Page 72 of Claimed By The Other Brother

"I'm willing to offer an absurd amount of money," I cut her off.

"Over three times your regular rate. But I only do it if you can get Scarlett Bradford."

Silence on the other end of the line.

"Mr. Blackwell," Patricia begins carefully.

"Scarlett is based in Chicago. This would requirerelocating her to New York, potentially for an extended period. That's... unusual."

"I was referred to her specifically," I lie smoothly.

"By an associate who worked with her on a similar crisis. He said she's the best in the business. If Whitman Communications wants this contract, it's Scarlett Bradford or I'm calling another firm. You have competitors who would be happy to accommodate me."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"I understand," Patricia finally says.

"Give me twenty-four hours. I'll need to speak with our Chicago office and with Scarlett directly. This is... highly irregular, but given the scope of what you're describing, I believe we can make it work."

"Twenty-four hours," I confirm.

"After that, I'm moving on."

"You'll have an answer, Mr. Blackwell. I promise."

"Good."

I end the call and set my phone on the desk.

I open my messages and scroll to Scarlett's name. The last two texts I sent her stare back at me, both unanswered.

Dax: How are you?

Dax: Scarlett.

Nothing.

But I know how business works. I know how leverage works. And if my strategy is successful,Scarlett Bradford will be in New York within a week, working directly with me, whether she wants to or not.

I'll have her full attention—one way or another. I pocket my phone and return to the contracts waiting on my desk.

Chapter Fourteen

Scarlett

I've been back at work for nearly two weeks now, and I've thrown myself into it with an intensity that surprises even me. Projects, clients, strategy sessions, pitches. Anything to keep my mind occupied and my hands busy.

The first day back was the hardest:

I arrived at the office early, before most of my colleagues, hoping to slip in quietly and get settled before having to face anyone. But when I reached my desk, I found flowers. Dozens of them. Congratulatory arrangements with cards that read things like, "Best wishes on your wedding!" and "Congratulations to the happy couple!"

Someone had forgotten to remove them.

I remember that I just stood there staring at the cheerful bouquets, my stomach twisting. Then I gathered them all up—vases, cards, everything—and carried themto the break room, leaving them on the counter for anyone who wanted them.

By the time my colleagues started arriving, I was at my desk with my laptop open, already deep into emails.

The whispers started immediately. I could feel eyes on me, hear the hushed conversations. Everyone knew what happened. The abandoned bride. The humiliation. But to their credit, most people kept their distance, giving me space to navigate my return on my own terms.