Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Dax
The hotel lobby is chaos.
Guests are streaming out of the ballroom, their voices a buzz of confusion and scandal. I can hear fragments of conversation as they pass—
“Did he really just not show up?” and “that poor girl” and “I can't believe Miles Blackwell would do something like this.”
My jaw clenches. Miles Blackwell. My brother. The coward who abandoned his fiancée at the altar.
I'm standing near the bar, phone pressed to my ear for the dozenth time. Miles's voicemail picks up again. His voice, casual and friendly, asking the caller to leave a message. I end the call without speaking. There's nothing left to say that I haven't already said.
My mother is sitting on one of the lobby couches, her face pale and drawn. She's aged ten years in the past two hours. I walk over and sit beside her.
"Any word?" she asks, though she already knows the answer.
"No. He's not picking up."
"I don't understand." Her voice breaks.
"How could he do this? To that sweet girl. In front of everyone."
I don't have an answer. I've been asking myself the same question since Eric delivered the news in that corridor.
The wedding coordinator—Christina—is near the ballroom entrance, directing staff as they begin breaking down the decorations. An arch covered in roses that will never frame a kiss. A reception that will never happen. All of it, a waste. I pull out my phone and text Miles again.
Dax: Where are you? Call me immediately.
Nothing.
Christina approaches us, wringing her hands.
"Mr. Blackwell, Mrs. Blackwell, I'm so terribly sorry about all of this. We're working on clearing the space. Most of the guests have left."
"Thank you." I keep my voice level, professional. None of this is her fault.
"Much appreciated."
She nods and hurries away. I scan the lobby.
The crowd is thinning. Scarlett's parents left an hour ago, her mother in tears, her father's face carved from stone.
Jane and Sarah stayed longer, both of them devastated, but eventually they went upstairs to check on Scarlett, who apparently locked herself in the bathroom earlier and refused to see anyone.
I don't blame her.
Eric is standing near the elevators, still in his tuxedo, talking quietly with the other groomsmen. I stand and walk over to him.
"Eric."
He turns, his face guilty.
"Dax. Man, I'm so sorry. I had no idea Miles was going to—"
"What happened last night?" I cut him off.
"After the rehearsal dinner. Where did you go?"
Eric exchanges glances with the other groomsmen.
"We went to a cigar lounge. Just the guys. Bachelor party stuff."
"And?"
"Miles was drinking. A lot. He kept rambling about how crazy all of this was, how everything was moving so fast." Eric runs a hand through his hair.
"We just passed it off as drunken ramblings, you know? Cold feet. Everyone gets nervous before their wedding."
"What time did you leave?"
"A little after one AM. We made sure we got him back to his place in one piece. He seemed fine. Tired, drunk, but fine."
I stare at him. "He seemed fine, and then this morning he decides not to show up to his own wedding?"
"I don't know what happened between then and now." Eric's voice is defensive.
"I swear, Dax, if I'd known he was going to bail, I would've—"
"It's not your fault." I cut him off again, though the fury burning in my chest wants to blame someone. Anyone.
"Did he say anything else? Anything specific about Scarlett or the wedding?"
Eric thinks for a moment.
"He said something about not being sure if he was ready. About wondering if he was doing the right thing. But like I said, we thought it was just nerves."
Not being sure. Wondering if he was doing the right thing.
The rage intensifies, volcanic and barely contained.
"Thanks, Eric." I turn away before I say something I'll regret.
I walk back to my mother.
"Come on. Let me take you to your room."
She stands, leaning on my arm. We take the elevator in silence. Her room is on the fifth floor, elegantly appointed but empty of the joy that should have filled this day.
"Will you be okay?" I ask at her door.
"I don't know." She looks up at me, tears in her eyes.
"I’m just worried about Miles. He’ll regret this. My son just destroyed that poor girl's life. How am I supposed to be okay?"
"Get some rest. I'll keep trying to reach him."
She nods and disappears into her room. The door closes with a soft click. I'm alone in the hallway, my phone heavy in my hand. I dial Miles one more time.
Voicemail. I put my phone away and take the elevator to the top floor.
My suite is exactly as I left it this morning. Laptop on the desk. Suit jacket draped over a chair. The view of Chicago stretching out beyond the windows, the city lights beginning to glow in the early evening darkness.
I loosen my tie and pour myself a whiskey from the bar. Three fingers. I drain half of it in one swallow. My phone sits on the desk, silent and mocking. I pick it up and try Miles again. It rings once, twice, three times. Voicemail.
