Fake Empire: Chapter 2

People scatter as I step off the elevator on Monday morning. Kensington Consolidated employs a workforce upwards of five hundred, not to mention the many companies we serve as the parent entity of. Less than fifty employees have offices on the executive floor. Men and women twice my age scurry away like skittish mice as I stride down the carpeted hall toward the main conference room. One perk of having your name displayed on the side of the skyscraper. It commands respect, even when you haven’t earned it.

My father and brother are sitting at the centered table when I enter the conference room. The three of us start every Monday with a “chat.” That’s what my father likes to call them, at least. Lectures would be a more fitting descriptor. He uses them as an intimidation tactic toward everyone else with an office on this floor. Forcing them to be in on time and fueling speculation about what we’re talking about. Promotions. Acquisitions. Firings.

“You’re late,” my father announces as I take a seat across from him. I resist the urge to direct his attention to the clock above the projector screen used for presentations.

It’s ten seconds past eight a.m.

Instead, I say, “Sorry. Hope you two had some golf stories to swap.”

My father’s eyes narrow, trying to decide if I’m being glib or genuine. The fact he can’t tell is a source of pride.

He and Oliver love flying investors and potential partners around to different courses, hashing out business over eighteen holes. Those outings often involve polo shirts and bets. I prefer to do business in a stiff suit inside a boardroom.

“The paperwork is all set?” he questions, letting the jab slide.

“Yes,” I answer. “I went to Richard’s office on Sunday.” Just how I wanted to spend my one day off in two weeks, signing a two-hundred-page document explicitly laying out how each asset will be distributed in the event my upcoming union ends in a divorce.

My father hums, which is the closest to a sound of approval he gets. “The Ellsworths will be over for dinner on Friday night. Make sure you have a ring by then.”

“I want Mom’s.”

Not much gets to my father anymore. A mention of the woman he buried two decades ago seems to be the one thing that always does. The glimmer of surprise in his eyes disappears quickly. “It’s in the safe.”

I nod.

“Can we move on from the marriage talk?” Oliver requests. The snide way he says marriage answers any questions about how he’s handling the upcoming addition to the family.

Two years older than me, he should be the one embarking on the archaic tradition of an arranged marriage. Probably to Scarlett Ellsworth, a prospect that didn’t bother me at all before I exchanged more than a few dozen words with her. Her sharp tongue would be lost on my stalworth brother. Before, our engagement was a hypothetical. A probable outcome, but far from certain. That’s changed, and the tick in Oliver’s jaw says it bothers him.

Our father decided I was going to be the one who married Scarlett years ago, and Oliver and I learned far earlier than that not to question his decisions. What Arthur Kensington says, goes.

The muscle above my father’s right eye twitches, a surefire sign he’s displeased. “This marriage is crucial for the future of this family, Oliver. You know that.”

No matter how old you get, I don’t think the perverse satisfaction of a sibling getting scolded for a slight against you ever fades. It hasn’t after twenty-five years, at least.

“I do, Dad,” is Oliver’s hasty answer.

Our father nods. “Good. Now, we need to go over the team for the Warner Communications transition. I was planning to have Crew oversee everything, but he’ll be busy over the next few months, before and after the wedding.”

My brain homes in on the phrases few months and after the wedding. “There’s a date set for the wedding?”

“Nothing official yet. We’ll let the engagement announcement settle for a few days before announcing one. The wedding planner said she could pull something together by early June.”

June? “June?” It’s mid-April. I’m not opposed to marrying Scarlett. Mildly intrigued, even, following our conversation at Proof on Friday night. But six weeks feels close—claustrophobic. I wonder if her father has even told her we’re officially engaged yet.

“This agreement has been in place for nearly a decade, Crew. If you had objections, we’re far past the point to raise them. The press release is going out tomorrow.” I love how my father makes pushing your sixteen-year-old into a future engagement sound normal. I don’t even remember what our conversation back then consisted of. Probably lots of nodding on my part.

“I’m not objecting, Dad. Just asking.”

“Josephine Ellsworth is handling the wedding logistics. Scarlett is her only child. I’m sure she’ll keep you appraised, probably with more than you want to know. Now, what do you think about assigning Billingston to lead Warner? He had the experience at Paulson with…” My father continues to talk through the strengths and weaknesses of all the executives not currently on assignment. I lean back in the chair and scratch notes on a legal pad to refer to later.

