Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Scarlett
My office is quiet except for the hum of my laptop and the occasional buzz of my phone. I'm wrapping up emails, finalizing notes from this morning's strategy session, trying to stay focused even though tonight's celebration dinner keeps creeping into my thoughts.
My phone buzzes again. I glance at the screen.
Jane: How's things been? Missing you!
Sarah: Seriously, when are we visiting??? It's been forever
I smile and type back:
Scarlett: Miss you too! Things are great here. Busy but good. Let's figure out dates soon.
Another buzz. Different contact.
Miles.
Miles: Thinking about you. When can I visit?
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. He's been texting almost daily. Calling. Leaving voicemails I haven't listened to.
I don't know what to say to him anymore. The guilt that used to consume me when I thought about Miles has faded into something more complicated. Confusion, maybe. Or just distance. He feels like a part of my life that belongs to someone else now.
I set my phone down without responding and close my laptop. Tonight is about celebrating the team's success. The crisis is turning around. That's what matters. I grab my bag and head out, waving to Karen as I pass her office.
"See you tonight," she calls.
"See you there."
I need to go home, change, refresh. The dinner isn't until eight, but I want to clear my head first.
***
Ardor is everything its reputation promises.
Elegant, luxurious, the kind of place where every detail is curated for perfection.
The hostess leads me through the main dining room to a private space in the back—a beautiful room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a long table set for twenty, soft lighting, and servers already passing hors d'oeuvres.
The team is here. Music playing softly, champagne flowing, everyone relaxed and celebratory.
"Scarlett!" Melanie waves me over.
"You made it!"
I join her near the bar where several people are gathered. Brad hands me a glass of champagne.
"To the woman who saved our asses," he says, raising his glass.
I laugh. "I didn't save anything. This was a team effort."
"Don't be modest," Daniel says, appearing beside me.
"Your strategy was brilliant. We all know it."
"I appreciate that, but really—"
"Just take the compliment," Mike interrupts with a grin.
"You earned it."
I sip my champagne, warmth spreading through me. The room is buzzing with energy, people laughing and talking, plates of food being passed around. I glance around the room, looking for Dax. I don't see him at first.
Then I do.
He's across the room, leaning against the wall near the windows, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His eyes are fixed on me—not just looking. Staring. With an intensity that makes my skin prickle. I turn back to the conversation, but I can feel his gaze like a physical touch.
Brad is telling some story about a disastrous client meeting, and I force myself to focus, laughing at the right moments, contributing when appropriate. But then Dax is there. He walks up to our group, not looking at me, and addresses Brad directly.
"How's the digital campaign performing?"
Brad blinks, slightly thrown by the interruption.
"Good. Strong engagement across platforms."
"Numbers?" Dax asks.
"Up fifteen percent from last quarter."
"Good." Dax glances at Daniel.
"And the media outreach?"
Daniel responds, and the conversation shifts to work talk. Dax participates, asking questions, making comments. But he doesn't look at me. Doesn't acknowledge I'm standing right here. It's passive-aggressive and obvious, and it sets my teeth on edge.
After a few minutes, someone calls Dax away to talk to Karen. He leaves without a word to me.
"That was weird," Mike mutters.
I don't respond, just take another sip of champagne.
Twenty minutes later, it happens again. I'm talking to John about his weekend plans when Dax appears, inserting himself into the conversation with questions about analytics and performance metrics.
Again, he doesn't look at me. Again, he leaves without acknowledging my presence.
The third time, I'm ready to say something. But before I can, Emma pulls him away for an introduction to someone.
"Is he okay?" Melanie asks quietly, appearing at my elbow.
"No idea," I say, keeping my voice light.
But I'm frustrated. Annoyed. What is he doing?
I excuse myself and head toward the bar for another drink. As I approach, I glance through the open entryway that leads back to the main dining room. Dax is there, standing near the bar just outside our private space. He's holding a fresh whiskey, and two women are talking to him.
They're not from the company. I don't recognize either of them. One is wearing a tight red dress, her cleavage prominently displayed. She's leaning into Dax's space, laughing at something he said, her hand touching his arm.
Dax looks down at her. At her chest. Then back to her face. Something uncomfortable hits me in the chest. Sharp and hot.
