Fake Empire: Chapter 3

It would be very easy to break this glass, I decide. To watch the fragments shatter and the golden liquid spread. I roll the thin stem of the champagne flute between my pointer finger and thumb, trying to decide if the temporary thrill will be worth the inevitable mess.

I decide not to and take a sip of fizzy alcohol.

The bubbles burn a trail down my esophagus and simmer in my empty stomach. I hate caviar, and it’s all that’s been served so far tonight. Part of the endless posturing. I would kill for some fries. To be anywhere else.

Moonlight glimmers off the surface of the pool, bathing the perfectly even stones and pristine landscaping that surround it in a luminous glow.

I suck in a deep lungful of air as I continue staring at the dark surface of the water before me. Oxygen circulates in my bloodstream. Carbon dioxide tries to escape. I don’t let it. Even once the uncomfortable sensation turns painful. Finally, I exhale.

Sweet relief flows through me. I feel alive. Refreshed. Cleansed.

“Contemplating a swim?”

I don’t react to the sound of his voice, even as awareness sparks across my skin. I do bristle at the taunting comment. As far as I can tell, Crew has two settings: privileged asshole or obnoxious asshole.

“Do I look dressed for a swim?” I tug at the shimmering silk gown I’m wearing for emphasis. It’s gold. My mother picked it out and had it sent over to my penthouse to wear tonight. Probably as a reminder to the Kensingtons I’m a trophy—a prize.

“You could skinny dip.”

I snort. “I bet you’d like that.”

“Yeah,” Crew replies, stopping beside me. “I would, actually.” His voice has turned deep and husky, and it wreaks havoc on my insides.

Crew grew up surrounded by the same beauty I did. I’ve seen women flit to him like moths to a flame for years. There’s no way he’s not getting laid on a regular basis. I didn’t expect he would act like I’m anything different—like I’m special. He’s probably not, and I’m misreading his tone because I’m tired and hungry and more susceptible to feigned honesty than usual. Because I am attracted to him.

“You have to buy the cow first, honey.” I continue our nickname game with an indifferent tip of my glass. It doesn’t matter what he says. What he thinks. What he suggests.

“I signed, pumpkin,” he replies.

I don’t respond. He did, and it made me wish I’d never made the changes to our prenup in the first place. I wasn’t worried Crew would try to seize control of Haute. I am worried it’s made things uneven between us. His refusal was supposed to give me reason not to trust him. Instead, I feel indebted. No gift comes without consequence, in my experience.

Crew hums as he looks outside. “Unseasonably chilly tonight.”

“Feel free to take your weatherman audition elsewhere.”

This time, the hum almost sounds like a laugh. “I was referring to your personality, dear.”

That quip isn’t deigned a response. I’m on edge enough tonight as it is. My mother and Crew’s stepmother manufactured this evening. Now that our families have announced our engagement, the Kensingtons and the Ellsworths are supposed to look like one big happy family.

I’ve met Crew’s father and stepmother before. His father multiple times, his stepmother just once. Candace Kensington is twenty-seven, only two years older than me. Perky and blonde and far more interested in her stepsons than her husband, based on my interpretation of the family dynamic during the last hour. Or the lack thereof.

I watch Crew as he takes a sip of whiskey. “Have you slept with Candace?”

He doesn’t react as he swallows, which is disappointing. I was hoping for a dramatic cough or two.

“My father’s wife?”

“Your stepmother. Yes.”

Crew chuckles. Rubs a hand across his clean-shaven jaw. I wonder what he’d look like with stubble, just a little less put together.

“Why are you asking?”

I shrug as I sip more champagne, noting the lack of a no. “Just trying to figure out how much messiness I’m marrying into.”

“It’s a mess,” he replies. “Not messy.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means it’s nothing you can’t handle and nothing you can change.”

“How vague and mildly complimentary of you.”

Crew smirks. “Come on.”

He starts walking across the marble floor toward the twin curved staircases. I follow, mostly because I’m sick of staring at the pool and in no hurry to return to the stiff small talk taking place in the drawing room.

