Page 46 of Claimed By The Other Brother

A lifetime ago.

I push off the door and head straight for the bathroom. I can't look at myself anymore. Can't think about what I've done.

The shower is scalding hot, and I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink. I scrub every inch of my body, washing away the scent of Dax's cologne, the remnants of champagne, the evidence of last night.

But I can't wash away the soreness. The aching. The way my body still hums with satisfaction.

I dry off quickly and throw on jeans and a sweater—the first things I find in my suitcase. My hair is still wet, but I don't care. I twist it into a bun and start shoving everything into my bags.

Makeup. Toiletries. The clothes I brought for the honeymoon that will never happen.

The wedding dress. I stare at it, crumpled on the floor where I dropped it. The beautiful ivory lace and silk. The dress I was supposed to wear while Miles and I said our vows.

The dress I wore and then took off, while his brother fucked me senseless.

I grab it roughly, stuff it into the garment bag without bothering to fold it properly. The stains—champagne, tears, evidence of the disaster that was yesterday—are still visible. I zip the bag closed and don't look at it again.

By the time I'm finished packing, the clock on the nightstand reads 6:47 AM. I grab my suitcase and garment bag and take one last look around the suite. This was supposed to be my bridal suite. The place where I'd get ready to marry Miles. The place where we'd spend our wedding night. Instead, it's just another hotel room I'm fleeing from.

I leave without looking back.The elevator ride down feels surreal. I'm alone in the mirrored car, my reflection staring back at me from every angle. I look exhausted. Wrecked. Like I've been through a war.

The lobby is quiet at this hour. A few early risers getting coffee. Business travelers checking out. The front desk staff looking fresh and professional. I approach the desk, wheeling my suitcase behind me, the garment bag draped over my arm.

"Checking out?" the clerk asks with a practiced smile.

"Yes. Suite 1804."

She types into her computer.

"Ms. Bradford. I hope you enjoyed your stay."

I nearly laugh. Enjoyed. That's one word for it.

"It was fine. Thank you."

She processes my checkout, and I sign the receipt with a shaking hand. The clerk glances at the garment bag, and I see recognition flicker in her eyes. She knows. She knows this is the bride from yesterday's cancelled wedding.

Her smile turns sympathetic.

"Would you like assistance with your bags, ma'am? Or a car service?"

"A taxi. Just a taxi, please."

"Of course. I'll have the doorman hail one for you."

I nod and turn away, heading for the main entrance. The morning air hits me as the doors slide open—cool and crisp, carrying the scent of the city waking up.

The doorman, an older gentleman in a pristine uniform, tips his hat.

"Good morning, miss. Taxi?"

"Yes, please."

He steps to the curb and raises his hand. Within seconds, a yellow cab pulls up.

"Here you are, miss."

He opens the door for me, and I climb in quickly, dragging my suitcase and garment bag with me. The door shuts. The cab pulls away from the Waldorf Astoria. I don't look back at the hotel. I can't–because if I do, I might see Dax's window. I might think about him wakingup and finding me gone. I might remember the way his arms felt around me.