Page 57 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"One hundred percent." I pull up a document on my laptop and turn the screen toward them.

“Here are the post-acquisition reports. Every timeline met, every budget maintained."

Torres studies the document, her expression thoughtful.

"That's impressive."

"We don't make promises we can't keep," I tell her.

"Sterling Media has strong assets. We want to preserve what works while eliminating redundancies. That's the value proposition."

Kane exchanges glances with his executives, then nods.

"Alright. Send over the revised integration plan by end of week. We'll review with our board."

"You'll have it by Thursday." I stand, extending my hand.

"Thank you for your time."

We shake hands—Mitchell, Torres, Kane—professional and cordial. My assistant Emma appears at the door to escort them out.

"I'll see you to the elevators," she says with a polite smile.

They file out of the conference room, and I gather my laptop and files. The meeting went well. Sterling Mediais a good acquisition—solid revenue streams, minimal overlap with our existing properties. The deal will close within sixty days if their board approves.

I walk down the long corridor to my corner office, past cubicles where analysts are buried in their screens, past conference rooms where other meetings are underway. This is my world. Numbers, strategy, deals. It's what I'm good at.

I step into my office and close the door behind me. The space is exactly as I left it this morning—mahogany desk, leather chair, walls lined with bookshelves and framed articles about successful acquisitions. My view looks north toward Central Park, the city sprawling out beneath me.

I set my laptop on the desk and sink into my chair. My desktop comes to life with a tap of the keyboard. Emails flood the screen—seventy-three unread since this morning's meeting started.

I've been burying myself in work since I got back from Chicago. Meetings, emails, conference calls. Anything to keep my mind occupied.

It works. Mostly.

Except in the quiet moments. Like now, when I'm alone in my office and there's nothing to distract me from the memory of her.

Scarlett.

I think about that night more than I should. The way she looked on the terrace. The way she felt in my arms. The certainty that I'll probably never see her again. I shake the thought away and focus on my emails.

I haven't tried to call Miles since the wedding. For obvious reasons, of course. What he did to Scarlett is unforgivable—that hasn't changed. There's nothing to say that would make any of it better. And after what happened between Scarlett and me that night... what could I possibly say to him? The conversation would be impossible. So I've stayed silent. I have no interest in hearing whatever excuse he's eventually concocted for abandoning her, and he doesn't get to know what happened after he left.

My mother called two days ago. Miles sent her a message—something vague about needing time, working through things. She was upset, wanted me to reach out to him.

I told her no.

Whatever Miles is dealing with, he created it himself. I'm not cleaning up his mess.

A knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts.

"Come in."

Emma steps inside, tablet in hand. She's been my assistant for five years—efficient, organized, completely unflappable.

"Your meeting tonight is confirmed," she says.

"Seven PM at the lounge downtown. Two executives from the Barrett acquisition. Your driver will be here at six thirty."