My heels hit the smooth rock with a light tap that echoes through the cavernous space with all the subtlety of a gunshot.

The Kensington estate is stunning, but I can’t muster any genuine appreciation. I’ve been in—lived in—mansions just as large and ostentatious as this one. If you stare at shiny objects for too long, they lose their luster.

I’ve been here a handful of times over the past decade. All the visits were for parties or formal events. Never when the enormous house was empty—of people and of anything besides a wide assortment of antique furniture and priceless art.

The hallway overlooking the pool and grounds is sized similarly to a hotel ballroom, with glass doors that rise to meet the ten-foot ceiling.

Halfway to the staircases that bookend one end of the hall, my stomach growls—loudly.

“Hungry?” There’s stifled laughter in his voice.

“I hate caviar.”

“I don’t think anyone actually likes caviar. You just choke it down.”

“I never swallow because a guy says so.”

Crew clears his throat. Coughs. Laughs. “Good.”

He takes the comment in stride, and it makes me want to push him further. I pegged Crew as brash and bossy, not easygoing. Maybe he’s only like that at work. In bed.

I shove that last thought far, far away. I knew I was attracted to Crew. He’s objectively gorgeous. But I didn’t know I would be attracted to Crew. Admiring a guy’s ass is different from noticing how he acts. What he wears. What he says.

Watching his Brioni-clad back alter course and turn down another marble-lined hall, I’m unsettled by how much of a distinction I can suddenly find between attraction and interest.

Walking into the gourmet kitchen provides a welcome distraction. I barely have a chance to take in the crystal chandeliers, marble backsplash, and shiny appliances before Crew turns to the right and opens a sliding door. He flicks on a light, and we’re in a…pantry.

“Cool,” I drone. “I love spending time amidst non-perishables.”

“How does that silver spoon taste, Ellsworth?”

I have to bite the inside of my cheek so he doesn’t know I find him funny. Or worse, clever. “Better than yours, Kensington.”

Crew shakes his head as he opens a small box and holds it out to me. “Here.”

I stick my hand in and pull out a circular disk just smaller than my palm. I sniff. “What is it?”

“Chocolate-covered biscuit. I get them every time I’m at the chalet in the Alps.” Crew grabs another one out of the box and takes a big bite. Mine is more hesitant. My teeth slowly sink through the thin layer of dark chocolate and into the biscuit. Buttery, slightly bitter deliciousness explodes in my mouth.

“It’s good,” I decide. “Really good.”

“Yeah. I noticed you were…swallowing.”

I hold his gaze, but I want to look away. There’s too much intensity hovering there for a tiny room. It wraps around me and threatens to swallow—pun intended—me whole. “Do you usually spend a lot of time in the pantry when you’re visiting your father?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How long I’m stuck here total.”

“Not many happy memories?” I keep my tone light, but I’m really asking. I haven’t seen Crew interact with his father and brother much. At parties, they’re usually schmoozing separately. Each socializing in their own way. Tonight, they’ve interacted more like colleagues than a close family.

“Plenty, in this pantry.”

I wrinkle my nose. “How charming.”

Crew’s mouth curl appears but quickly fades. “I meant with my mom. She loved baking.” The sudden stoicism dares me to ask more. Warns me not to.

“You never answered me about Candace.”

I expect him to accuse me of being jealous, but he doesn’t. “Why do you care?”

I shrug. “You know how people are. If there are rumors about you and your stepmother floating around at the Waldorfs’ holiday party this year—the way they were last year—it would be nice to know how horrified of a wife I should act.” I crunch another biscuit.

“It’s probably a better question for Oliver.”

“Really?” I don’t hide my surprise. The elder Kensington seems more the type not to step a toe out of line.

Crew reads it on my face. “I don’t know for certain. Just that he’s been over here while Dad is out of town.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“Yes and no.” Crew sighs. “He’s careful not to show it, but this…” He gestures between me and him. “It should be him. Getting married first, becoming CEO, all of it.”

My face stays carefully neutral as I reply. “Do you think he’ll do anything? Sow opposition in the board?”

