Fake Empire: Chapter 11

As Audrey said, Paris is always a good idea. And ever since I became editor-in-chief of Haute, trips to France’s capital city have become common.

This particular visit is one I’ve been dreading and anticipating. I’m here to approve final designs and fabrics for rouge. Once everything is in place, I’ll go public with the announcement. It’s a daunting prospect. I’m worried I’ll fail. Fashion is a hard industry to break into, no matter how much money you have. You can’t buy success. And if I fail, I’ll fail as Scarlett Kensington.

Right now, I’m more focused on my companion for this trip than anything else. I wasn’t expecting for Crew to back me up with my dad in the Hamptons. I was expecting for him to stay in New York. Apparently, he meant it when he said he was coming with me.

Things have been tenuous between us since the Fourth. Not awkward, the way they were before we left for the Hamptons. It took me a few days to process everything that happened in the short span of time. Those same days were spent logging long hours finalizing the September issue of Haute and preparing for this trip. And then he was waiting at the airport when I arrived for my flight, since Leah shares all my travel details with his secretary. I made the mature decision to pretend to sleep for the duration of the six-hour flight.

Crew hasn’t said much since we arrived. So far, we’ve checked in at the hotel, met with two of my fabric suppliers, and now we’re at the French Open. Jacqueline Perout is a friend from Harvard and heiress to Europe’s premier department store. Securing her interest in rouge will be paramount to its success, so turning down an invitation to watch a morning match from her box wasn’t really an option.

“Scarlett Ellsworth! How lovely to see you!” Richard Cavendish has come to stand beside me in the executive suite I’m watching the match from.

Richard is the vice president of a prominent French publication. Our paths inevitably cross at many of the social events I attend here. I believe he’s the only person who considers himself charming.

I take a sip of mimosa before answering. Just like with most of the men in my social circle, it’s less painful to converse with Richard slightly buzzed. “Nice to see you too, Richard.”

“Here on business?”

“Always,” I reply cooly, watching his gaze sweep up and down the white eyelet dress I’m wearing. It’s modest, with capped sleeves and falling to my calves, but Richard’s eyes are heated by the time they arrive at my signature red lips. His bottom lip curls as his gaze moves to the left hand holding the glass. And the large diamond resting on my ring finger.

“So the rumors are true. You got married.”

“Rumors? You don’t trust the hundreds of papers that reported on it?”

Richard’s eyes fill with annoyance. “I have more important things to do with my time than troll the society pages.”

The merging of the Ellsworth and Kensington families made it into plenty of respectable European papers, as Richard well knows. Kensington Consolidated and Ellsworth Enterprises both have international holdings.

I could have ignored my father’s wishes and married Richard. He wouldn’t have contributed as much to my net worth and I find him irksome and boring, but he would have been better for my sanity than Crew Kensington.

Because if Richard Cavendish had spent the last half an hour talking to a pretty blonde tennis player, I would feel relieved not to have to engage in a bothersome exchange of words with him. Crew choosing to do so has left me marinating in a mixture of rage and jealousy.

This is why you shouldn’t marry for love.

Not that I love Crew. I just find him mildly entertaining and annoyingly attractive. And after he made me come in seconds, I might have strong feelings toward his tongue.

“Your husband seems to be enjoying the match,” Richard comments, following my gaze.

I don’t reply. I turn back to watch the green ball get smashed over the net, and I wish I also had something to hit right now.

“Is Kensington here on business too?” Richard needles.

A possessive hand slides to the small of my back. Even before the scent of his expensive cologne reaches me, I know it’s Crew. A trail of heat lingers behind the pressure of his palm, and I suppress a shiver by taking yet another sip. At this rate, I’ll need a refill soon. Which would probably be a bad idea, since, as was just established, I’m here on business.

Not pleasure.

“Nope. All pleasure, Cavendish.” Crew’s deep voice rumbles from behind me. “At some point, you should sit back and enjoy the spoils, don’t you agree?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Richard replies. I know his agreeable tone means he thinks the opposite. “But I find it disheartening you’re ready to sit back so soon. You wouldn’t want anyone to think you only got the job because of your father. Are you planning to live off your wife?”

I feel Crew’s hand flex against my spine, but his voice is smooth as butter when he replies. “I must have missed you becoming a self-made billionaire, Cavendish. Must be because the papers you own don’t really talk about you at all.”

Richard’s face turns an ugly shade of puce. “Scarlett, lovely to see you, as always. My condolences on your choice of groom.”

He stalks off in the direction of the private bar. I turn my gaze back to the tennis match. Crew’s hand remains on my back, searing through the thin material.

“Interesting choice in conversationalist.”

“I could say the same to you,” I reply loftily.

I can hear a smile in Crew’s voice. “She approached me.”

For some stupid reason, I feel obligated to respond. “So did he.”

