next week. They're finalizing the contract details now, but she's confirmed her acceptance."
I nod once. "Thank you, Emma. Keep me updated on any developments."
She hesitates at the door.
"Is there anything else you need me to handle for Ms. Bradford's arrival?"
"Actually, yes." I lean back in my chair.
"I need you to call our company leasing agent. Andrea Smith. Put her through to me directly."
Emma's eyebrows raise slightly.
"You want to handle it personally?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure? I can coordinate the housing arrangements—"
"I'm sure." My tone leaves no room for discussion.
"Make the call."
"Of course, Mr. Blackwell."
She leaves, and I turn my chair to face the windows. Manhattan sprawls below me, the city bathed in late afternoon sun.
My phone buzzes. Emma's voice comes through the intercom.
"Andrea Smith on line two."
I pick up. "Andrea."
"Mr. Blackwell." Her voice is crisp, professional.
"What can I do for you?"
"I need an apartment. One bedroom, full amenities. Gramercy or Flatiron area. Furnished, move-in ready."
"When do you need it?"
"By the end of the week."
A pause as she processes the tight timeline.
"That's doable. Any other specifications?"
"Not too far from the office. Fifteen-minute commute maximum." I want her close. Accessible.
"I have a few options that fit those parameters," Andrea says. I hear typing in the background.
"There's a place on Twenty-Third Street. One bedroom, recently renovated, great building. Modern kitchen, updated bathroom, good natural light. Building has a doorman, gym, rooftop access."
"Send me the details."
"One moment." More typing.
"Just emailed them to you."
I pull up my email on my computer. The photos show exactly what I'm looking for—clean, modern, comfortable.
"I'll take it," I tell Andrea.
"Have it ready by Friday."
"Consider it done. I'll coordinate with your assistant on the contract and key delivery."
"Good. And Andrea—make sure it's well-stocked. Welcome package, basics, whatever's standard."
"Of course. Anything else?"
"That's all. Thank you."
I hang up and pull up the intercom.
"Emma, Andrea will be sending over contract details for the apartment. Handle the paperwork and make sure there's a welcome package arranged. Standard corporate relocation amenities."
"I'll take care of it," Emma confirms.
I end the call and return to the press release on my desk. The words blur slightly as my mind drifts to what comes next.
The office empties as evening approaches. I stay at my desk, working through emails and quarterly reports that need my attention before tomorrow's board meeting.
The apartment is secured. The contract is signed. Everything is in motion. I close my laptop and stand, walking to the windows. The strategy is forming in my mind. Keep it professional at first. Give her space to settle in, to get comfortable with the work. Then see where things go.
Too many variables. Too many ways this could complicate. But the anticipation is undeniable.
***
Haven's Club is quiet when I arrive at seven. The lounge is half-empty, just a few other members scattered in leather chairs with their drinks and conversations.
Mark and Jeff are already there, seated in our usual spot near the fireplace. I join them, and a server appears immediately.
"Whiskey neat," I tell her.
"How's the crisis management going?" Jeff asks once the server leaves.
"We're making progress." I settle into my chair.
"Brought in an outside consultant to help manage the PR side. She starts next week."
Mark raises an eyebrow.
"Outside consultant? I thought you had people for that."
"We do. But this situation requires someone with specific expertise in crisis management for media companies."
"Anyone we know?" Mark asks.
I pause for just a beat.
"Scarlett Bradford."
The silence is immediate. Mark and Jeff exchange glances.
"Scarlett Bradford," Mark repeats slowly.
"As in Miles's ex-fiancée?"
"Yes."
Jeff leans forward. "Dax, that's... isn't that going to be complicated?"
"She's the best person for this job," I say evenly.
"That's all that matters."
"But after what happened with Miles—" Mark starts.
"What happened with Miles is between Miles and Scarlett." I keep my tone neutral, professional.
"This is business. She has the expertise we need, and she accepted the position."
Mark studies me for a long moment.
"Just business?"
"Just business."
The server returns with my whiskey, and I take a long drink. The burn is familiar, grounding.
"Have you talked to Miles at all?" Jeff asks carefully.
"No."
"Does he know you're hiring her?"
"It's not his concern." I set my glass down.
“He gave up any say in Scarlett's life when he left her at that altar."
Mark and Jeff exchange another glance, but they don't push further. The conversation shifts to safer topics—market trends, acquisition opportunities, mutual contacts making moves.
I participate enough to be present, but my thoughts drift occasionally. The apartment is ready. The team is briefed. Everything is in place.
"You're distracted," Mark observes after Jeff excuses himself to take a call.
"Just thinking about the week ahead."
"Or thinking about Scarlett Bradford." Mark's expression is knowing.
"Just be careful, Dax. This could blow up in a lot of different ways."
"I'm aware."
"Are you?" He leans forward.
"Because from where I'm sitting, bringing your brother's ex-fiancée to New York to work directly with you seems like you're playing with fire."
"Maybe I am." I finish my whiskey.
"But I know what I'm doing."
Mark doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't argue.
"Just don't let it compromise the business. That's all I'm saying."
"It won't."
We stay another hour, the conversation flowing easily. When I finally leave Haven's Club and step out into the cool night air, I pull out my phone briefly, then pocket it again. I flag down my driver and slide into the back seat.
"Home."
As we pull into traffic, I look out at the city lights. Next week, Scarlett Bradford walks into my office. And then we'll see what happens.