“No, I don’t think so. Oliver is rational—maybe too rational. He sees the big picture. I don’t think he wants to get married. I’m not even sure if he wants to inherit CEO. It’s the principle of it…it all should have been his.”

Unfamiliar guilt churns my stomach. At sixteen, I didn’t think this all the way through. I didn’t think about the other people who would be affected by my impulsive demand—by my exerting the little authority I had. Expending the small amount of power I’d gained.

“You want it, don’t you?” I ask.

He tilts his head to look at me better. I’ve heard the gossip about Crew’s bossiness. His looks. His assurance. People don’t talk much about his intelligence. The shrewdness staring at me now suddenly seems like his most dominant feature. It sees me, sees through me. Past the protections that keep everyone else out.

Certain choices are one luxury our lives don’t afford. I realize he might think I’m asking about a different decision than I am.

“CEO?” I clarify.

He doesn’t have a choice when it comes to me. Not anymore. The announcements have been made. The planning is already underway. It would be a scandal of shocking magnitude for either of us to back out of this marriage now—a blow to both of our families’ reputations. It shouldn’t matter—shouldn’t bother me—that he doesn’t have other options anymore.

“I want it,” he confirms.

The loud crunch of another bite punctuates the statement. “Great.” My voice is full of false cheer and real sarcasm. “We should go back. They’ll wonder where we are.”

“They’ll assume it involved milking.”

I shoot his charming smile a disgusted look in return.

“Actually, we can’t go back yet.”

“What do you mean, we can’t go back yet?”

“I need to give you something.”

“Oh.” I realize what he’s talking about, then glance at the shelves lined with colorful cans and boxes. “In here?”

“I don’t think the string quartet or the champagne tower will fit.”

Dammit. I thought minimizing any pageantry was one way Crew and I are on the same page. If he has some elaborate proposal speech planned, I’ll probably start laughing. Making it seem like this is something that it is not is of no interest to me, especially when we’re alone.

Whatever expression I’m wearing makes his crease with what looks a lot like amusement.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“Thought what?”

“Come on.” Crew walks out of the pantry. We retrace our steps back to the same hall overlooking the pool and yard.

He approaches the staircase to the left. Silently, I follow. Up the stairs and down the carpeted hall and into a large room filled with dark wood walls and old books. There’s a mustiness in the air that smells off-putting but isn’t. It’s not cozy, but it doesn’t feel like a museum, the way the rest of the mansion—minus the pantry—does.

I trace the patterns in the stained glass windows while Crew walks to a painting of a fruit bowl on the wall. He lifts it off, exposing the front of a safe. I continue perusing the room while stealing glances at him.

There’s a telltale beep. The safe door opens and closes. The painting returns to its place. Crew walks toward me. There’s nothing that could be described as pomp in sight.

This should be as detached as signing on a dotted line. That’s what it is—a sign of a commitment based on nothing but business. There’s nothing moderately romantic about this moment—the dusty books, the stale air, Crew’s blank expression—but my pulse picks up anyway. I feel something, when I should feel nothing.

Giddiness.

Anticipation.

Interest.

I try to pretend I’m in here with Oliver Kensington instead. If Crew’s older brother was approaching me, I’d be unbothered. I wouldn’t be mentally measuring the inches separating us. The inches steadily shrinking.

Maybe I messed up my life worst of all, I suddenly realize.

Crew stops less than a foot away. Nine inches, I’d estimate. “Here.”

I stare down at the small, square, black box that he just dropped on my palm. One glance at his unreadable expression is all I allow myself before opening it. A huge diamond set in a halo of smaller ones twinkles up at me. It screams expensive without seeming garish. It’s timeless and classic. Something I would have picked out for myself.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, truthfully.

Crew doesn’t make any attempt to, so I lift the ring out of the box and slide it onto my finger. The weight feels heavy, unfamiliar, and permanent. If I took it off right now, I would still feel the lingering sensation on my skin, like a brand.