“I know. I saw.”

“You were watching?”

“Always, Red.”

He can’t see my face, so I don’t bother to hide my smile.

After the tennis match ends, I promise Jacqueline I’ll meet her for breakfast tomorrow morning. She spent most of the match flirting with Henriq Popov, who is the odds-on favorite to win the French Open, instead of discussing business.

“Where to next?” Crew asks as we leave the private box.

“Um…” Truthfully, I don’t have anything definitive planned until dinner with Jacques tonight. Admitting that feels like a weakness, as stupid as that sounds. I rely on looking busy around Crew. Work is always an excuse, something I know he’ll respect. “I have nothing planned until dinner,” I admit.

“Dinner with who?”

“Jacques. He’s—”

“The super in-demand guy you skipped our wedding night for. Yeah, I remember.”

He sounds jealous. “You can come, if you want.”

“I don’t want to get in the way.”

I smile. “If anyone will be in the way, it’s me.”

His brow creases with confusion, interrupting his previously bored expression.

“Jacques is gay, Crew. If you come to dinner, I guarantee he’ll hit on you.”

Jacques’s sexual orientation is a pointless clarification, one I only make because I still feel guilty for lying to him about my pretend lover. His only response is to walk toward the exit. I scurry after him a few seconds later.

Crew weaves through the crowds without so much as a jostle. Even among people who have no clue who he is, he’s not the sort of guy you mow over.

He halts when we reach the sidewalk, leaning down to talk to a driver of one of the many cabs lining the street. After a minute, he stands and beckons me over.

“What are you doing?” I ask, pulling out my phone. “I can call—”

“Get in.”

“I have a car here.”

“I know you do. We rode here in it. Get in, Scarlett.”

Part of me wants to argue for the sake of it. I don’t like to defer to anyone about anything. But a bigger part of me wants to listen—craves the dominance Crew commands so easily.

Silently, I listen. He doesn’t walk around to the other side of the cab. I realize he’s waiting for me to slide over. There’s something normal about it, so different from the limo rides we’ve shared in the past. I slide, feeling the fabric of my dress bunch up around my thighs as I glide across the leather. Crew pays more attention to my bare legs than he did to the tennis match.

“Where are we going?” I ask as the car begins to move.

“You’ll see,” is all he says.

I focus on the scenery passing by. We drive by the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe. When the car stops, it’s by an even more iconic landmark.

I look at Crew. “Seriously?”

“Yep. We can send a photo to your mom to prove we went sight-seeing.”

At that, I smile. Reluctantly. Crew pays the driver, and we join the long line of people walking toward the Eiffel Tower.

“Have you climbed it before?” Crew asks as we walk.

“No,” I admit.

“Me neither.”

Crew navigates us to the one ticket window without a long line. I stare up at the wrought-iron lattice tower as he buys our tickets. Minutes later, we’re approaching the start of the steps. Crew is studying the map he took from the ticket window. It’s annoyingly adorable.

All of a sudden, he stops walking. “Shit.”

I stop too. “What?” I glance around, trying to figure out what’s wrong.

When I look back at Crew, he’s staring at me with wide, worried eyes. “You’re scared of heights.”

I stare back at him, shocked that he remembered. Then I smile. “It’s okay. As long as we’re not parachuting when we get to the top, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” He still looks concerned. “We can go do something else.”

It’s going to be a real challenge to see Crew as cold and callous ever again. “I’m sure. It’s more of a control thing. I have more faith in the Eiffel Tower staying upright than I did in that one rope at the rock gym keeping me in the air.” I don’t share the other difference between that outing and today’s: the state of my relationship with Crew.

Crew starts walking again. “Okay. Stairs or elevator?”

I wore flats today. Even if I hadn’t, I still would answer, “Stairs.”

He grins. “That’s my girl.”

I know he doesn’t mean it literally—at least I don’t think he does—but the words still send a silly thrill through me. Butterflies flock in my stomach like the most popular guy in school just handed me his letterman jacket to wear.

As we climb, more and more of Paris is spread below us. I spot Parc de Belleville and Champ de Mars. We reach the first observation deck and start up the second set of stairs.

“Do you work out?” I ask, halfway up the third flight.

Crew laughs. “Your pick-up lines need work.”

I roll my eyes because I’m too short of breath to scoff. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I do. You have a private gym, you know.”

“I know. I just don’t use it.”

“Yeah, I realized that when I cleared an inch of dust off the treadmill.”

I smile. “Bullshit. Martha would never let that happen.”

“Fine. It was more like a quarter inch.”

“When do you work out?”

He slants a glance my way. “After you leave. I work out, shower, eat breakfast, and then head into the office.”

“Why after I leave?”

His eyes are still on me. Mine stay straight ahead.

“You try to avoid me. I’m not going to make it more difficult for you.”

