Fake Empire: Chapter 6

I hear her before I see her. Subtle sounds alert me to Scarlett’s approach. There’s the glide of satin and silk and whatever else wedding dresses are constructed from across the marble floor. The whispers of the crowd. The swell of the music before it reaches the crescendo that’s supposed to signify her arrival at the altar.

According to the one time we practiced this, I’m not meant to turn until Scarlett has reached the final pew. I’m happy to comply. I wouldn’t know how to look. Stoic is my default setting. That’s not how a groom is meant to look, watching his bride come down the aisle. We’re supposed to be selling a love story to everyone who is in attendance today. Stock in our families’ companies has skyrocketed since our engagement was announced a few weeks ago. Scarlett and I are the faces of the future. The stronger we appear, the better.

Deals fall apart.

Business partners part ways.

Marriages are made of tougher stuff, at least in our world. Divorce is rare when fidelity isn’t expected and each party will end up poorer for it.

My cue to turn appears. I look to the left. Without realizing it, I started holding my breath.

I don’t exhale, even when my lungs begin to burn.

I don’t move, even though I’m supposed to take a step toward her.

I just stare.

The first time I saw Scarlett Ellsworth, I was fifteen years old. So was she. We were both kids playing adults. I was wearing a custom suit I’d outgrow in a couple of weeks. Scarlett was wearing a floor-length gown, heels, and makeup. I was drunk—off Thomas Archibald’s father’s scotch. Breaking into studies and sneaking expensive liquor was a common pastime at parties on the Upper East Side.

I thought she was beautiful then.

I’ve thought she looked stunning every single time I’ve seen her in the ten years that have elapsed since. Scarlett possesses a classic, timeless poise that provides the same presence as actual royalty.

But today? She’s devastatingly, heartbreakingly beautiful. The untouchable sort of regal. An ice queen. A snow angel. A moon goddess. She walks toward me on her father’s arm surrounded by a waterfall of white organza, her brunette hair curled in an elaborate updo and her lips painted their signature crimson shade.

Hanson Ellsworth doesn’t walk her all the way to me. He stops at the last pew, and Scarlett takes the final steps toward me alone. When she reaches me, I demonstrate more staring. More not moving. It’s not customary for the bride and groom to pause before approaching the priest, and the rustling of the audience emphasizes that.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” I clear my throat. “Ready?”

“Ready.” There’s no hint of hesitation on her face.

I rely on her confidence like a crutch. “You look…” I flip through adjectives that all fall short. The best I can come up with is “stunning,” but it doesn’t say everything I’m trying to.

Scarlett looks away after I compliment her, up at the altar where we’re about to get married. “Thank you.”

We start up the short row of steps that lead to the waiting priest, side by side. The priest launches into a speech about the sanctity of marriage. I don’t pay close attention to any of the readings that follow. I’m mostly focused on not looking over at Scarlett. We’re on display up here, and I’m no longer worried about appearing too indifferent to her presence. I’m concerned about the exact opposite—giving away too much.

When it comes time for the vows, I have no choice but to look at her. Scarlett hands off her bouquet, and we’re stuck staring at each other while the rings are blessed.

I go first. When we met with Father Callahan, he asked if we would be writing out our own vows. Scarlett and I talked over each other in our haste to let him know we’d be sticking with the traditional ones. I wasn’t worried about saying them. But suddenly these words—ones that millions of people have said millions of times before during millions of weddings—sound far too intimate as I look at her.

“I, Crew Anthony Kensington, take you, Scarlett Cordelia Ellsworth, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do we part.” I slide the diamond wedding band onto her ring finger. “I give this ring as a sign of my love.”

The priest looks to Scarlett expectantly. She doesn’t need any prompting. Her voice is clear and unwavering, echoing off the glass windows and the marble floor and the dark wood.

“I, Scarlett Cordelia Ellsworth, take you, Crew Anthony Kensington, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do we part.” She slides the platinum wedding ring onto my third finger. It’s far from heavy but impossible to ignore. A reminder of her I’ll always see—whether I want to or not. “I give this ring as a sign of my love.”

If I weren’t watching her so closely, I would miss the flicker of trepidation as it passes across her perfectly painted face. Scarlett knows what happens next, same as I do. I wonder if she’s more or less apprehensive about this kiss following her request earlier.

“You may kiss the bride.”

