Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dax
Two weeks. It's been two weeks since Scarlett left for Chicago, and I feel like I'm losing my mind.
I've buried myself in work. Back-to-back meetings. Travel to Boston for acquisition discussions. Philadelphia for investor presentations. Conference calls with the in-house PR team managing the fallout from the photos.
The scandal. Our scandal.
The media frenzy has died down somewhat, but it's still there—articles analyzing the ethics violations, speculation about our relationship, think pieces about power dynamics in corporate America.
I don't care about any of it. All I care about is that Scarlett is gone. I call her. Text her. She responds, but minimally. Short answers.
"I'm fine." …"Still figuring things out." .."Talk soon."
Every conversation feels like she's slipping further away.
I'm in my office late on a Thursday evening, reviewing contracts I can barely focus on, when my phone rings. It’s Andrea Smith. The leasing agent who handles my corporate housing.
"Mr. Blackwell," she says when I answer.
"I'm calling about the apartment on Twenty-Third Street. Miss Bradford's lease."
"What about it?"
"She's vacated the property. Everything's been cleared out except for some mail that was delivered after she left. I wanted to confirm where it should be forwarded."
My chest tightens.
"I'll take care of it. I'm in the area tomorrow. I'll stop by and pick it up myself."
"Are you sure? I can have it couriered—"
"I'll handle it personally."
After we hang up, I sit at my desk staring at nothing. She's really gone. The apartment is empty. She's moved everything out. She's trying to rebuild her life in Chicago without me. I should let her go and give her the space she asked for. Respect her decision. But I can't.
The next afternoon, I take a car to Scarlett's building. The doorman recognizes me and lets me up without question. The elevator ride feels longer than usual. When the doors open on her floor, I walk down the familiar corridor to her apartment.
Andrea left a key with building security. I let myself in. The apartment is empty. Not completely—the furniture is still here, since the place came furnished. But everything that was Scarlett is gone.
The art she hung on the walls. The throw pillows she bought for the couch. The vase that sat on the kitchen counter. The books on the shelf. The framed photos. All of it. Gone.
I walk through the rooms slowly. The living room where we first..
. where everything started. The kitchen where she cooked dinner while I watched her, unable to keep my hands to myself.
The bedroom where I woke up beside her more mornings than I can count.
Every space holds a memory. Every corner reminds me of what I've lost.
I make it to the entryway and see the mail pouch on the credenza. It's thick, half-open. I grab it, intending to take it back to the office and have Emma forward everything to Scarlett in Chicago.
As I lift it, several items slip out and fall to the floor. Envelopes. Catalogs. And three pamphlets. I freeze. The pamphlets are face-up on the hardwood floor, their titles visible:
-What to Expect When You're Expecting
-Healthy Mothers: A Guide for First-Time Pregnancy
-Your First Trimester: What You Need to Know
My heart drops into my stomach. A sharp pain shoots through my head and chest simultaneously. The room tilts. I stare at the pamphlets, unable to move. Unable to breathe.
Scarlett is... pregnant?
I bend down slowly, my hand shaking as I pick them up. They're real. Not a hallucination. Actual printed materials from a doctor's office.
She's pregnant…And she didn't tell me?
I grab everything else—the envelopes, the catalogs, the pouch—and clutch the pamphlets in my hand. My mind is racing. How long has she known? Is that why she left? Why she needed space? Why she's been so distant?
I pull out my phone. My first instinct is to call her. Demand answers. Ask her why the fuck she kept this from me.
But I stop myself. This isn't a conversation to have over the phone. I call Andrea instead.
"I need Scarlett Bradford's current address in Chicago."
"Mr. Blackwell, I'm not sure I can—"
"Find it. Now."
Then I call my concierge.
"I need you to handle something for me. I'll send details in a few minutes."
I walk out of the apartment, the pamphlets still in my hand, and head straight to my car.
"Take me home," I tell my driver.
Back at my penthouse, I throw clothes into a bag. I don't think about what I'm doing. I just move. My jet is on standby. I make the call.
"I need wheels up first thing in the morning. Chicago."
"Of course, Mr. Blackwell. Six AM departure work for you?"
"Perfect."
I spend the rest of the evening making calls. Clearing my schedule. Delegating urgent matters to my executive team. Emma calls to ask if everything's okay.
"I'll be out of the office for a few days," I tell her.
"Handle what you can. Route anything urgent to Mark."
