Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Scarlett
It's Monday morning, and I'm supposed to be at the office.
Instead, I'm on my couch in my pajamas, laptop open, trying to work remotely.
I've been sick for days. Nauseous. I threw up once over the weekend and chalked it up to stress from the Miles situation.
The fight. The destruction. The look on his face when he left.
Dax left for Philadelphia last night—client meetings that couldn't be rescheduled. He'll be back tomorrow.
I sip ginger tea and try to focus on the email I'm drafting, but my stomach churns uncomfortably.
My phone buzzes. A text from Jane.
Jane: SCARLETT CALL ME NOW!
Before I can respond, another text comes through. From Sarah.
Sarah: OH MY GOD. Have you seen it???
My stomach drops.
I open my browser and type my name into the search bar. The results load, and my heart stops.
Photos. Everywhere.
Me and Dax at the Brooklyn event. In the private corridor. His hands on my waist. My body pressed against his. Our mouths locked in a kiss that's unmistakably intimate.
The headlines are brutal:
"Blackwell Media CEO Caught in Scandalous Affair with PR Consultant"
"Media Mogul Dax Blackwell and Crisis Manager Scarlett Bradford: Conflict of Interest or Office Romance?"
"From Crisis Management to Personal Entanglement: Blackwell's New Scandal"
My hands shake as I scroll through article after article. Social media is exploding. Comments. Speculation. People dissecting every detail of the photo. And underneath it all, mentions of the MediaLink scandal—the very crisis I was hired to manage—now overshadowed by this.
I try to call Dax. It goes straight to voicemail. He's probably in his meeting.
My phone rings. Jane.
I answer. "Jane—"
"Are you okay? Scarlett, what the hell is happening?"
"I don't know. I didn't—we didn't know anyone was taking photos."
"It's everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, every gossip site. They're calling it a scandal."
Sarah's voice comes through in the background.
"Is she okay? Let me talk to her."
"I'm here," I manage. "I'm... I don't know what to do."
"Does your boss know?" Jane asks.
Before I can answer, another call comes through.
Linda.
My boss.
"I have to go," I tell Jane. "Linda's calling."
"Call us back. We're here for you."
I hang up and stare at Linda's name on my screen. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe.
I answer. "Linda."
"Scarlett." Her voice is ice.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Linda, I can explain—"
"Explain what? That you're having an affair with Dax Blackwell? Your client? The man whose company you were hired to represent?"
I close my eyes. "It's not—it's complicated."
"Complicated?" Her voice rises.
"Scarlett, he's not just your client. He's also your ex-fiancé's brother. Do you have any idea how this looks?"
"I know. I know it looks bad—"
"Bad? This is a nightmare. The New York office director called me an hour ago. The photos are everywhere. Every major publication, social media, gossip columns. This is horrible for Whitman Communications' reputation. Completely unethical."
Tears burn my eyes.
"Linda, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen."
"Your work has been exceptional, Scarlett. The MediaLink crisis is essentially resolved. But this?" She pauses.
"This makes us look like a joke. It undermines everything we stand for."
I'm pacing now, my free hand pressed against my stomach. The nausea is back, stronger this time.
"The firm is calling an emergency board meeting," Linda continues.
"New York and Chicago offices. We have to put you on leave, Scarlett. You violated our code of ethics. Until we decide what happens next, you're suspended."
"Linda, please—"
"Your contract was ending in less than a month anyway. The MediaLink work is wrapped up. But now we have another scandal on our hands. And this one might be ten times worse."
My vision blurs. A migraine is starting behind my eyes.
"I need you to go to Blackwell Media," Linda says, her tone clipped and professional.
"Pack up your things. Be discreet. Don't speak to anyone about the details. If press asks you anything, say 'no comment.' Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"And Scarlett." Her voice softens slightly.
"I need you back in Chicago. Before the end of the week. You have to meet with HR and the advisory board. We'll discuss next steps then."
"Okay."
"I'm disappointed, Scarlett. I really am."
The line goes dead. I drop the phone and run to the bathroom.
I'm on the floor, gripping the toilet, my whole body shaking. I throw up until there's nothing left, then sit back against the wall, lightheaded and cold. My phone is buzzing in the other room. Calls. Texts. Notifications.
I can't deal with any of it. Hours pass. I move from the bathroom to the couch to the bed, unable to focus on anything. Finally, my phone rings again.
Dax.
