Page 120 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"Do you always get what you want, Dax?"

He looks at me, his eyes dark in the low lighting.

"Yes. In fact, I do."

The elevator begins to slow. I shake my head. "So it is a game with you."

The doors open.

Dax holds his hand out toward the entrance. "After you."

I step out into his penthouse, and my breath catches.

The foyer opens into a massive living space with vaulted ceilings that soar three stories high. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the entire space, offering views of Manhattan on one side and the Hudson River on the other. Across the water, lights twinkle in the distance.

The furniture is modern, chic, expensive. A long credenza lines one wall, topped with sculptures and art pieces that probably cost more than my yearly salary. The walls feature paintings I recognize from auction catalogs. This isn't just wealth. This isdynasty.Miles lived modestly. He willingly gave up all of this for a simple life in Chicago writing for a small publication. It’s acompletely different extreme.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" Dax asks from behind me, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I turn. "Nice place."

"Thank you."

He walks past me to a bar area tucked into an alcove. I follow slowly, my eyes still taking in every detail. As I turn the corner, I see the bar—all dark wood and crystal decanters, backlit shelves holding bottles that look older than I am.

I move to the windows, standing there looking out at the river. The Blackwell name carries weight I'm only beginning to understand. Power. Influence. The kind that shapes cities and industries. And I'm standing in the middle of it.

He appears beside me with two glasses of wine.

"1982 Château Margaux," he says, handing me one.

We look at each other as our glasses touch. I take a sip, and the wine is incredible—complex, smooth, everything expensive wine should be.

"It's really good," I say.

"Yes. A rare vintage."

We sip in silence for a moment. Then Dax takes my glass and sets both on the bar behind us.

"Scarlett." His voice is serious.

"To answer your question. You asked me what I wanted."

I wait.

"I thought it was obvious." He exhales, running a hand through his hair.

"Ever since the moment I saw you, Scarlett, you'vebeen on my mind. Every day. The great lengths I went to to have you here in New York—I would have thought that would be a clue."

My breath catches. He steps closer.

"You asked if I was competing with my brother. Absolutely not. I just recognize how amazing you are."

The words hit me like a tidal wave.

"I see you talking to the other guys in the office," he continues, his eyes locked on mine.

"And I don't like it."