Scarlett Kensington. I roll my married name around in my mind, trying to accustom myself to it the same way I’ll have to adjust to wearing a sparkling reminder of Crew on my hand.

For once, I have no idea what else to say. Thank you? This ring cost a lot, no doubt. But he didn’t buy it because he wanted to or because I wanted him to. I don’t dole out thanks and apologies as freely as most people do.

“Dinner will be served soon.”

I nod, absorbing the sting of dismissal. There’s no reason to feel slighted. He’s behaving exactly how I expected him to all along: cold and distant. How I wanted him to act. If he hadn’t agreed to change our prenup so I retain full control of my magazine and hadn’t fed me chocolate-covered biscuits, I wouldn’t be battling the bizarre urge to ask him what’s wrong right now.

From Crew’s perspective, I’m a prize.

Property.

A pawn.

Not a partner.

Probably not even a person. My worth to him can be boiled down to my net worth and how I’ll look on his arm and the kids we’ll have together who will inherit his ancestors’ hard work.

I’ve wondered if I would ever meet a guy that would make me wish for more. That might make me resent how the marriages that last are ones built on understanding and agreements and contingencies. Not love and lust and passion.

Marriages with a purpose preserve empires.

Marriages fueled by desire are plagued by jealousy and ultimatums and whispers at the wedding that the bride must be pregnant.

I’ve never wondered if that guy might be him. Up until right now.

Crew steps to his left at the same time I move to my right. Rather than move further apart, like we both attempted to, we’re closer together.

Close enough, he could reach out and touch me.

Close enough, he does.

Suddenly the cavernous library doesn’t seem so large, after all. We’re taking up the smallest percentage of space two people could. The space between us has shrunk further. Three inches, maybe four.

I watch Crew’s hand rise, feel the stiff material of his suit brush against my bare arm. His thumb traces across the length of my jaw, leaving a searing trail on my skin that lingers like the lick of a flame. His other palm rises to press against my waist, anchoring me in this spot beside the fireplace.

There’s no fire burning in the grate now, just clean, gray stones. That’s what I thought Crew and I would be: a bare fireplace. A spot where softer, warmer emotions than duty and obligation could be built but wouldn’t be.

Empty potential.

“Scarlett.” His voice slides over me like warm honey, followed by a whisper of whiskey. No one has ever said my name like that before.

Like a prayer and a curse.

A secret and a sin.

A hope and a fear.

I meet his gaze and discover the mask of stoicism has slipped. When I think of passion, I picture bright, flagrant colors. Oranges and reds. Fire and heat and hearts and blood.

From this moment on, I’ll imagine light blue. The sky on a sunny day with no sign of clouds. The ocean on a calm day with the barest hint of waves. That’s how Crew’s eyes appear. So, so blue. Endless. Bottomless. Consuming. Beneath their calm color lurks the same potential for calamity as the sky and the sea.

If I let him, he’ll wreak havoc on my world.

My head.

My heart.

I’m tempted to give in. Very tempted. Anticipation and arousal are tangible in the air. I want to know how he kisses. How he tastes. How far he would take this—me and him in a library with our families waiting downstairs.

But I hold firm. “No.”

His gaze flashes. Waves crash. Clouds form. He doesn’t like being told what to do. Too damn bad—he’d better get used to it. “You’re bought and paid for, baby.”

Misogynistic asshole. “With money you didn’t earn—just like you didn’t earn me. Don’t act like I had a choice in this and you didn’t. We may be in this together, but I’m not yours, Crew. I never will be.”

His hand tightens its grip just above my hip, the fingers curling possessively and pressing into my skin. It makes me want to jerk away…and press closer. “We’re getting married, Scarlett. It’s a done deal.”

“We’ll see.” My tone is lofty, almost bored.

I have just as much power here as he does—maybe more. The prenup will only take effect if we divorce. Once we’re married, our substantial assets will be combined. He’ll be richer than his own father. I’m gaining a lot from this agreement, but he’s getting more. No one will look at me and think of how much wealth I’m accumulating. They’ll look at the ring on my finger and whisper my new last name with envy—not respect. In their eyes, I’m a clause in a merger. A bonus, not an equal. It’s how our world works, and I’ll never change anyone’s opinion.

