Page 99 of Claimed By The Other Brother

I consider this. She's not wrong.

"You're not afraid to disagree with me," I observe.

She bites her lower lip—that habit again—before responding.

"Should I be?"

"No." I lean forward. "I like it."

A flush creeps up her neck, but she doesn't look away.

"Then I'll keep doing it."

We go back and forth on the talking points for another twenty minutes. She pushes back on my approach twice more, and both times she's right. I adjust my strategy based on her input.

"You're good at this," I tell her as we're wrapping up.

"At disagreeing with you?"

"At seeing the angles I miss. At making me better."

The words hang in the air between us, heavier than I intended. She closes her notebook.

"That's what you're paying me for."

"Is it?" I ask quietly.

She stands. "I should go. It's late."

I don't stop her.

DAY 50

I'm leaving a meeting with legal when I see Scarlett in the hallway, phone pressed to her ear. Her back is to me, shoulders tense, one hand pressed against her temple. I slow my pace, not wanting to interrupt but unable to ignore the stress evident in her posture.

"I understand that," she says into the phone, her voice tight.

"But I've already explained the situation. I can't just—" She stops, listening.

"That's not fair."

I stop walking entirely, staying back far enough that she doesn't see me.

"Fine," she says finally.

"We'll talk about it later. I have to go."

She hangs up and stands there for a moment, head down, breathing. Then she turns and sees me. Her expression shifts immediately, the professional mask slamming back into place.

“Mr. Blackwell."

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Fine. Just..." She waves her phone vaguely.

"Personal."

I want to push. But I don't have that right.