I watch Scarlett smother the urge to roll her eyes. She obviously doesn’t appreciate the priest “allowing” me to kiss her. But I’m close enough to see her breath hitch and her eyes widen. She wants to kiss me; she just doesn’t want to admit it.

I take a step forward slowly. Deliberately.

Actions I don’t usually think twice about, I’m second-guessing. The small space between us shrinks to nothing, until the stiff fabric of my tuxedo is pressed against the white material of her dress. This is the closest we’ve ever been, save for that brief moment earlier.

I was annoyed then. At her for asking. At myself for capitulating. Women chase me, not the other way around. And, ironically, the one woman whose attention should be a given is the only person whose lack of it bothers me. I admire her for treating me with a callousness I didn’t expect, for not getting swept up in the pomp and circumstance of what is, at the end of the day, nothing more than a business arrangement. However, it’s put me in the strange situation of having to pursue what I want from her.

My expectations of this marriage never included a wife who wants nothing to do with me. It would be convenient—if not for the fact I find Scarlett captivating and intriguing. I want her attention.

I have no idea when I’ll kiss her again after this, so I intend to savor every second. Most of today—the gold foil invitations and the thousand plus attendees and the flowers covering the end of every pew—seemed unnecessary. This feels very necessary.

The thin lace of her veil tickles my palms as I raise my hands. I cradle her face like it’s a bubble that might pop. Like it’s the most precious possession I own. Her pulse thrums rapidly, just below her jawline. Her eyes turn heated, betraying how her body hasn’t moved at all. I hesitate for a few more seconds, letting the anticipation build to a breaking point.

She may want to—try to—forget this day. This moment.

She won’t be able to.

Our lips collide. I can taste her surprise, followed by relief the torture has ended. I’m not finished though. I slide my hands down to rest on her waist as I tease my tongue along the seam of her lips. I swallow the slight gasp that allows the entry I’m seeking. Then she starts kissing me back and I forget everything I was trying to accomplish.

Our kiss is fireworks and heat and passion. Combustible. Explosive. Electric. More than a cold fusion of assets. It’s a struggle to remember where we are. Why it’s not an option to bend her over the nearest available surface.

Ice can be chipped away at. But fire? Only fools trifle with fire. Fire destroys everything in its path.

There’s a split-second, right after I pull away and end the kiss, where this feels real. When I’m looking at her and she’s looking at me and that’s the extent of anything that matters. It lingers between us…and then it’s gone.

“I present to you, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Crew Kensington!”

I incline my head. Scarlett gives me a barely perceptible nod. And we turn, facing the crowd that is clapping and cheering and standing.

We’re married. The woman standing next to me is my wife. I’ve had almost a decade to get used to the idea. It wasn’t long enough, clearly, because the words sound strange in my head. Maybe marriage is one of those things that can’t be prepared for.

Maybe it’s that I care—about her, about the significance of the vows we just exchanged—and I didn’t think I would.

I take the hand hanging limply at her side, and we start our descent. Past my father and Candace and Oliver. Past Scarlett’s parents. Past the politicians and celebrities and the business moguls. People who think they’re witnessing a fairy tale and people who know a monopoly was just secured.

The aisle is long. I keep a smile pasted on my face for the full few minutes it takes to traverse from the apse of the cathedral to its narthex. As soon as we pass the final pew, I let the fake expression fall. There’s a small army waiting for us outside the doors. Scarlett is ushered away by two women immediately, and I’m left to nod along to the wedding planner as she talks.

It’s probably an accurate representation of how the rest of our lives together will look.

The reception is worse than I imagined it might be. Usually, I’m selective about who I socialize with. Tonight, I have no choice. Every person here wants a moment with me. A chance to offer congratulations and earn favor.

Scarlett is surrounded as well. The first time I have a chance to talk to her is several hours after we left the altar, during our first dance. She’s looking at me, but she’s not really looking. I know it’s purposeful. I caught a glimpse of vulnerability earlier. Now she’s reinforcing her walls. Battening down the emotional hatches.

I shouldn’t care.

It shouldn’t make me want to push.

“Maybe we should have practiced this too,” I suggest, as she moves stiff and unwilling in my arms. For a second, I catch a glimpse of a smile. “I think we should set some ground rules.”

“For?” she asks, glancing away. Out at the admiring onlookers surrounding us. A few cameras flash.

“Us.”

Scarlett is no longer pretending to pay attention to the crowd. Her eyes fly to mine. “You want to discuss this now?”

