Fake Empire: Chapter 5

My mother starts crying when she sees me standing in my wedding dress. I’m not expecting her tears. After almost thirty years of marriage to the emotionless void known as my father, I didn’t think there would be much sentimentality on display today. Just appreciation for the hasty planning it took to pull off what every news publication is calling the wedding of the century.

In the past six weeks since my engagement to Crew was announced, every detail of my wedding has been considered. Every possible problem accounted for. Every minute accounted for.

This is an unplanned one. Sophie and Nadia snuck into the room off the transept, where I’ve spent the morning getting ready to say hello. Sophie was the one who begged me to show them my dress. I’ve only worn it once since I approved the design, for the fitting to confirm my measurements hadn’t changed.

I take all three reactions in—Sophie’s wide eyes, Nadia’s gasp, my mother’s tears—before I turn to stare at my reflection. I love this dress. Love it more than I should. Love it more than any other article of clothing I’ve ever worn.

It’s strapless. The line of my collarbone and curve of my shoulder are exposed above the intricately detailed corset. Alluring without being outrageous. The hand-stitched lace leads to layers of cloud-soft tulle and a sweeping train that trails several feet behind me. I’ve never felt more beautiful than I do wearing this dress. It’s a gown meant for a bride who’s excited about her wedding. Who has no doubts—about anything, much less her choice of groom.

Somewhat unfortunately, not to mention surprisingly, I fulfill both criteria.

Hovering in the doorway, I watch my mother swipe at her cheeks before she speaks. I figured I had another twenty minutes before she returned from running through every detail with the wedding planner—again. “Scarlett! Why are you wearing your dress already? Your hair still needs to be done.”

Nadia and Sophie both startle at the sound of her sharp tone. I know it well, though. It’s much easier to mask emotions under harshness than happiness.

“I know. I’ll change back.” I smile at Sophie and Nadia. “I’ll see you guys after, okay?” They take the offered out, slipping back out of the room immediately. I’m left to change and face my mother. I hang my wedding dress back inside its bag and pull on the silk robe I was wearing before, over the white lingerie my husband won’t see.

“You’re ready?” my mother asks. For more than the hairdresser, I gather.

I inhale, then make the request I’ve debated since I woke up this morning. I expected it to feel like an ordinary day. None of it has felt that way. Not showering or eating breakfast or riding to the cathedral where I’ll become Scarlett Kensington. “Is Crew here?”

My mother studies me, curiosity burning in the hazel irises I inherited. “Of course.” She sounds offended by the mere possibility he might not be. Any hiccup today would be more than a slight against me.

“Can you…get him?”

My mom sighs. “Scarlett, if you’re having second thoughts—”

“I’m not. I just want to talk to him.”

“I don’t think that—”

I cut her off again. “Mom. Please.”

Maybe it’s the please that convinces her. I’m not sure the last time that word was spoken between us. From my mouth, at least.

“Okay. I’ll ask.” She disappears out into the expanse of the cathedral that’s filled with people preparing for the wedding or guests showing up extra early for good seats.

I’m all alone in here.

The star of the show and the pariah.

I’m nervous. I didn’t think I would be, and it’s the final sign that this is not a business deal. A merger like any other. Maybe it is to Arthur Kensington. To my father. To the rest of Manhattan’s elite, who have all gossiped about the possibility of this day for years. To Crew. But for me, it’s different. Telling myself it isn’t won’t change that fact.

This is my wedding, my marriage.

It’s personal.

When the door opens again a few minutes later, I know it’s not my mother. I can just tell.

He came.

“You’re not wearing your dress.”

I turn to face him. “You’re not supposed to see me in my dress until I’m down the aisle.”

“I didn’t think you were the superstitious type. Or particularly sentimental.” Crew says the words casually, before slipping his hands in his pockets. He looks relaxed. Completely at ease about what is about to happen between us, and it loosens the tight knot in my chest some.

“I don’t want our first kiss to be out there.” I blurt the statement, which is really more of a request.

Something about today—the dress and the dreaminess and the date itself—has led me to the very real realization today is my wedding. In all likelihood, I’ll never have another. I’ll be married to this man for the rest of my life. And I’ve never even kissed him.

Should it bother me? Probably not.

But it does.

Something akin to amusement settles in his face. “Is that so?”

It’s tempting to back down, but I don’t. “Yes.” I study him, trying to get a read on what he’s thinking. Feeling. I come up blank. He’s as effusive as an empty page. “You were basically begging to kiss me a few weeks ago,” I remind him of our moment in the library.

