Page 51 of Claimed By The Other Brother

I cry for the version of myself who believed in him.

How could he do this? How could he let me stand there in front of everyone and just... not show up?

The worst part is that I still love him. Or I think I do. Or maybe I just love the idea of who I thought he was. I'm angry at myself for even feeling this way. For wondering if there's any possible explanation that could make this okay.

There isn't.

And then there's Dax.

I sink lower into the water, letting it cover my shoulders. The memory of that night washes over me—not in fragments this time, but in vivid, complete detail.

The way he looked at me. The way he said my name. The way he made me forget everything except the feeling of his body against mine. He made me feel desired. Powerful. Alive.

Guilt twists in my stomach. I shouldn't have done it. Shouldn't have let grief and alcohol and desperation drive me into his bed.

The shame is overwhelming. What kind of personsleeps with their ex-fiancé's brother hours after being abandoned?

I don't know what I'm feeling. Guilt, yes. Shame, absolutely. But also... something else. Confusion. Because it wasn't just the sex. It was the way he held me afterward. The way he looked at me like I mattered.

I stay in the bath until the water turns cold. Then I stand and turn on the shower, washing my hair and body. When I finally climb out I wrap myself in my bathrobe, which already makes me feel marginally better. Cleaner, at least physically.

I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection. I look terrible. Dark circles under my eyes. Skin pale. Hair is a wet mess. I need to pull myself together.

By late afternoon, I'm on the couch in sweatpants and a t-shirt, mindlessly watching whatever Netflix auto-plays. Some rom-com I'm not actually paying attention to.

The doorbell rings. I consider ignoring it. Pretending I'm not home. It rings again. Then again. Then I hear Jane's voice through the door.

"Scarlett, we know you're in there. Open up."

I sigh and drag myself off the couch. When I open the door, Jane and Sarah are standing in the hallway with wine, takeout bags, and a bouquet of flowers.

"Okay," Jane announces, pushing past me into the apartment.

"We gave you three days of mourning and solitude. That's enough. We're intervening."

Sarah follows, setting the takeout on my dining table.

"We're not leaving until you talk to us."

I close the door and lean against it.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine," Jane says, looking around at my disaster of an apartment.

"But you will be. Eventually."

They make themselves at home, clearing space on the couch, opening the wine, unpacking what smells like Thai food.

"Come sit," Sarah pats the couch cushion beside her.

"Eat. Drink. Talk."

I sit, and Jane hands me a glass of wine. I take a long sip.

"How are you really feeling?" Jane asks gently.

"Numb," I admit. It's the truth. Underneath the guilt and confusion and shame, there's just... nothing.