Except his.

I have power here, and I refuse to cede any of it. If he wants to kiss me, wants sex from me—wants anything at all from me—he’ll have to work for it.

I watch him realize it. Battle it. Annoyance, then acceptance settles on his face. He’s too proud to beg.

“I’m sure you’ll have no problem finding a willing participant if you’re that desperate,” I taunt.

Danger dances in his blue eyes. I watch his brow smooth and his jaw tighten. “Careful, darling. That sounded an awful lot like a compliment.”

I grit my teeth. He’s right; it was one. As much as I would love to claim he holds no appeal, he does. Denying it will only look worse.

Crew moves even closer. I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze, which I know was a purposeful move on his part. My heart pounds out a steady staccato that feels like a live presence between us.

I’m annoyed with him. I’m also enthralled. Aroused.

The push and pull between us is electrifying.

Addictive.

His hand skims my collarbone, then drops to his side. He’s not touching me anywhere, but it feels like he’s touching me everywhere. “You want me, Scarlett. You just won’t admit it. I’ll find someone willing. Fuck her. And when you’re willing? When you want me? When you’re wet for me, just like you are now?” The soft, hypnotic rasp of his low words emphasizes each syllable.

My expression stays indifferent. Inside, I’m hanging on to each word like it’s a cliff I’ll fall off otherwise.

Crew shakes his head, a mocking, harsh smile spreading across his handsome face. “Baby, you’ll have to beg me for it.”

“I won’t.” My voice is confident. My body is much less so.

Crew chuckles, dark and ominous and enticing. “Wanna bet?” His breath skates across my cheek.

“I’ll never.”

“Forever is a long time, Scarlett.” He drops his hand from my waist and strolls out of the library, as if he did nothing more than hand me a ring.

Dinner is underwhelming.

It probably would have been regardless, but it’s especially uneventful in the wake of the scene in the library. I’m used to men backing down from me. I’m brash and opinionated and, in most people’s minds, not worth the trouble.

I figured shooting Crew down would be no different. He would move on to a socialite or a model, and that would be that. I didn’t expect an ultimatum. Consequences. And it wouldn’t matter, if not for the fact that he was right. I owe him nothing—but I want to kiss him.

The possibility of that not happening—not until I beg, which I won’t—is not a pleasing one.

I’m seated directly across from Oliver, who has spent the past twenty minutes running one finger around the rim of his glass of cognac, trying very hard to impress my father. He’s mentioned his law degree no less than twenty times and has cycled through a reel of obviously prepared topics that have ranged from international relations with China to the stock market.

I can see why Arthur sends Oliver out like a golf-playing show pony to every potential investor. My father is definitely intrigued by his perfect son act as Oliver touts Kensington Consolidated’s many successes.

Kensington Consolidated has never been a direct competitor of my family’s company, Ellsworth Enterprises, but business is business. And Hanson Ellsworth never turns down an opportunity to talk business. Not to mention, my father has a new stake in the Kensingtons’ substantial assets: me.

I’m bored out of my mind, picking at the filet mignon while Oliver and my father make polite conversation. My mother and Candace are discussing the wedding, which is an equally unappealing topic.

And my fiancé is flirting with one of the female servers. I chime in on the stock market discussion simply to make it clear it doesn’t bother me Crew couldn’t even wait until the end of dinner to find someone willing.

I thought Crew would be easy to ignore—to control. I also knew we’d have a physical relationship. Novelty, at first. For kids, later. It’s a prospect that’s become increasingly desirable—and demeaning. I won’t beg him. I refuse to. I’d rather knock myself up with a turkey baster.

All through dinner, I steal glances at the new addition to my left hand. Arthur Kensington spared a long stare at the diamond ring when I reappeared earlier. A look laced with sadness and longing and sentimentality.

Crew gave me his mother’s ring.

