Page 140 of Claimed By The Other Brother

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 furnitureis 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 shootsthrough 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."