“You’re still leaving tonight, right? I figured it would be best to hammer out some details before then. Plus, you’ve avoided me since we got engaged.”

“I avoided you before then too.”

“Well, it ends now, wife.”

I feel her back tense through the thin fabric of her wedding dress. “And you thought our first dance would be the most appropriate venue?”

“I figured there was a higher chance you wouldn’t walk away during the conversation, yes.”

“I’m not a coward,” Scarlett states.

“I never called you one.”

Her chin rises to a defiant tilt. “There’s nothing to discuss, Crew. I said I’d marry you, and I just did. That’s the extent of us.”

“The start of us.”

“The extent,” she reiterates.

“I assume you want separate bedrooms?”

She holds my gaze. “I have a chef and a maid. One of them will show you to your room when you get to my place tonight.”

“Sex?”

“Be discreet.”

“With you, Scarlett.”

Her throat bobs as she swallows. “I don’t know yet. Maybe sometimes.”

Maybe sometimes? I shake my head. “You don’t want anything from me.”

It’s not a question. She answers anyway. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she echoes. “We don’t need to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending.”

Those three words linger between us.

The rest of our dance is silent. When it ends, we both move on to our other obligations. Scarlett begins dancing with her father, while I twirl Candace.

It’s been years since I wished my mother was alive so viscerally. But this day? This moment? It’s one I wish she were here for. From what little I remember and have heard about Elizabeth Kensington, she was sweet and calm. She softened my father’s rough edges, which have only sharpened over time. Today would have been romantic, in her eyes. Rather than Candace’s endless babbling about the dinner and the cake and the flowers, I imagine she’d ask me if I feel different, as a married man. Lecture me on how to treat Scarlett. Maybe she would have talked my father out of the agreement to begin with. I’ll never know.

After the song ends, I ask Josephine Ellsworth. I catch Scarlett’s surprised look as we walk onto the dance floor, like the thought of me dancing with her mother never occurred to her.

“You outdid yourself, Mrs. Ellsworth,” I compliment as we spin. “Everything was perfect.”

Unlike her daughter, Josephine is modest and demure. Pink tinges her cheeks before she glances away at the sea of elaborately decorated tables surrounding us. “Call me Josephine. And it was my pleasure, truly. I’m glad you appreciated it.”

I half-smile at the emphasis, under no delusions about who Josephine is referring to. I also correct my earlier assumption. She has more fire than she lets on. “I’ve gathered Scarlett isn’t the sort to accept decisions she didn’t make.”

“Scarlett doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to, either.”

I feel my brow wrinkle with confusion.

Josephine smiles, and there’s an almost daring edge to it. “Don’t let my daughter convince you she had no choice in this matter.”

“Of course she had a choice. Scarlett would have been stupid not to accept this, though. And she’s not.”

“She’s not,” Josephine agrees. “But she’s smart enough to know her options. She doesn’t need you for anything, Crew.”

I muffle the smile that wants to appear in response to her earnest expression. This is remarkably similar to the conversation I just had with Scarlett herself. “She may not need anything from me, but she’s getting plenty.”

“Yes, she is.”

I wait, but that’s all she says until the song ends a minute later. “Thank you for the dance, Crew. Scarlett chose well. And she did—choose. No matter how she acts. Indifference is a means of survival in this world. I imagine you know that as well as anyone.”

With those parting words, she disappears into the crowd. I head for the bar, craving a moment of solitude and a stiff drink. Today has felt endless. Every minute meticulously planned from the moment I woke up.

I order a whiskey from the bartender and lean against the counter serving as a makeshift bar. I stay in place once he hands it to me, sipping the amber liquid and surveying my surroundings.

“Quite the event, Mr. Kensington.”

I glance to my left and almost choke. The liquor slides down my esophagus with a stinging stab, rather than the usual pleasant burn. “Mr. Raymond. How nice to see you, sir.”

“You can call me Royce,” he replies, adopting a similar pose beside me as he orders a drink. I hide my surprise. Royce Raymond is a media mogul, whose production company consistently churns out blockbuster hits. There’s not an actor in Hollywood who doesn’t want to work with him. He’s famous for his hands on approach to everything. Supposedly, not even a PA gets hired on one of his sets without his say so. He’s just as well known for his antisocial tendencies, which include snubbing many of the coveted invitations he receives. I’m shocked he’s here.

“I’m glad you could make it. Royce.”

The older man makes an unintelligible sound.

