Page 15 of Claimed By The Other Brother

I stare at the message. Miles wants to catch up. Like we're old friends who drifted apart, not brothers who barely speak anymore.

I type back:

Dax: Landing in twenty. I'm at the Waldorf Astoria. There's a bar downstairs. 3 PM?

His response comes immediately:

Miles: Perfect. See you then.

The plane begins its descent. Chicago spreads out below us, the skyline emerging from the autumn haze. I've been here for business dozens of times, but it never felt like Miles's city. He always seemed like a New York kid to me, even when he was trying to escape everything New York represented.

I close my laptop and slip it into my bag. The quarterly reports can wait. Right now, I need to prepare myself to see my brother for the first time in over two years and pretend we're not strangers.

***

The Waldorf Astoria is pure elegance. The lobby soars with ornate details and glittering chandeliers, the kind of place that commands attention and respect. Guests move through the space with purpose—businesspeople in sharp suits, well-dressed couples, staff attending to every detail with practiced precision.

I bypass the main desk and head straight for theexecutive floor check-in. The woman behind the counter recognizes me immediately.

"Mr. Blackwell, welcome to the Waldorf Astoria. We have your penthouse suite ready."

She's efficient, professional, exactly what I prefer. Within minutes, I have my key cards and a porter is leading me to the elevator.

Top floor. The penthouse suite. The porter opens the door and I step into a space that's larger than most Manhattan apartments. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a panoramic view of the Chicago skyline. Lake Michigan stretches out in the distance, gray-blue under the October sky.

The suite is impeccably decorated. Living area with a full bar, separate bedroom with a king bed, marble bathroom with a soaking tub, office space with a mahogany desk. Everything I need.

"Will you be needing anything else, Mr. Blackwell?" the porter asks after setting my bags down. I hand him a folded bill.

"I'm fine. Thank you."

He leaves and I'm alone with the silence and the view. I check my watch. Two fifteen. I have forty-five minutes before meeting Miles.

I unpack efficiently, a habit from years of business travel. Suits hung in the closet. Shirts organized. Toiletries in the bathroom. Everything in its place. I change out of my suit from the flight into fresh charcoal trousers and a crisp white button-down, rollingthe sleeves to my elbows. No tie. This is supposed to be casual, after all.

My phone buzzes with another email. Work never stops. I scan it quickly—nothing that can't wait until tomorrow—and toss the phone on the bed.

Three PM. Drinks with Miles. Then the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night where I'll finally meet Scarlett and make small talk with relatives I haven't seen in years. Then the wedding Saturday.

I pour myself a finger of scotch from the suite's bar and stand at the window, looking out at the city. Somewhere down there, Miles is living his life. Working his journalism job. Planning his wedding. Building something that has nothing to do with the empire our father built.

Part of me envies him. The freedom to walk away. To choose something simpler. Most of me thinks he's wasting his potential. I finish the scotch and head downstairs.

The bar is dim and upscale, the kind of place where businesspeople close deals over expensive whiskey. I arrive first, claim a table in the back corner, and order a Macallan neat.

The bartender brings it just as Miles walks in.

I see him before he sees me. He looks... different. Older, obviously. The last time I saw him, he was thirty-seven. Now he's thirty-nine, and it shows in the lines around his eyes, the way he carries himself. He's wearing khakis and a blue button-down, his dark hair slightly messy like he forgot to comb it after his shower.

He spots me and waves, weaving through the tables.

"Dax." He reaches the table, and there's a moment of awkwardness before we both stand and embrace. It's brief, masculine, the kind of hug brothers give when they're not sure what else to do.

"Miles." I clap him on the shoulder.

"You look good."

"You too." He sits down across from me, signaling the bartender.