Eight fifteen a.m., and I’m ready to call it a day.

I walk into my office and stop. Take a few steps back. Glance at the nameplate. “For a second, I thought I had the wrong office. But no. This is my office.”

“That joke gets funnier every single day you do it, man.”

“Off.”

Asher Cotes doesn’t move his feet from the corner of my desk. “Good morning to you too.”

“I mean it, Cotes. I’m not in the mood.”

“Was Roman thirty seconds late to pick you up again?” my best friend teases.

I snort as I stalk toward my chair. “I was late for a meeting with our entire accounting division on Friday because of that delay.”

“Too bad your name’s not on the letterhead. I’m sure they chewed you out.”

They didn’t, and we both know it. The vice president actually apologized, thinking he got the time wrong. I don’t tell Asher that.

“That’s how my dad runs things. Not me.” I unbutton my suit jacket and take a seat behind the massive mahogany desk.

Asher settles back in one of the leather chairs facing me. Feet still up. “What pissed you off this morning, then?”

I pick up a Montclair and spin it around one finger, debating on what to say. Fuck it, he’ll find out soon enough. “My engagement is getting announced tomorrow.”

Asher’s eyes widen to a comical size. “To Scarlett Ellsworth?”

I nod. Set the pen down, then pick it back up. “She was at Proof on Friday night.” That fact won’t be included in the engagement announcement. I don’t know why I say it.

“Damn,” is Asher’s initial reaction. “I knew I should have skipped dinner with my folks. How did she look?”

Like a fantasy. “Fine.”

“That good, huh?” Asher isn’t being sarcastic. His tone has turned admiring. He may not come from the sort of money Scarlett and I do, but his family is still wealthy. He’s attended events she’s been at before. He’s seen the thick dark hair and the perennially red lips and the figure that hijacks rational thoughts.

I don’t want to be married to a woman every guy I know is lusting after. A woman I’m attracted to. It’s a complication I don’t need or want in a part of my life I’ve always kept simple and easy.

Scarlett Ellsworth isn’t simple. She’s most definitely not easy. She’s smart and fiery and determined and sassy. And wherever she goes, she’s always the most stunning woman in the room.

She’s the sort of woman men go to war for, yet I didn’t have to do a single thing to win her. Our fathers decided our fates for us nearly a decade ago. I could fight it, but for what? The Ellsworths and the Kensingtons are the two wealthiest, most prominent families in the country. Marrying anyone else besides Scarlett would be marrying down.

“I talked to her,” I admit as I spin the pen around my pointer finger.

I’ve avoided conversation with her for years. We’ve exchanged small talk. Pleasantries. Compliments, like she pointed out. Nothing of substance. Nothing about us. We both knew it wouldn’t change anything.

Asher’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Really?”

“What I just said, isn’t it?”

He rolls his eyes at my sarcasm. “She came up to you?”

“I went over to her.” I lean back in my chair, making the leather creak. “She was right by me,” I add, as if that detail makes a difference. I can’t recall the last time I approached a woman in a bar, which Asher is well aware of. He’s by my side most nights.

Asher whistles, long and low. “She must have looked damn good.”

She did. “I was curious. I’m going to be married to her.”

“And?”

“She’s…something.” I don’t know how else to categorize our interaction. I can’t recall the last time I wanted to keep talking to someone, and they walked away. She walked away from me. After I approached her. I didn’t chase, at least not right away, but I wanted to.

“In a good way or a bad way?”

“I’m still deciding.” My computer chimes with an alert. As I switch over to my calendar, I groan. I’m fully booked until lunch. “I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at one.” We eat lunch together most days.

“Yeah. Sure.”

I grab the stack of folders on my desk and head for the door, only glancing over my shoulder at the last minute. “Feet off the desk, Cotes. I mean it.”

“What are you going to do? Fire me as your best friend?”

“Yep.”

“Then who would you complain about slash compliment your fiancée to?”

I don’t answer before walking out of the room. But his words stay with me as I walk to my next meeting. Scarlett Ellsworth is my fiancée. In a matter of weeks, she’ll be my wife. It doesn’t really bother me. And that bothers me.

I’m sitting with Asher and Oliver, talking about the Yankees’ train wreck of a season and eating lunch, when my secretary Celeste appears. “Mr. Kensington?”

