Chapter 21 #2
"That's what he said. I told him, Miles, this is something you should have done before you asked the girl to marry you. Before you humiliated her in front of everyone. But does he listen to me? Of course not."
"And now?" I ask, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
"Now he says he still wants to get back with Scarlett. Says he made a mistake. I swear, Dax, I don't understand your brother sometimes. He has no idea what he wants."
The irony is staggering. Miles abandoned Scarlett at the altar, ran to Florida to fuck his ex-girlfriend, and now wants Scarlett back. And he has no idea that I've been with her. That she's been in New York working for me. That I spent last night and this morning inside her.
"Mom," I say carefully.
"Miles needs to figure out his life. Scarlett deserves better than his indecision."
"I agree completely. That poor girl. I hope she's doing well, wherever she is."
If she only knew.
"I'm sure she's fine," I say.
We talk for a few more minutes—her garden, her book club, the usual topics. But my mind is elsewhere, processing what she just told me.
Unfinished business. What a fucking excuse.
After I hang up, I sit at my desk, staring out at the city.This information changes things. Not for me—I already knew Miles was no good for Scarlett. But now I have confirmation. Proof of exactly how little he values her.
And when the time comes to confront Miles, I'll use it.
The morning passes in a blur of meetings. First with our legal team about the MediaLink settlement. Then with two potential acquisition targets. Then a call with investors who want updates on our Q4 projections.
By the time noon rolls around, I'm ready for a break.
I head to the kitchen for coffee. The espresso machine is a lifesaver on days like this.
As I approach, I see Scarlett inside, laughing with Daniel. They're standing by the coffee station, and she's holding a mug, her head tilted back as Daniel says something that makes her smile.
The jealousy flares; immediate and irrational.
I force myself to keep walking, entering the kitchen like I have every right to be there. Which I do—it's my office
"Afternoon," I say, my tone neutral.
Daniel straightens. "Mr. Blackwell."
Scarlett's eyes meet mine, and I see the flicker of awareness there.
"Good afternoon."
I make my espresso while they finish their conversation. Daniel excuses himself, leaving Scarlett and me alone. She rinses her mug in the sink.
"Busy morning?"
"Very." I watch her dry her hands.
"You?"
"Same. Strategy sessions with Karen and Brad."
We're being professional. Careful. Anyone could walk in. She heads toward the door. I let her leave first, then follow a few minutes later. I give it ten minutes before I walk to her office. Long enough that it doesn't look suspicious.
I knock on her door.
"Come in."
I step inside and close the door behind me. Not all the way—just enough for privacy. Scarlett is sitting behind her desk, laptop open, looking every bit the professional consultant she is.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Blackwell."
The formality is deliberate. We both know it.
"Scarlett." I move toward her desk.
"I wanted to discuss the media strategy for the final phase of the crisis response."
"Of course." She folds her hands on the desk.
"What did you have in mind?"
I stop at the edge of her desk, close enough to see the faint flush on her cheeks.
"I was thinking we could discuss it this evening. Over dinner."
Her eyebrows raise slightly. "Dinner?”
"Yes. There are some elements I'd like to review in a more... relaxed setting."
She leans back in her chair, a small smile playing at her lips.
"I'll have to check my calendar. I might be tied up."
I stare at her. "What?"
She's playing with me. Toying with me. And she knows exactly what she's doing.
Her fingers move to her keyboard, clicking through her calendar with exaggerated slowness.
"Let me see... oh, it looks like I'm free this evening after all."
"Perfect. Seven."
"That sounds good."
"I'll make the reservation and send you the details."
"Looking forward to it, Mr. Blackwell."
I turn to leave, then pause at the door. Turn back. She's watching me, her blue eyes bright with challenge. The air between us crackles. Then I open the door and walk out before I do something that would be very unprofessional.
***
I arrive at Amata fifteen minutes early. It's one of my favorite restaurants in the city—intimate, excellent food, and the owner, Marco, is a friend.
He greets me at the door.
"Dax. Good to see you."
"Marco. Thanks for accommodating on short notice."
"For you? Always." He leads me to the private booth in the back, tucked away from the main dining room.
"Your usual?"
"Please."
He brings a whiskey neat, and I settle in, checking my phone. Scarlett hasn't texted, but she'll be here.
Ten minutes later, she arrives. The ma?tre d' walks her through the restaurant, and I stand as she approaches. She changed. The conservative work dress is gone, replaced by something dark green and fitted that hugs every curve.
I move to pull out her chair, leaning close as she sits.
"You changed."
"I figured it might be a good occasion to look less like a corporate consultant and more like a woman at dinner." Her voice is low, teasing.
"You succeeded."
She smiles as I sit across from her. The server brings water and menus, then disappears.
"This place is beautiful," Scarlett says, looking around.
"Marco owns it. We went to business school together."
"Of course you did."
The server returns with wine, and we order. Once we're alone again, I lean forward.
"I need to say something."
She tilts her head. "Okay."
"Miles is no good for you."
Her expression shifts, guarded.
"Dax—"
"I know it's not my place. But you need to hear it." I take a drink.
"He left you at the altar. And then he went to Florida and reconnected with his ex-girlfriend."
