Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Scarlett
The lobby of Blackwell Media Corp is all glass and steel, modern art installations punctuating the massive space. I step through the revolving doors and stop, taking it in. This is real. I'm actually here.
A security desk sits to my left, and I approach with my ID and the email from Emma printed out as proof.
"Scarlett Bradford," I tell the guard.
"First day."
He checks his system, then hands me a temporary badge.
"Forty-second floor. Elevators are straight ahead."
I clip the badge to my blazer and walk toward the bank of elevators, my heels clicking against the polished marble. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls—blonde hair pulled into a sleek bun, navy suit, minimal jewelry. Professional. Polished. Exactly what I need to project.
The elevator is empty when I step inside.
I press 42 and watch the numbers climb. My stomach flips with each floor.
This is just a job. A professional engagement.
Crisis management for a major client. The fact that the client is Dax Blackwell is irrelevant.
The elevator chimes, and the doors slide open.
The forty-second floor is breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the entire space, flooding it with natural light. The reception area features a massive desk with the Blackwell Media Corp logo etched in brushed metal behind it.
A woman in her early thirties stands from the desk, smiling warmly.
"Scarlett Bradford?"
"Yes."
"I'm Emma, Mr. Blackwell's executive assistant. Welcome to Blackwell Media." She extends her hand, and I shake it.
"How was your flight?"
"Smooth, thank you."
"Perfect. Let me give you the tour and get you settled." Emma gestures for me to follow her through a set of glass doors.
"This is the main floor for our executive and media relations teams. We have satellite offices on the fortieth and forty-first floors, but most of your work will be here."
We walk down a wide corridor. Emma points out various spaces as we pass.
"Kitchen is here—coffee, tea, full espresso machine. We stock it daily. Conference rooms are along this side, small meeting rooms on the other. Restrooms down that hall."
She leads me to a set of doors at the end of the corridor.
"This is the media center. We have editing suites, recording studios, and production equipment. You probably won't need it, but you have access if necessary."
"Impressive," I murmur, looking through the glass at the high-tech setup inside.
"Mr. Blackwell believes in giving his teams the best resources." Emma's tone is matter-of-fact, professional. "Now, let me show you your office."
We turn down another corridor, this one lined with private offices. Emma stops at a corner space near the end.
"This is yours."
She opens the door, and I step inside.
The office is stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two walls offer panoramic views of Manhattan. There's a large mahogany desk, a leather chair, a sitting area with a couch and two armchairs, built-in bookshelves along one wall. It's easily twice the size of my office in Chicago.
"This is... more than I expected," I admit.
Emma smiles. "Mr. Blackwell wanted you to have everything you need." She hands me a key card.
"This gives you access to the floor, the building gym downstairs, and the executive lounge on the forty-fifth floor. There are showers in the gym if you want to work out before or after hours."
I take the key card, still processing the luxury of this setup.
"Thank you."
"There's a welcome packet on your desk—building directory, team contacts, IT information. Your laptop and phone are already set up." Emma checks her watch.
"I'd like to introduce you to the core media relations team. They're expecting you."
I set my bag on the desk and follow Emma back into the corridor. We head to a conference room where several people are gathered, chatting over coffee.
"Everyone," Emma announces, "this is Scarlett Bradford, our crisis management consultant. Scarlett, this is the team you'll be working with closely."
A woman in her forties with sharp eyes and an efficient demeanor steps forward first.
"Karen, VP of Media Relations. Good to have you here."
"Thank you. Happy to be here."
A younger man, maybe early thirties, extends his hand next.
"Daniel, senior publicist. I've been handling most of the MediaLink coordination."
"Scarlett. Looking forward to working with you."
A tall man with dark hair and an easy smile is next.
"Brad, media strategist. Welcome to the chaos."
I laugh. "Thanks. I'm sure we'll get through it."
A woman with red hair and a warm presence steps up.
"Melanie, communications director. Anything you need, just ask."
"I appreciate that."
Two more men introduce themselves—John, digital media manager, and Mike, content director. I make mental notes on each of them, filing away names and roles.
"We have a team meeting in twenty minutes," Karen says.
"Full debrief on where we are with the crisis. You'll get caught up quickly."
"Perfect. I'll be ready."
Emma walks me back to my office.
"The meeting is in Conference Room A—the large one at the center of the floor. I'll come get you when it's time."
"Thank you, Emma."
She leaves, and I'm alone in this beautiful office with its stunning views. I sit at my desk and open the welcome packet, skimming through the information. Building directory, emergency contacts, IT support.
My phone buzzes. A text from Jane:
Jane: You there yet? How is it???
I smile and type back:
Scarlett: Just arrived. Office is incredible. Meeting the team now.
Jane: And Dax???
Scarlett: Haven't seen him yet.
Jane: Keep me posted. And remember—you're a professional badass. Don't let him rattle you.
I set my phone down and take a breath. Jane's right. I'm here to do a job. Whatever happens with Dax is secondary.
A knock at my door. Emma pops her head in.
"Ready for the meeting?"
"Ready."
Conference Room A is massive, with a table that seats at least twenty people. The media relations team is already assembled when I arrive, along with several others I haven't met yet. I take a seat near the middle, next to Melanie.
"Big turnout," I murmur.
"Full crisis mode," she whispers back.
"Mr. Blackwell doesn't mess around when the company's reputation is on the line."
The room quiets as the door opens. Dax walks in.
My breath catches. He's in a charcoal suit, white shirt, paisley tie. His presence fills the room immediately—commanding, powerful, impossible to ignore. He doesn't look at me right away. Just moves to the head of the table and sets down a folder.
Then his eyes find mine. The impact is physical. My heart slams against my ribs, heat flooding through me. His gaze is intense, unreadable, holding mine for a beat too long before he looks away.