“Yes?” I look up from the chicken piccata the catering staff delivered for today’s mid-day meal.

“Um, I’m sorry to bother you. I know you said not to interrupt you during lunch unless there’s an emergency—”

“Is there an emergency?”

Celeste hesitates before answering. “Miss Ellsworth is here. She’s requesting to speak with you immediately. You didn’t leave me any instructions on how to handle—well, whether to let you know…” Another pause. “She’s quite persistent.”

Asher and Oliver both look at me. Asher appears as surprised as I feel. Oliver’s gaze is discerning; he’s attempting to assess my reaction.

“Here?” I question. “Scarlett Ellsworth is here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send her into my office,” I instruct. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Celeste nods before disappearing back into the hallway. I stand and shrug on my suit jacket, taking a few extra seconds to straighten the lapels and orient myself. Why is she here?

“What is she doing here?” Oliver asks, voicing my confusion.

“She’s probably scoping out the place.” Asher drops his fork and sends the miniature basketball he likes to carry around up into the air, then catches it. “She’s about to gain a substantial stake in Kensington Consolidated.”

Oliver scoffs at that. “Why would she care? She’s got her fashion shit to focus on.”

I say nothing before I walk out of the suite that serves as the floor’s break room. The glass door shuts soundlessly behind me as I stroll down the hallway that leads to the main executives’ offices, which includes mine. Employees scutter out of my way as I pass.

Celeste is back at her desk when I reach the end of the hall.

“She’s inside?” I ask.

My secretary nods. I want to take a moment—to prepare to see her—but I can’t. Aside from Celeste, there are at least a dozen people in this wing of the building surreptitiously eyeing me. Hesitation is weakness, and I refuse to show it. I stroll into my office like I own it—which I do.

Scarlett is standing behind my desk, staring out at the skyline. The afternoon sun shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing my office—and her—in golden light.

She turns at the sound of the door closing behind me. The silk material of her navy dress swishes around her thighs as she moves, strolling to the side of my desk. Her confident posture suggests this is her office, not mine. No one ventures behind the stretch of mahogany, much less leans against it, the way she is casually doing. Fifteen years of friendship, and all Asher has ever dared to do is rest his shoes on one corner.

She crosses her arms. “Took you long enough.”

“Some of us have important matters to handle, darling.”

“Your secretary said you were at lunch.”

I grind my molars. “It was a working lunch.”

“Sure.”

Normally, I’d immediately stride behind my desk and take a seat in the leather chair. But if I do that, I won’t be able to maintain eye contact with her. If I sit down, I’ll be beneath her, looking up. So I stay where I am, essentially ceding control of the room to her.

Scarlett smirks, realizing the same, then straightens. She pulls a thick packet of papers out of her handbag and tosses them onto my desk with a soft smack. “I need you to sign these.”

I move, walking over to my desk like it was my choice to linger by the door at first. This feels like a game of chess. Fitting, since the queen is the most powerful piece. I pick up the heavy stack and flip through the first few pages. It’s our prenuptial agreement. “I already signed this.”

Spent two hours signing it.

“Well, I didn’t. Changes needed to be made first.”

Changes? I round the edge of my desk and take a seat in the chair. Leather creaks as I lean back. My left eye twitches as I page through the lengthy document. “Do you want me to do a line-by-line comparison, or are you going to tell me what changes were made?”

“My father neglected to distinguish his holdings from mine in the disclosures for the original document. You’re entitled to a share of the Ellsworth name. Not my name.”

I flip back to the first page before I look up at her. “Meaning?”

“I want to maintain total ownership of my business enterprises. My personal accounts and my magazine. While we’re married, and in case we divorce.”

A mixture of surprise and annoyance war within me. This, I did not see coming. “That’s what this is about? Your little magazine? You’re worried I’ll tell you how to dress your cover models or what trends are in?”

Scarlett’s expression doesn’t react to the taunt. She’s waltzed in here, made demands she’s not entitled to, and still has the gall to look at me like I am the one inconveniencing her. Something that feels a lot like respect flickers deep down.

“My father has had no involvement in the magazine. It’s not his choice how it’s handled. Or yours. I want full control, or I walk.”

I smile at the bold proclamation. “You’re going to walk away from an arrangement worth hundreds of billions, for a fashion magazine worth…what? Fifty million? At most?”