I answer immediately. "Dax—"
"Scarlett, I'm so sorry. I was in meetings all morning, but I got word of the news. Are you okay?"
His voice breaks something in me, and I start crying.
"Scarlett, talk to me."
"It's everywhere," I sob.
"The photos. The headlines. My boss called. They put me on leave. I have to go back to Chicago. I have to meet with HR and the board. Everything is falling apart."
"Okay. Listen to me. I'm getting on the first flight back tomorrow morning. This is going to be okay."
"How? How is this going to be okay?"
"We'll figure it out. Together. I promise."
But his voice doesn't sound convincing. Even he knows this is bad.
I cry until I can't anymore. Dax stays on the phone with me, talking in low, soothing tones, trying to calm me down. When we finally hang up, I'm exhausted. Empty.
I spend the night on the couch, my phone on silent, avoiding everyone. And I throw up three more times before morning.
***
The next morning, I force myself to shower and get dressed. I have to go to Blackwell Media. Pack up my office. Follow Linda's instructions.
The lobby feels different when I walk in. The security guard barely meets my eyes. The receptionist on the forty-second floor looks away as I pass.
Everyone knows. Emma is at her desk when I step off the elevator. She glances up, then back down at her computer.
"Good morning, Ms. Bradford."
Her tone is cold. Professional. Nothing like the warmth she's shown me over the past months.
"Morning," I manage.
I walk to my office, feeling every eye on me. People whispering. Staring.
It's like a walk of shame.
I close my office door and lean against it, trying to breathe.
Then I get to work. I pull boxes from the supply closet and start packing.
Files. Notes. Personal items. The framed photo of me and Jane and Sarah from college.
The coffee mug I brought from Chicago. It takes an hour to clear everything out.
When I'm done, I stack the boxes by the door and take one last look at the office. The corner space with floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of Manhattan I've loved for months.
It's over.
I grab my purse and head for the door. Halfway down the corridor, the nausea hits again.
I barely make it to the bathroom before I'm throwing up, my hands gripping the porcelain, my vision swimming.
When I finally stand, I catch my reflection in the mirror.
Pale. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair disheveled.
I look like hell. This isn't just stress anymore. Something is wrong.
I pull out my phone and search for a clinic near my apartment. There's one a few blocks away with same-day appointments. I book one for this afternoon.
***
The clinic is small and clean, the waiting room filled with other women flipping through magazines. I fill out the intake forms, checking boxes for nausea, fatigue, dizziness. A nurse calls my name and leads me back to an exam room.
"What brings you in today?" she asks, taking my vitals.
"I've been sick for about a week. Nausea, vomiting, lightheadedness. I thought it was stress, but it's not getting better."
She nods, making notes. "Are you sexually active?"
"Yes."
"Are you on birth control?"
I pause. "Yes. The pill."
"When was your last period?"
I try to remember. With everything that's happened—Miles, the scandal, the work—I can't recall. "I... I'm not sure. Maybe three or four weeks ago?"
She writes that down.
"We'll do a urine test and some bloodwork. Just to be safe."
I give the samples and return to the exam room to wait. Thirty minutes later, there's a knock on the door. A woman in her forties enters—Dr. Martinez, according to her badge.
"Miss Bradford." She sits down across from me, tablet in hand.
"Your urine came back. Do you know you're pregnant?"
The room tilts.
"What?"
"You're pregnant. Based on your symptoms, I'd estimate about six weeks."
I can't breathe.
"That's... that's not possible. I'm on the pill."
"Birth control pills are very effective, but they're not foolproof. Especially if doses are missed or taken inconsistently."
My mind races. Six weeks. Dax and I have been sleeping together for over two months... but I've been on the pill. I've been careful.
Except.
The move to New York. Changing doctors. The stress with Miles. The MediaLink crisis. I can't remember if I missed pills. Days blend together. I was so consumed with work, with everything happening, I might have—
Oh God.
"Miss Bradford?" Dr. Martinez's voice pulls me back.
"Are you alright?"
"I... I don't know what to do."
She hands me a tissue. I didn't realize I was crying.
"Take your time," she says gently.
"This is a lot to process. Do you have support? Someone you can talk to?"
I nod, but I'm lying. Because the person I'd normally turn to—the father—can't know about this. Not yet. Not when everything is already falling apart.
I go home in a daze. The pregnancy test results are in my purse. Physical proof of something I can't comprehend.