"Let's get started," Dax says, his voice cutting through the room.
"Thank you all for being here. As you know, we're dealing with a significant crisis involving allegations against a former MediaLink director."
Karen stands, pulling up a presentation on the screen behind Dax.
"David Kane, former director of operations at MediaLink, went public last week with allegations of embezzlement, fraud, and misuse of company funds. He claims systematic financial misconduct and falsified reports."
The screen shows headlines, social media posts, financial blogs all covering the story.
"The issue," Karen continues, "is that MediaLink operates under our corporate umbrella. Which means these allegations tie back to Blackwell Media Corp's oversight. Investors are nervous. Clients are asking questions. Competitors are using this as ammunition."
Dax leans against the table, arms crossed.
"We need an aggressive, comprehensive response. Legal is handling the investigation. Our job is to control the narrative and restore credibility."
Daniel speaks up.
"We've already issued a preliminary statement about internal audits and commitment to transparency. But we need a long-term strategy."
All eyes turn to me. I straighten in my chair.
"The first step is acknowledging the allegations publicly without admitting fault. You've done that with the preliminary statement. Next, we need to demonstrate action—announce the independent audit, bring in a third-party firm for transparency, show that Blackwell Media takes this seriously."
Karen nods.
"We're coordinating with legal on timing for that announcement."
"Good," I continue.
"We also need proactive media outreach. Don't wait for journalists to come to you. Offer interviews with key executives—" I glance at Dax, then away quickly.
"—to reinforce the message that this is being handled at the highest level."
Brad leans forward.
"What about social media? The story is trending."
"Controlled engagement," I say.
"Respond to legitimate concerns, ignore trolls, and push out positive content about Blackwell's track record and values. Show the company is more than one scandal."
The discussion continues for another thirty minutes.
Strategy, timelines, responsibilities. I participate when appropriate, offering input and answering questions.
Professional. Focused. But I can feel Dax watching me.
Every time I speak, his eyes are on me. Every time I glance in his direction, he's staring.
My hands fidget with my pen under the table. Finally, Karen wraps up.
"Alright, we have our marching orders. Let's execute. Scarlett, can you put together a detailed crisis communication plan by end of week?"
"Absolutely."
"Great. Meeting adjourned."
Everyone stands, gathering their things. I move quickly, grabbing my notebook and heading for the door before Dax can intercept me. I make it into the hallway and walk fast toward my office, not looking back.
I'm back at my desk, pulling up files on my laptop and trying to calm my racing heart, when my phone rings. Emma's extension.
I pick up. "Scarlett Bradford."
"Ms. Bradford, Mr. Blackwell would like to see you in his office for an urgent debrief."
My stomach drops. "Now?"
"Yes, please."
"I'll be right there."
I hang up and press my palms flat against the desk, taking a breath. This is fine. It's work. A debrief. Professional. I stand, smooth my skirt, and walk down the corridor to Dax's office at the far end. His door is closed. I knock.
"Come in."
I open the door and step inside.
Dax's office is enormous. Corner space, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a massive mahogany desk, leather furniture, modern art on the walls. It's the office of a man who built an empire. He's standing by the windows when I enter, hands in his pockets, looking out at Manhattan.
"Close the door," he says without turning around.
I do, then walk toward his desk, stopping a few feet away.
"You wanted to see me?"
He turns. Our eyes meet, and everything I've been trying to suppress floods back. The hotel suite. The bathroom. His hands on me. His mouth. The way he made me feel.
"Scarlett Bradford." He moves toward me, extending his hand.
"Welcome to Blackwell Media. Thank you for joining us on such short notice."
I take his hand, intending a professional shake. But the moment our skin touches, electricity shoots through me. His grip tightens, just slightly, and I see the mask crack.
"How are you doing?" His voice drops, intimate.
I pull my hand back.
"Fine. Settling in well."
"Why didn't you respond to my messages?"
"I've been busy."
"Busy." He steps closer.
"For two weeks?"
I move back, maintaining distance.
"Mr. Blackwell—"
"Dax."
"Mr. Blackwell," I repeat firmly.
"I'm here in a professional capacity. To manage your crisis and restore your company's reputation. That's all."
"Is it?" He moves closer again, invading my space.
"Because it seems like you're running from something."
"I'm not running from anything." I lift my chin.
"I accepted this position because it's a tremendous opportunity. Not to rehash personal history."
"Personal history?" His eyes darken.
"Is that what we're calling it?"
Heat crawls up my neck.
"What would you call it?"
"Unfinished,” he asks as he leans forward.
The word hangs between us, heavy with meaning.
"How have things been in Chicago?" he asks, his tone deceptively casual.
I know what he's really asking. About Miles. About whether I've moved on or gone back.
"Fine," I say.
"Miles and I have been speaking."
Dax's jaw tightens. He steps even closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne.
"What does that mean?"
"It means exactly what I said. We've been speaking."
"About what?"
"That's not your business." I hold my ground even though every instinct tells me to step back.
"This is a professional setting. I'm here to work and do my job—the job you orchestrated to bring me here. Not to disclose details of my personal life."
His eyes lock on mine, intense and possessive.
"Scarlett—"
A knock at the door interrupts him. Dax stops, his expression flickering with frustration. He clears his throat.
"Yes. Come in."
The door opens, and Emma enters, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.
"Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Blackwell. Your eleven o'clock with the legal team is ready in Conference Room B."
"Thank you, Emma. I'll be right there."
I don't wait for dismissal. I turn and head for the door, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure everyone can hear it.
"Ms. Bradford," Dax calls after me.
I pause at the door but don't turn around.
"Yes?"
"Welcome to the team."
I nod once and walk out, Emma still standing there reviewing something on her tablet. I make it back to my office, close the door, and lean against it. My hands won’t stop shaking.