“Not all of us inherit everything we own, Crew.”

“You inherited the money you used to pursue this venture.”

Her eyes flash. “It’s non-negotiable. I’m not bluffing. My father can make all the arrangements he wants. He can’t make me marry you.”

“You’d be a fool not to.”

“I’m bringing more to the table. If you don’t agree to my terms, you’re the one who will look like a fool. I don’t need you or your money, Crew Kensington. Don’t forget that.”

I flip through a few more pages to buy myself some time. I’m not sure what to do—and I can’t remember the last time that happened. I don’t care about the magazine. I do care about giving Scarlett the impression she’s in control here. “All you changed are the magazine’s shares?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I need to see earning statements before I agree.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I make informed decisions, Scarlett.” I focus on her hazel eyes, because looking elsewhere won’t end well. Scarlett is distracting. The brunette hair I can’t help but imagine spread across a pillow. The pouty lips painted an enticing shade of red. The tailored blue fabric that hugs her curves. All distractions.

She sighs, then steps closer. “Move.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you want to see the earning statements, move.”

Against my better judgment, I do. I stand and step away from the computer that has full access to everything. I’m not worried she’ll snoop in any secret files. For two reasons, the second more troubling than the first. One, I don’t think she will. That suggests some level of trust. Two, if she wanted to spy, I expect her to come up with a more creative method to gain access to my files. Admiration, maybe even respect, is inherent in that thought.

I watch as she settles in my chair and starts typing.

“Have you talked to your father yet?”

“I headed straight from that meeting to meet with my attorney. If you’re annoyed about signing for a second time, maybe you should have confirmed I approved the agreement first. Seeing as it’ll be my signature above yours, not my father’s.”

I say nothing to that. She’s probably right, although I had as little involvement in the drafting of the document as she did. “Did your father mention dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Wedding dates?”

“Yes.”

I give up on conversation and take a seat on the leather couch. The printer whirs to life.

Scarlett stands and strolls over to it. The pages are still warm when she flings them into my lap. “Here you go, honey.”

“Testing out pet names?”

She doesn’t respond, just takes a seat behind my desk, again. I’m stuck on the couch like a visitor.

I flip through the pages of numbers, trying not to act impressed. I know next to nothing about the fashion industry, but I do know what a significant profit margin looks like. I also know that Haute was close to declaring bankruptcy before Scarlett bought the magazine.

I’m impressed.

I’m never impressed.

“You shouldn’t have shown these to me.”

“I know.”

“I’d be an idiot to sign away shares.”

“I know that too.”

“But you think I will.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

We stare at each other for a few heady seconds. I’m tempted to call what I think is a bluff. To see her mostly green eyes flash and catch the ire she’ll fling my way. If she was another woman—not my fiancée—I would. Then again, I can’t picture anyone else pulling a stunt like this with me.

“I’m not signing until my legal team has looked at it,” I say.

“But you’ll sign it?”

There’s no mistaking the hope in her voice. This matters to her; it’s not just a power play or a test. My response will ripple past this conversation to the rest of our relationship.

I want her to like me.

The thought is bizarre. People worry about what I think of them—not the other way around. “If that’s the only thing you changed? Yes.”

Scarlett bites down on her bottom lip. I watch her white teeth sink into the red skin. As we stare at each other, I realize two things. One, for all her brash declarations, she didn’t think I would agree. Two, I want to kiss her. Badly. The same awareness that swirled around us in Proof appears in my office, thickening the air until it’s all I can breathe.

There’s a knock on the door.

“What?” I call out. Irritation at the interruption seeps out into my voice.

Isabel, one of the board executives, opens it and pokes her head in. “Crew, I—” She stops speaking as soon as she spots Scarlett. “Oh. I—I didn’t realize you were in the middle of something.”

“We’re not.” Scarlett stands and shoulders her handbag. I’m expecting the contrary emotions she elicits in me this time. The wish that she’d stay. She thinks she makes the decisions, and I find it both amusing and arousing. “See you later, sweetheart.”

I smirk before replying. “Thanks for stopping by, dearest.”

Scarlett rolls her eyes before striding toward the doorway where Isabel is still standing. Isabel doesn’t move, blocking the door half-way open.