“Are you in New York for long?” Last I knew, his primary residence was in Los Angeles.

“Long enough.”

“Long enough for what?”

“You’ll be taking over for your father soon?”

“That’s the general assumption. You’d have to ask him for the specifics.”

“I’ve never much cared for Arthur. Too power-hungry for my taste. Although…I suppose you’re the one who just married billions.”

I hold his gaze as he studies me appraisingly. “Money isn’t the only reason I married Scarlett.” I expect the words to sound false. To ring with insincerity. They don’t.

“A bold statement for a man who just inherited an empire.”

“Don’t confuse me for my father.”

“If that were the case, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, Crew.”

“What conversation would that be?”

Royce smiles. “You know I have no children of my own.”

“I do.”

“I’m…entertaining the idea of passing the torch. Would that interest you?”

“A partnership?”

He shakes his head. “Full ownership. It’s been fifty years. Nothing lasts forever. When I find the right person, it will be time to move on.”

“I assume you know I have no experience in the film industry?”

He chuckles. “I’m looking for someone with good business sense and a moral compass. The latter is difficult to find in this world.”

“Thank you?”

Another chuckle. “I’m not looking for a figurehead to collect a hefty percentage. That, I could find easily. I’ve never entertained any of your father’s offers because I’ve seen what happens to companies underneath the Kensington Consolidated umbrella. I know how business works. But it’s not how my business works—how it will ever work.”

“You would want me to choose,” I realize.

“Arthur is…what? Fifty-four? Fifty-six? I wouldn’t be expecting him to hand the biggest office over anytime soon, son or not.”

“I’m happy in my current position.”

“I’m certain you are. But it’s different to inherit versus to earn. I built everything I have, same as your great-grandfather.”

“Because you had to, in order to succeed. Kensington Consolidated is my legacy. No sane person would turn their back on a thriving birthright to hack it on their own.”

“I’m not sure your new wife would appreciate that characterization.”

I open my mouth, then close it. “That’s different,” I finally manage.

“Is it?” Royce challenges. “I find it difficult to believe there wasn’t a place at Ellsworth Enterprises for Hanson’s only child.”

“I believe Scarlett had diverging interests. Ellsworth doesn’t own any magazines.”

“They offer limited opportunities in other ways as well.”

“Perhaps,” I acknowledge.

Royce picks up the glass the bartender delivered without me noticing. “Think it over. And congratulations. I expect great things from you and the new Mrs. Kensington.”

The end of the reception passes more quickly. The important, older guests begin to leave. I’m left to drink and talk with people I consider friends.

The wedding planner, a petite woman named Sienna, is the one who tells me it’s time to make our grand exit.

“Where’s Scarlett?”

“Changing. She’ll meet you in the lobby.”

When I get to the lobby, Scarlett is already waiting. She’s wearing another white dress. This one has straps and no train. The silky material clings to her curves, covering her from head to toe in an ivory waterfall.

All I get is a cursory glance. “Good. You’re here. Let’s go.”

I grab her hand before she can take a step. She doesn’t ask what I’m doing. Doesn’t move as I release my grip and trail my fingers up her arm. Her hair is still pulled back in a fancy knot, baring her shoulders and neck. I trace all the exposed skin, savoring the goosebumps that raise on her skin.

I take another step closer, pressing my body against her side.

She inhales sharply. In the wide, empty space, it’s all I can hear. The music and chatter coming from the ballroom sound distant and muffled.

Neither of us say a word. This is a silent truce.

My hand falls away.

Your move.

Scarlett turns, so our bodies are flush. Her eyes scan my face. I have no idea what she’s looking for.

I don’t know if she finds it or not. But she does kiss me, which is what I was looking for.

Her taste hits my system like a drug. Something about Scarlett—her prickliness, her beauty, the fact she’s my wife—sharpens sensations. I can’t recall the last time I kissed someone else, expecting it to go no further. That’s the only way I’ve kissed Scarlett. I pay attention to things I normally wouldn’t, not distracted by flying clothes or finding the nearest hard surface.

She smells like lilac and tastes like champagne. Her warm curves crush against me as she deepens the kiss. I slide my hands down her back and settle them on her hips, tugging her closer even though there’s nowhere to go. We’re already pressed as tight together as two people can be.

If the hem wasn’t out of reach, I’d pull up her dress and slide a hand between her thighs. Instead, I journey back north, cupping her left breast and confirming she’s not wearing a bra. She moans my name and the sound ricochets around my insides.