“I left for work at seven before we got married.”

I dance around what he’s really saying, and he doesn’t press the point.

We reach the next landing. Crew pauses. I halt too, watching as he grabs the railing with one hand and grabs his ankle with his other. He balances on one leg and bends the other back.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have an old knee injury. Just need to stretch for a minute.”

“A knee injury from what?”

“I played football in high school.”

I snort. “Of course you did. The patron sport of jerky jocks everywhere.”

“That’s awfully judgmental.”

“I am awfully judgmental.”

“Yeah.” He smirks. “I’ve noticed.”

I don’t like the familiar way he’s looking at me. And I like it too much. “So what happened?”

“Huh?”

“Your knee. What happened to it?”

“Oh. Chris Jenkins hit me with an illegal tackle junior year. I twisted a tendon, and it still flares up sometimes.” He shakes his head with a smile. “Asshole.”

“Is there film footage of you getting knocked on your ass?”

“No.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“I think you’ll never know.”

“You should have played a non-contact sport in high school. Like…crew, maybe?”

He laughs. And it’s not a laugh I’ve heard from him before. It’s a warm, rough, masculine sound that feels like standing in front of a fire drinking hot chocolate. A comforting burn. “Pretty proud of yourself for coming up with that, Red?”

I smile. “A little.”

We climb the final few flights in silence. If Crew’s knee is still bothering him, he doesn’t say anything about it. He keeps up with me easily as we reach the top observation deck and glimpse Paris spread out in front of us.

“Wow.” I’m used to closing off my emotions and reactions. I’m always ready with a right answer or a snappy retort, never caught off guard or confused. Never appreciating where I am or what I’m doing. It’s exhausting, and a guard I usually only let down when I’m alone.

I never expected to be myself around Crew Kensington. I’ve seen plenty of people navigate arranged marriages with minimal interaction. I expected us to be no different. It’s disconcerting, realizing we might be. That I like him. Might have chosen to marry him even if his net worth was half of what it is—or nonexistent.

A couple of girls who look like they’re in college ask Crew to take a picture of them. I lean against the railing and eyeball their interaction. Everywhere we go, Crew seems to command female attention. The women at Proof, Hannah Garner, Olivia Spencer, the blonde tennis player.

It’s not that I don’t see Crew’s appeal—I do. It’s that I’m torn. Staking a claim—admitting my attraction—comes with risks. Once I lay down my metaphorical cards, that’s it. I’ll have skin in the game. And it will get rubbed raw when Crew cheats.

For all the attention he gets, I’ve never seen him flirt with a woman. At most, he seems to allow women to flirt with him.

Even now, with two pretty girls in their early twenties drooling over him, he seems uninterested. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t look at them the way he was just looking at me. I wish I could blame the happy feeling on the fact I’m standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower on a perfect summer day.

I think it has more to do with him.

Rather than continue spying, I look out at the city. There’s a light breeze that counteracts some of the summer heat, blowing my hair out of my face.

“Scarlett!”

I glance over to see Crew beckoning me over. I walk over to where he is standing with the two women. Neither of them appear thrilled by my appearance.

“This is Natasha and Blair,” he introduces. “They’re from New York too.”

“Awesome.” You could hear the fakeness in my voice from outer space.

I don’t have to see Crew’s smile; I can hear it in his voice. “Natasha goes to Parsons.” He looks to the lighter of the two blondes. “Scarlett is the editor-in-chief of Haute.” There’s an unmistakable note of pride in his voice that wreaks havoc on my nervous system.

“Oh my God! Really?” Suddenly, Natasha and Blair are looking at me with awe, not annoyance. “I love Haute. I read every issue cover to cover. The articles, the photography, the design? All my friends are obsessed with it.”

Each month, I get the number for Haute’s circulation. I judge the success of the magazine on how much money it is making and which models or actresses want to be featured on the cover. But I’ve never seen the hero worship on someone’s face as they realize I approved every page.

“Can you sign this?” Natasha pulls a worn copy of the July issue out of her bag and holds it out to me, along with a pen.

“Um, sure.” I take the pen and scribble my signature just below the bold font spelling out Haute.

Natasha takes the magazine back like it’s a priceless treasure.

“Would one of you mind taking a photo of us?” Crew asks, holding his phone out.

I’m surprised but I try not to show it. Aside from our wedding photos, we don’t have any together. I didn’t think he would want any.

Blair takes Crew’s phone as he pulls me toward the railing. I trip over nothing and slam into his chest.

“If you wanted to stand this close, all you had to do was ask,” he whispers as he pulls me to him. I smile as his arms tighten around my waist, pinning me against him.

“Got it,” Blair announces. Without looking, I know what moment she captured.

Crew thanks her and we say goodbye before moving farther down the observation deck. I snap a few photos of the view while Crew fiddles with something on his phone.