I watch the scene unfold, immediately knowing which woman I would bet money on. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier if Scarlett had the spineless socialite personality I was expecting, but I can’t summon any disappointment I ended up saddled with a spitfire. She fascinates me, and I’ve never been able to say that about a woman before.

Isabel Sterling is a year older than I am. She worked her way up the ranks of my family’s company since starting a position here right out of college to become one of only two female members of the board. I’ve seen her stare down powerful men until they fold.

I don’t think Scarlett isn’t going to scurry through the small opening like a dirty secret, though. And she doesn’t disappoint. “Move,” she instructs. Her tone is haughty and her back is straight as a ruler.

Reluctantly, Isabel shuffles to the side. In a minute act of defiance, she doesn’t push open the door. Scarlett shoves it ajar herself and walks out of my office.

Isabel shuts the door behind her with a huff. “That’s Scarlett Ellsworth?”

“Yep.” I stand from the couch and grab the stack of papers Scarlett left behind. “What did you need, Isabel?”

“The Powers Corporation sent over new slides before their pitch. I thought you’d like to look at the numbers before the Andover meeting.”

Looks like I won’t be eating the rest of my lunch. “Fine. We can use the main conference room until the meeting starts.”

Isabel nods. I follow her out of my office and stop by Celeste’s desk, dropping the stack of papers consisting of my prenup on the counter, encircling her space with a thud. “Get these to legal,” I instruct. “I want them to look through every word and get me a memo listing every difference from the original document that was drawn up. Have them tab every spot I’m supposed to sign too. I don’t have time to go through it all myself. Again. Tell them to drop everything else. I want this done by the end of the day.”

“Yes, of course.” Celeste grabs the papers and hurries toward the elevators.

I stride to where Isabel is waiting. As we walk, she fills me in on the changes that were made to the pitch tomorrow. The main conference room is in the very center of the executive floor, surrounded by glass that’s frosted during important meetings.

“What did Scarlett want?” Isabel asks as soon as we enter the room. I can tell she’s trying to sound casual, but the question alone is an anomaly. Isabel and I discuss business, that’s it. It’s why we work well together.

I unbutton my jacket and take a seat at the table. “Some paperwork needed to be straightened out.”

“She could have had it sent over,” Isabel points out.

“She wanted to talk in person.” I pull out the notes for the meeting.

“Are you having second thoughts about marrying her? She seems awfully needy.”

I almost smile at that, picturing how Scarlett might react to being called needy. This line of questioning is giving me the impression Asher might not have been entirely off base the three times he’s told me Isabel has non-professional feelings for me. I’m sure rumors of nepotism fly about when I’m not around, but I take my role here seriously. I don’t mix business with anything else. I’ve never dated an employee or fooled around in my office. “Is there a point coming? About my personal life?” Warnings litter those two questions.

Warnings Isabel doesn’t heed. “I’m worried about this woman’s impact on the future of this company.”

Now I know she’s jealous. “Her impact on the future of this company will be strengthening the Kensington name by adding billions to my assets and giving me children to leave everything to.”

“But you don’t want to marry her, do you?”

I don’t do things I don’t want to do. There are downsides to being born into the sort of wealth most people can’t comprehend. But autonomy has never been an issue. Especially when it comes to big, life-changing choices. If I didn’t want to marry Scarlett, I would have found a way out of it years ago.

“She’s stunning and has a shit-ton of money. I could do worse.” I’m not sure why I’m continuing to indulge this conversation. No one else has shown up early for the meeting, I guess. And I like working with Isabel. I’m eager to rid her of any notion there’s a chance of anything ever happening between us. “We’re colleagues, Isabel. If I wanted your input on my life outside this office, I’d ask for it.”

Her cheeks turn pink at the chastisement. “Of course. Just looking out for you.”

We both know that wasn’t all she was doing, but other people are finally arriving for the meeting, so I turn my attention back to my notes. I’m not absorbing anything I’m reading. Not paying any attention to Isabel sitting across from me. Nor any of the greetings aimed my way.

She’s stunning and has a shit-ton of money.

That’s how I described Scarlett just now. Both true. The second fact is the main reason I’m marrying her. The first is a nice, albeit somewhat inconvenient, bonus. But pretty and rich are no longer the first two adjectives I’d use to describe Scarlett Ellsworth. After two conversations, I’d describe her as ambitious.

Fearless.

Vivacious.

That’s what I need to look out for.