I don’t know why the possibility didn’t occur to me until I saw Arthur’s expression, but it didn’t. Elizabeth Kensington passed away when Crew was five. I wonder how differently the three men she left behind might look today if she hadn’t died so young. Would Arthur be as robotic? Oliver as desperate? Crew as callous?

“I’d love some more wine.” I interrupt the love fest across the table.

The server startles, finally remembering there are other people in the room. She grabs my glass and scurries off.

Crew’s unsettling gaze rests on me for the entire two minutes it takes for her to refill it and return. I don’t look away. Our eye contact feels like a chess match, with no pieces to play and no obvious victory.

I don’t know what he wants from me. I figured the simple act of marrying him would be where it started and ended. Until we have kids, nothing else needs to change. He’ll work. I’ll work. Our lives will look like a Venn diagram, with some overlap, but not much.

That moment in the library didn’t feel like a neat separation though. It felt like a raging inferno that would incinerate lines, not just blur them. I doused it…temporarily. The embers flicker at me from across the table.

As soon as dessert has been cleared, we end up in the soaring entryway, trading goodbyes. My father is in a short mood. Like Crew said, he and I are a done deal. Hanson Ellsworth doesn’t spend time chasing those. This evening was a courtesy, an invitation it would have been too rude to refuse.

I get nodded farewells from Arthur and Oliver and a hug from Candace. I wonder if she can tell I’m so tense I could snap in two. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to remain indifferent about my upcoming nuptials. For years, I’ve told myself it’s nothing more than a contract. A business deal. A blending of assets.

With Oliver—with anyone else—it would be.

With Crew, it’s different.

My heart hammers when he approaches me. Stops when his thumb catches and rubs against the diamond resting on my left hand. “It looks good on you, sweetheart,” he whispers, before his lips graze my cheek. The mocking edge to the words destroys any genuine intent.

There’s a huge family portrait hanging in the center of the marble staircase, just above the split in the steps. It’s of the original Kensington family: Arthur, Elizabeth, Oliver, and Crew. My eyes settle on Elizabeth’s left hand, resting on a much younger Crew’s shoulder. The diamond on her hand is an exact replica of the diamond on mine.

“Thank you,” I manage.

Crew’s eyes follow my gaze and flick to the portrait as well, his jaw tightening with realization.

Does he regret giving it to me?

Is he worried I’ll think it means something it doesn’t?

Was he simply too lazy to go buy me a new one?

Rather than ask for answers to any of those questions, I follow my parents out of the marble foyer and into the crisp spring air.

My mom is talking to me as we walk toward the fountain where our cars are parked. I nod along to whatever she’s saying. Something about a dress fitting? I’ll get a couple dozen texts reminding me of whatever it is, no doubt.

I thought I’d take more of an interest in my wedding when the time arrived. Barring some catastrophic event, it’s the only one I’ll ever have. I used to think any apathy toward the event would stem from a lack of significance. That the indifference I felt toward the groom would seep outward and color everything else. Instead, I’m terrified of the opposite. Nervous that caring what white dress I wear or how many tiers the cake is or which flowers are in my bouquet might reveal I care about him.

My parents depart first, my father’s omnipresent impatience a hasty urge. I linger in the driveway for a few more minutes, looking up at the stone façade of the Kensington manor. Stiff and hard and unreadable—just like its inhabitants. Just like the world I grew up in, the world I’m stuck in.

I have a say here, but not enough of one. Not enough to stop this from happening. I’m expecting the swell of rebellion in my stomach. I’m stubborn, and it’s a trait I encourage rather than tamp. But the rebellion doesn’t drown out the pinprick of relief.

I don’t want Crew to marry someone else. I don’t want to marry someone else. Then, I’ll never know which of us will break first.

We’re getting married. It’s a done deal.

His words echo in my head, even when he’s nowhere in sight. With a sigh, I climb into the car and instruct my driver to take me back to the office.

I spend the whole drive staring at the ring on my hand. Replaying the words that were spoken—and the words that weren’t—after I put it on for the first time. I’ll never be able to shake that moment. Not as long as I’m wearing this ring.

Forever is a long time.

No shit.