Jealousy? Annoyance?
I grip my champagne glass harder, forcing myself to look away. This is ridiculous. I have no claim on Dax. We're not together. We're barely even friends.
But the image of those women flirting with him, of him looking at that woman's body, stays lodged in my mind.
I turn back to the party, rejoining the group.
The party continues. More food, more drinks, more laughter. I try to stay present, to enjoy the celebration, but I'm distracted. Distracted by Dax's behavior. By the women at the bar. By the champagne making everything feel slightly unsteady.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. I pull it out. Miles calling.
I stare at the screen, debating whether to answer. Finally, I excuse myself and step out into the hallway near the restrooms.
I answer. "Miles."
"Scarlett." His voice is warm, familiar.
"I've been trying to reach you."
"I know. I've been busy."
"Too busy to call me back?"
I lean against the wall, closing my eyes.
"What do you want, Miles?"
"I want to see you. I want to visit. We need to talk."
"We've talked. Multiple times."
"Not enough." He pauses.
"I miss you, Scarlett. I know I messed up, but I'm trying to make it right. Can't you see that?"
"Miles, look. I can't talk right now. I'm at a work event. This isn't—"
"It's never a good time with you anymore."
Frustration flares. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You've been in New York for months, and you won't let me visit. You barely respond to my messages. It's like you're avoiding me."
"I'm not avoiding you. I'm working. This is a huge client, and I—"
"Always work," he interrupts.
"It's always about work."
I open my mouth to respond when I hear footsteps.
I look up.
Dax emerges from around the corner, his expression dark.
"Why the fuck are you still talking to Miles?" he demands, his voice low and dangerous.
I freeze, phone still pressed to my ear.
"I'll call you back," I say quickly to Miles and hang up.
Dax steps closer. "Answer me."
"How long have you been standing there?" I snap.
"Long enough. Why are you talking to him?"
"That's none of your business."
"The hell it isn't." He's close now, invading my space.
"He left you at the altar. He humiliated you. And you're still taking his calls?"
"What I do in my personal life has nothing to do with you."
"Doesn't it?" His eyes are blazing.
"You're here. In New York. Working with me. And you're still stringing him along?"
"I'm not stringing anyone along." My voice rises.
"And you have no right to question me about this."
"I have every right."
"Why? Because you orchestrated some job offer to get me here? That doesn't give you ownership over my life, Dax."
His jaw tightens.
"You need to go home."
I laugh, sharp and bitter.
"Are you kicking me out? Of my own team's celebration?"
"You're drunk."
"I've had two glasses of champagne. I'm fine."
"You're not fine. Go home, Scarlett."
I stare at him, fury mixing with something else I don't want to name.
"You're such a jerk."
"So I've been told."
I look down at my phone, then back at him.
"Fine. I was ready to go anyway."
I storm past him, heading for the exit. I grab my coat from the hostess and push through the front door into the cool night air. I'm barely on the sidewalk when I raise my hand to hail a cab. One pulls up within seconds.
I open the door and slide into the backseat.
Before I can close it, Dax follows me in.
"What are you doing?" I demand.
"We're not finished talking," he says, slamming the door shut behind him.
"Yes, we are! We are so finished. Why are you following me?"
The driver turns around. "Where to?"
I give him my address, then add, "Two stops."
Dax doesn't say anything, just settles into the seat beside me, too close in the confined space.
The taxi pulls into traffic.
"What exactly do you want, Scarlett?" Dax asks, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion.
"What?"
"What do you want? Because from where I'm sitting, you're playing games. Keeping Miles on the hook while you're here with me."
I turn to face him. "Why do you even care, Dax?"
"Why do I care?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it.
"Are you serious?"
"Yes. Why does it matter to you who I talk to? We're not together. We work together. That's it."
"That's it?" He leans closer.
"Is that what you tell yourself?"
"It's the truth."
"Bullshit."
We're staring at each other, the air between us crackling with tension.
Then Dax grabs my face with both hands and kisses me.
It's rough, possessive, consuming. His mouth claims mine with a desperation that steals my breath.
I push him back and slap him across the face.
The sound echoes in the small space. We stare at each other, both breathing hard. He barely even flinches at the slap.