Page 135 of Claimed By The Other Brother

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. Peoplewhispering. 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."