This was supposed to be a tease—a preview of what she’s missing out on tonight by choosing to fly across the Atlantic. It’s turned into torture. She’s affected, but so am I. Rock hard and desperate.

Scarlett pulls back first. I let her move away, watching as she straightens her dress and smooths the fabric. I want her—badly. I’ve never been this affected by a woman before. If she wasn’t a former Ellsworth turned Kensington, wasn’t my wife, I’d tell her exactly how much. Describe exactly what I want to do to her.

Hell, I’m tempted to do it anyway. But then she smirks—triumphantly, knowingly. And I’m reminded of just how far out of my depth I am with her.

“You want nothing from me, Scarlett?” I pose it like a question, but it’s a taunt.

“Nothing,” she reiterates. Her voice is as resolute as it was on the dancefloor, but there’s no empty edge this time. There’s a teasing lilt that calls out my lack of indifference but also tells me there’s at least one thing she wants from me.

Before either of us can say anything else, Sienna appears and herds us toward the front of the hotel. She’s talking a mile a minute, relaying details I don’t care about. I gather the gist is the walk we’re about to make to a waiting limo.

A smaller hand slips into mine right before we reach the doors. I have no idea when the last time I held hands with someone was. This shouldn’t count. We’re the main event in an elaborate show, and this is just one piece of the choreography. But for a few seconds, the warm press of her palm is all I can focus on.

The doors open to a dazzling display of light and sound. A literal carpet—white, not red—has been rolled from the entrance of the hotel to our waiting car. Small potted trees strung with twinkling lights separate the pathway from guests tossing flower petals.

I force a wide smile onto my face. A glance at Scarlett shows she’s beaming just as bright and false.

Our families are waiting by the limo. Cameras flash as I shake my dad’s hand and hug Candace. I watch as Scarlett hugs her mom and gets a kiss on the cheek from her father. Like a dutiful husband, I help her into the back before climbing into the car myself.

“New dress just for the car ride?” I ask as the limo begins to move.

“You expected me to fly six hours with a five-foot train?”

“I didn’t give any thought to the clothes you’re wearing, actually.”

She raises one eyebrow.

I raise one back. “Do you have anything on underneath?”

There’s a glimpse of amusement before her expression shutters to blank. “Something you’d see—if we got married for real.”

I get what she means, that we’re not the traditional love story. We didn’t meet at Harvard, bonding over a harsh professor at a study group. We didn’t date for years. I didn’t propose on a rooftop covered with flowers and pop a bottle of prosecco. But… “We are married for real, Scarlett.”

She tilts her head to stare out the window instead of replying.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling up to the private terminal of JFK.

“Bye.” That’s all she says before climbing out.

I watch from behind the tinted glass as she talks to the driver for a minute before an attendant comes over to retrieve her bags. She has three of them, which makes me realize I never asked how long she would be gone for.

The driver gets back into the car. Scarlett heads inside the airport. And the limo pulls back into the busy traffic.

When it stops for a second time, outside a building on Park Avenue, I’m confused. Then, I realize where I am. I step outside into the humid air and walk into Scarlett’s lobby. It’s expensive and minimalistic. The space is mostly black with gold accents. There’s one desk, which a man with gray hair is standing behind. He gives me a respectful nod as I pass.

I use the plastic card Scarlett gave me to call the elevator and then type in the code I memorized.

She was right. Her place is nicer than mine.

I step out of the elevator. The far wall is mostly glass, showing off the terrace that spans the full length of the building, overlooking Central Park and the Reservoir.

The floor plan is mostly open, the spectacular view uninterrupted. There’s a neat formation of white couches and a gleaming black Steinway sitting in the corner. I walk deeper, discovering the formal dining room, a living room, the library, a study, and then the kitchen.

Finished touring the downstairs, I walk upstairs, peeking into each room as I go. There are eight bedrooms, one of them Scarlett’s. My bags and boxes have all been stacked in the corner of the bedroom farthest from hers.

I wonder whose idea that was.

Most of my belongings, the decorations and furniture, were put into storage or left at my old place. The bulk of what I brought along were clothes. Rather than unpacking or sorting through anything, I lie back on the white bedspread and stare out at the shimmering skyline of Manhattan. I could call someone. A woman. Asher or Jeremy. Go out to a club or a bar.

I’m too tired. Too drained.

Looks like I’ll be spending my wedding night…alone.