Her eyes widen. "How do you know that?"
"My mother told me. Today, actually. Apparently Miles spent two weeks with Christina while you were in Chicago picking up the pieces."
Scarlett's jaw tightens. "He told me he needed space to think."
"He needed space to fuck his ex." The words come out harsher than I intended, but I don't regret them.
"He's still calling you, isn't he?"
"Yes."
"Do you answer?"
"Sometimes."
"Why?"
She looks down at her wine glass.
"I don't know. Habit, maybe. Or guilt."
"You have nothing to feel guilty about."
"Don't I?" She meets my eyes.
"I slept with his brother."
"After he abandoned you. After he humiliated you. After he went to Florida and betrayed whatever trust was left."
The server arrives with our food, and we pause the conversation. Once he's gone, Scarlett picks up her fork but doesn't eat.
"Why do you care?" she asks quietly.
"Because you deserve better than him."
"And what do I deserve?"
The question hangs between us.
"Someone who shows up," I say finally.
"Someone who doesn't run when things get complicated. Someone who sees your value and doesn't take it for granted."
She's quiet for a long moment. She looks as if she wants to say something else, but then her eyes change. She looks down at her plate and then she takes a bite of her food.
"This is incredible."
I let her change the subject.
"Marco's chef is one of the best in the city."
We eat, and the conversation shifts to safer ground. Favorite restaurants. Travel. She tells me about a trip to Iceland she took with friends, and I tell her about Tokyo.
"You've been everywhere," she observes.
"Comes with the job. Business takes me all over."
"Do you ever just travel for fun?"
"Not often."
"That's sad."
I shrug. "I enjoy the work."
"But there's more to life than work."
"Says the woman who's been at the office until midnight multiple times this month."
She laughs. "Fair point."
The wine flows. The food is excellent. And slowly, the professional veneer we've been maintaining starts to crack.
"Tell me something I don't know about you," she says, her eyes bright from the wine.
"Like what?"
"Anything. A secret. A fear. Something real."
I consider this.
"I ran the New York Marathon once. Hated every second of it."
She laughs. "Why did you do it then?"
"Because I don't like being told I can't do something."
"Stubborn."
"Determined."
"Same thing."
"Your turn," I say. "Tell me something I don't know."
She twirls her wine glass.
"I wanted to be a journalist when I was younger. Like Miles, actually." Her voice drops slightly on his name, and something in her expression shifts. Becomes distant.
"But I was terrified of being on camera, so I went into PR instead."
I notice the change immediately. The way her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes anymore. The way she looks down at her wine glass instead of at me.
"Do you regret it?" I ask carefully.
"No. I'm good at what I do." She meets my eyes briefly.
"And I like being behind the scenes. Controlling the narrative without being the story."
We continue talking—books, childhood, the company. But I can see she's not fully present anymore. Her responses are polite, engaged, but there's a melancholy underneath that wasn't there before.
Because of what I told her about Miles.
Finally, I set down my fork.
"I'm sorry I had to tell you about Miles so abruptly. I wasn't sure if I should tell you outright or wait."
She's quiet for a moment, staring at her plate.
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. I can see it's not."
She looks up at me, and there's something raw in her expression.
"I meant what I said, Scarlett. He's no good for you."
"It's not surprising," she says quietly.
"But it's still not easy to hear. It's like reopening the wound again. I spent three years with him. To know that he wasn't even sure if he wanted to commit to me, that he had to go finish his unfinished business with his ex..." She trails off, shaking her head.
"I know it's difficult to hear."
"I was going to start a life with him, Dax. Everything that comes with that. A home. Maybe kids someday. I was ready. I said yes."
I lean forward. "Is that what you truly want?"
She meets my eyes. "That's what I wanted, Dax." A pause.
"What do you want?"
The question catches me off guard.
"What do I want?"
"What's your angle in all of this?" Her gaze is direct, challenging.
"What do you get from this?"
"What do you mean?"
"I was with your brother. And you've taken the opportunity to get me in your bed. Is this just a conquest? Some sort of competition between the two of you? Some long-standing rivalry between brothers?"
The words hit like a slap.
"I am not in competition with my brother. Never have been."
"You chose to get involved with me when you could have any other woman you wanted."
"But you're not like any other woman—" I interrupt, the words coming out sharper than intended.
Our eyes lock.
I lean closer, my mind racing with everything I want to say. The feelings in my chest pushing against years of control, of keeping emotions locked down, of never letting anyone see past the carefully constructed walls.
"Scarlett, I—"
The waiter appears at our table, clearing plates with efficient movements that shatter the moment completely.
Scarlett fumbles with her napkin, breaking eye contact.
"It's getting late. I should go."
I take a breath, forcing myself to stay calm.
"Come home with me."
Her eyes widen slightly.
"You haven't had enough of me yet?" she asks, a slight smile playing at her lips.
The only thing my pride will let me say is,
"No. Not at all."
She nods slowly.
The waiter brings the check. I pay, and we stand. The walk to the door feels longer than it should, the weight of unfinished conversation hanging between us. Outside, my driver is waiting. I open the door for her, and she slides into the back seat. I follow, and the door closes behind us.