Page 59 of Claimed By The Other Brother

But I'm not fully here.

Greg is talking about their content distribution model. Linda is asking about our plans for their podcast division. I answer, my responses automatic, drawing on years of doing exactly this kind of negotiation.

My attention drifts to the crowd. The lounge is packed now, bodies moving to the music, voices rising and falling in waves of laughter and conversation.

I take another drink and force myself to focus.

"The key," I'm saying, "is maintaining your brand identity while leveraging our infrastructure. Your audience trusts you. We don't want to lose that."

Linda nods, satisfied. "That's what we wanted to hear."

The conversation continues, but something pulls at the edge of my awareness. A feeling I can't name. I glance across the lounge, scanning the crowd without really knowing why.

And I freeze.

It can't be.

There, standing at the bar with two other women, is Scarlett. My brain short-circuits. For a moment, I'm convinced I'm hallucinating. That I've thought about her so much over the past few days that I'm now seeing her where she can't possibly be.

I blink. She's still there. Blonde hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Black dress that hugs every curve. Laughing at something one of her friends said.

Jane and Sarah. I recognize them from the rehearsal dinner. The three of them together, drinks in hand, completely unaware I'm watching. My chest tightens. My heart does something it never does—it stutters, stumbles, pounds harder than it should.

She looks incredible. That dress. The way it fits her. The way she moves. My mouth goes dry, and I feel my cock twitch against the fabric of my pants under the table.

What is she doing in New York?

"Dax?" Greg's voice pulls me back.

"You with us?"

"Yes." I clear my throat, dragging my attention back to the table.

"Sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew."

Linda glances over her shoulder toward the bar.

"New York. Happens all the time."

Greg continues talking—something about subscriber retention rates—and I nod, forcing myself to engage.

But my eyes keep drifting back to Scarlett. She's drinking, smiling, trying to look like she's having fun. I can see it though, the way her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. The way she's present but not fully there.

She hasn't seen me yet.

I watch her take a sip of her drink. Watch her lean in to hear what Sarah is saying over the music. Watch her laugh, the sound lost in the noise of the lounge but the expression clear on her face.

I shouldn't go over there. Should stay here with Gregand Linda, finish this meeting, let her have her night with her friends.

I can't look away.

Greg and Linda are still talking. I'm nodding, responding when needed, but I barely hear them. Every part of me is focused on her. On the impossibility of her being here. On the fact that I never thought I'd see her again.

The need to go to her becomes overwhelming. Undeniable. I wait for a pause in the conversation, then set down my glass and stand.

"Excuse me," I say.

"I need to take care of something. I'll be right back."