Dax: What the hell did you do? Call me back.
I send the text and set the phone down. Pour more whiskey. Stand at the window. Scarlett's face keeps flashing through my mind. The way she looked standing in that corridor, her wedding dress perfect, her makeup flawless, confusion turning to horror as Eric delivered the news.
The humiliation. The devastation. He did that to her. My reckless, impulsive, commitment-phobic brother who has spent his entire life running from anything that requires him to stand still and be accountable. I grimace at the thought and I down the rest of my whiskey.
Hours pass. The suite grows darker. I don't bother turning on more lights. I open my laptop, thinking work might distract me. There are emails from my COO, questions about an acquisition we're finalizing. A message from my assistant about next week's board meeting.
I try to focus. Read the same paragraph three times. Can't retain a single word. My phone rings. I grab it, hoping it's Miles.
It's Mark.
"Hey," I answer.
"How was the wedding?" His voice is cheerful, oblivious.
"It didn't happen."
Silence. Then, "What?"
"Miles didn't show up."
"Jesus Christ." Mark's tone shifts immediately.
"Are you serious?"
"He called his best man an hour before the ceremony. Said he couldn't go through with it."
"That's..." Mark struggles for words.
"That's unforgivable."
"I know."
"Have you talked to him?"
"He's not answering my calls."
"What about the fiancée ? Is she—"
"I don't know." I rub my eyes. "I don't know where she is or if she's okay."
"Wow. That's brutal."
We talk for a few more minutes. Mark offers to handle some of the work issues remotely so I can focus on the family crisis. I accept, grateful for the help even though I know work won't be a distraction tonight.
After we hang up, I try Miles again. Voicemail.
I pour another whiskey. It's my fourth. Or fifth. I've lost count. The clock on my laptop says it's nearly ten PM. I stand and walk to the terrace doors. I need air. Need to clear my head.
The terrace attached to my suite is small but private, with a few chairs and a view of the city. I step outside, the October air cool against my skin. The whiskey has dulled the edges of my anger, but it's still there. Simmering. Waiting.
I lean against the railing, looking out at Chicago.
Somewhere in this city, Miles is hiding.
Avoiding responsibility like he always does.
I'm about to go back inside when I notice movement to my left.
There's a shared terrace landing on this floor, a wider space that connects the penthouse suites. I'd forgotten about it.
A figure in white sits on one of the benches. My breath catches.
Scarlett.
She's still in her wedding dress, the ivory lace now wrinkled and stained.
Her hair has fallen from its elegant updo, blonde strands hanging loose around her shoulders.
Her makeup is destroyed—black streaks of mascara down her cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, and she's drinking champagne straight from the bottle.
I freeze, watching her. She hasn't noticed me yet. She's staring out at nothing, the bottle dangling from her hand. I should go back inside. Give her privacy. This is the last thing she needs—her ex-fiancé's brother intruding on her grief. But my feet carry me forward before my brain can stop them.
"Scarlett."
My voice is quiet, but she hears it. She looks up, and when her eyes meet mine, there's no surprise. Just a weary resignation.
"Of course it's you," she says. Her voice is rough, raw from crying.
I approach slowly, like she's a wild animal that might bolt.
"May I sit?"
She gestures to the bench beside her with the champagne bottle.
"Why not? The day can't get any worse."
I sit, keeping a respectful distance between us. Up close, I can see the full extent of the damage. Her dress is torn at the hem. There's a stain on the bodice—wine, maybe, or tears. Her hands are shaking.
"I'm sorry," I say. "About Miles. About all of this."
She laughs, but there's no humor in it.
"Are you? Your brother just humiliated me in front of a room full of people who watched me get abandoned at my own wedding."
"I know."
"Do you?" She turns to face me, anger flashing in her blue eyes.
"Do you have any idea what that feels like? To stand there in your wedding dress, waiting for someone who's never going to show up? To have everyone stare at you with pity while you fall apart?"
"No," I admit. "I don't."
"Then don't tell me you're sorry. Sorry doesn't fix this."
Silence settles between us. She takes another drink from the bottle, then seems to remember I'm there.
"Want some?" She offers it to me.
I take it. The champagne is expensive, the kind that should be savored in crystal flutes at a wedding reception. Instead, we're passing it back and forth on a hotel terrace, everything in ruins.
I take a long drink and hand it back.
"I've been trying to reach Miles," I tell her.
"He won't answer."