"Is this about—"
"Yes."
She doesn't ask anything else.
***
I barely sleep. My mind won't stop turning over the possibilities. Scarlett is pregnant, and she's been dealing with it alone. While I've been in New York, buried in work, she's been in Chicago facing this by herself. The thought makes me sick.
At five AM, I'm in the car heading to the airport. By six, I'm in the air.
The flight to Chicago is short, but it feels endless. I sit in the leather seat, staring out at the clouds, my mind churning.
I might be a father.
The thought should terrify me. I've never thought it was an option. Never planned for it. My life has always been about the company, about building the empire my father left me, about control and strategy and keeping emotions locked down.
But instead of terror, I feel... certainty. Scarlett is carrying my child, and I want it. I want her. I want all of it. The implications crash over me in waves. A baby. A family. Commitment. Everything I'd thought had been avoiding me for years.
But with Scarlett, none of it feels like a burden–it feels right. The jet lands at Midway. My driver is waiting.
"Where to, Mr. Blackwell?"
I give him Scarlett's address.
The drive through Chicago feels familiar and foreign at the same time. I've been here before—for the wedding that never happened. For business meetings. But now everything looks different.
The driver pulls up in front of a brownstone in Lincoln Park.
"Wait here," I tell him.
I walk up the steps and find her name on the buzzer. My finger hovers over the button. Then I press it. Static. Then her voice, cautious.
"Hello?"
"Scarlett. It's me."
Silence.
"Dax? What—how are you here?"
"Buzz me in. Please."
Another pause. Then the door clicks open. I take the stairs to the third floor. Her apartment is at the end of the hall. The door opens before I reach it. She's standing there in an oversized sweater, her hair pulled back, no makeup. She looks tired. Beautiful. Terrified.
"Dax," she breathes. "What are you doing here?"
I step inside and she closes the door behind me. Her apartment is spacious but cozy. Nothing like the sleek modern space in New York. This is more her—art on the walls, books stacked in the corner, soft lighting.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask.
She blinks. "Tell you what?"
I pull one of the pamphlets from my jacket pocket and hold it up. Her face goes white.
"How did you—where did you get that?"
"Your mail. At the apartment. The leasing agent called about forwarding it, and I went to pick it up." I take a step closer.
"Are you pregnant, Scarlett?"
Her mouth opens but no sound comes out.
"Tell me," I say, my voice breaking.
"Are you pregnant?"
Tears well up in her eyes. She nods once, barely perceptible.
The confirmation hits me like a physical blow. I knew it intellectually, but hearing it—seeing her admit it—makes it real.
"How long have you known?"
"Two weeks. I found out right before I came back to Chicago."
"And you didn't think to tell me?"
"I was going to. I just—" Her voice cracks.
"Everything was falling apart. The scandal, my job, the board meeting. I couldn't process it. I didn't know what to do."
"So you decided to deal with it alone?"
"I needed time to think!"
"About what? About whether to keep it?" The question comes out harsher than I intended.
Her eyes flash with anger. "About everything! About what this means. About whether I can do this. About what you'd say. About—" She stops, wrapping her arms around herself. "I'm terrified, Dax."
The anger drains out of me. I cross the room and pull her into my arms.
She resists for a second, then collapses against my chest, sobbing.
"I'm sorry," I murmur into her hair. "I'm sorry for pushing. I'm sorry for not being there. I'm sorry you've been going through this alone."
"I didn't know how to tell you," she says between sobs.
"Everything is such a mess. My career is destroyed. I'm back in Chicago taking a demotion. The whole world knows about us. And now I'm pregnant. I thought—I thought maybe it would be easier if you didn't know."
I pull back to look at her.
"Easier for who?"
"For you. So you wouldn't feel obligated."
"Obligated?" I cup her face, forcing her to meet my eyes.
"Scarlett, I love you."
She goes very still.
"I love you," I repeat, the words coming easier now.
"I have for months. Maybe from the moment I saw you in that wedding dress, looking heartbroken and beautiful and so fucking strong.
I orchestrated that job offer because I couldn't stand the thought of you being anywhere but close to me.
I spent every day finding excuses to see you, to talk to you, to be near you.
And when Miles showed up at your apartment, I wanted to kill him.
Not because he was my brother or because of some rivalry.
But because he had the audacity to think he deserved you when he'd already thrown you away. "
Tears are streaming down her face.
"You're not an obligation," I continue.