A ghost of a smile flickers across his face, as if that memory is a fond one rather than a frustrating one. “I remember.”

“So?” I’m growing impatient. Annoyed. Why can’t anything between us be straightforward?

“Do you?”

“Do I what?” I’m rapidly regretting this entire idea. He’s right; it’s not like me. Maybe this marriage won’t last, and it’ll never matter anyway.

“Remember.”

My spine straightens like it was just injected with lead as the implication hits. “You can’t be serious.”

Crew tilts his head to the left, showing off the sharp line of his jaw. It tightens as his expression turns daring. “Beg me, and I’ll kiss you, Scarlett.”

“You’re…” I search for the right insult and come up short. “I can’t believe you.”

“I warned you, baby.”

“You’re just pissed I hurt your pride.”

Crew doesn’t respond, but a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Begging is not happening. I’m not that desperate. See you on the altar, baby.” The nickname holds no sentimentality, only mocking.

He doesn’t move. There’s a long, heavy silence. Weighted down by second guessing and appraisals and regrets. “Ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me to kiss you, Scarlett. Isn’t that what this conversation has been about?”

Honestly, I’ve lost track. It’s become a push and pull—a battle of wills. Each of us feeling out what we’re willing to give up. What we won’t agree to concede on. “I don’t ask for things, either. I take them.”

“So do I.”

We stare at each other, at a stalemate. I want to kiss him. Badly. I’ve never wanted to erase the distance between my lips and someone else’s more. He wants to kiss me. Just as badly, if his tense posture is any indication.

Pride keeps me in place. He doesn’t move either.

“I need to finish getting ready.” I say it softly. A fact, not a foot out the door. I’m not backing down. I’m not giving him an excuse.

Crew releases an exasperated sigh, like some major inconvenience is taking place. I’m expecting him to turn and leave. Instead, he approaches me with the conviction of a conquering king, diminishing the few feet separating us with a couple of long strides. He cups my face, his fingers brushing my cheeks, as he tilts my head back and forces my gaze to meet his. “Tell me,” he demands.

I question him with my eyes, tempted to sway into his touch. I’m losing ground, and I blame his close proximity for encroaching. It’s hard to think—to breathe—when he’s touching me.

“Tell me to kiss you, Scarlett.” His thumb traces my bottom lip.

Goosebumps rise on my skin. Shivers race down my spine.

He’s compromising. Ceding. It prompts a heady rush of power. I didn’t capitulate—he did. With anyone else, I’d perceive it as weakness. But this doesn’t make me think less of Crew—it makes me want him more.

“Kiss me.”

The e is still hovering in the air between us when he complies. His lips crash against mine, demanding and urgent and commanding. The hands gripping my face are gentle. His mouth is anything but. The wet heat of his tongue invades my mouth, forcing a moan out.

Crew Kensington tastes like whiskey and mint. Sin and seduction. Pleasure and power. And this is exactly why I told him no in the library—I knew we would be this combustible. I knew if I let him, he’d burn me. Consume me.

I can respect him.

I can explore my attraction to him.

I just can’t care about him.

Success isn’t built on good intentions and consideration of others.

His lips leave mine. Too soon. I want to kiss him until I’m out of oxygen. I want to relish the way he makes me forget this is fake.

When I open my eyes, he’s staring straight at me. I have no idea what to say, how to reconcile who we were before and who we are after that kiss. A distinction I didn’t think I’d have to make before saying I do. That’s when before and after were supposed to start. I’m realizing, as my lips tingle and my pulse pounds, it might have started a long time ago.

I clear my throat. “You should go.”

If he’s bothered by the immediate dismissal, he doesn’t show it. Crew nods once, brisk and business-like. His hands fall away from my face, and I immediately miss their warmth. Their possessive presumptuousness. “See you out there.”

I watch him turn and walk away, warring with myself. He gave me an inch. I can do the same. Marriage is about compromise, right?

“Crew.” He pauses when I speak but doesn’t turn around. My eyes coast over his broad shoulders, stretching the tux jacket tight. Unlike me, he’s already wearing his wedding attire. I’m glad he doesn’t turn around. It makes it easier to spit out, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t look back. The door closes behind him a few seconds later, leaving me alone. Surrounded by shoe boxes and cans of hairspray and the products painted on my face, waiting for the hairstylist to appear so I can change into my dress and walk down the aisle.