“Do you not have an Instagram?”

“What?”

“There’s a Scarlett Ellsworth, but I seriously doubt you posted this.” He shows me the screen of his phone. It’s a photo of me walking down the street talking on the phone.

“What the hell?” I grab his phone and squint at it. The photo got forty-three thousand likes.

Crew takes his phone back. “So, no?”

“Technically, I run Haute’s account, but I have someone who posts content for me.”

He smirks as he types. “Of course you do. I’m not tagging a fashion magazine.”

“Tagging in what?”

“I’m posting the photo of us.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. Why? is the only response I can think of. Then I come up with a worse one. “Does Hannah Garner follow you?”

“I don’t know; I’ve never checked. Why?”

When I muster the courage to meet his gaze, his eyes are dancing with mirth he’s not even attempting to hide. “You know why,” I mutter.

He grins. “Want me to check? Block her?”

“No.” I start walking toward the exit.

It takes us half the time to walk down the stairs that it did to climb up. Once we’re back on solid ground, Crew leaves for the restroom. As soon as he’s out of sight, I open the Instagram app on my phone and search for his name. Despite the fact he’s only posted a handful of photos, he has millions of followers. The photos are mostly of scenery: Copenhagen and London and New York City. A couple feature the two guys from his bachelor party, Asher and Jeremy. One was taken in Boston; I recognize the bar from college.

And then there’s the photo of us he just posted. I bite my bottom lip when I see what he wrote as the caption. Exploring Paris with the most beautiful woman in the world. She outshines all the sights.

I scroll down through some of the comments. A good number of them are suggestive ones involving Crew. Those don’t surprise me. The ones that do are the ones that read gorgeous couple and you guys look so happy and marriage goals. I tap back on the photo, trying to scrutinize the image the way a total stranger would.

We do look happy. We’re both smiling. I know mine wasn’t forced, and Crew’s doesn’t look like it was either. His arms are wrapped around my middle and his chin is resting on the top of my head. Thriving greenery and stone monuments are obvious in the background behind us. I search his followers and learn Hannah is one of them. A petty part of me is pleased.

“Ready to go?”

The sound of his voice startles me. “Yep.” I slip my phone back into my bag.

“You’re free until dinner?” Crew confirms as we cross the lawn and head back toward the street.

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you dying to go back to the hotel and do work?”

For once, I’m not. I try not to read into the realization. “Not if you make me a better offer.”

Crew shoots me a shocked look that I’m not certain is entirely exaggerated. “Something can trump work for you?”

“Shut up.” I shove his shoulder. “I’m not that bad.”

“You’re worse. But I respect it. Anyone who says you’ve had everything handed to you…they’re wrong, Scarlett.”

“You were handed to me.” I point out.

He stops and pulls me to the side of the walkway so quickly I crash into his chest again.

I step back like he scalded me.

Crew grins, but it disappears quickly. “Just to be clear, there are times I disagree with my dad. I argue with him. I don’t listen to him. Those moments don’t make it into the press. They aren’t on display in public. I get why you think I’m Arthur Junior. But I’m not, Scarlett. When I step up as CEO, I’ll make changes to the company. I could have married Hannah, or some other woman. I could have married anyone. I married you, Scarlett. That means something, even if you want to pretend that it doesn’t.”

“Okay.” Honestly, I no longer view Crew as an extension of his father. I only wish I did. It would make a lot of things easier.

Crew sighs like my answer is a disappointment. “Okay.”

I clear my throat. “Uh, can you send me the photo?”

“What?”

“The photo of us. Can you send it to me?”

Surprise flashes across his face. “Yeah. Sure.”

We start walking again. My phone vibrates with a message as we reach the sidewalk. Crew heads for the line of taxis while I wait. I check my phone and see the photo came through from him. It’s the first message he’s ever sent me.

I text the photo to my mom. It’s the first photo in our chain of messages, mostly ones she sent me related to the wedding that I never responded to.

I tuck my phone away and walk over to where Crew is standing.

“He needs to know where we’re going,” he says, nodding toward the driver.

“Versailles?” I suggest. I’ve been before, but it’s been years.

Crew’s smile is blinding. “That sounds a lot like sight-seeing.”

“I heard you love sight-seeing.”

He smiles. “Is it a better offer?”

I nod. “Let’s go.”

Jacques is already seated at the table when we enter the restaurant. Our trip to Versailles ate up most of the afternoon. I fully intended to head back to the hotel and change before dinner, but there wasn’t time.

Not that it matters. Jacques is far more focused on Crew than what I’m wearing.

I get a cursory greeting before he starts bombarding Crew with questions. I mouth told you at Crew when he glances at me. His answering smile makes my insides feel like shaken champagne.

Today has been wonderful and terrible. I’ve thought about starting my own fashion line since college. This trip is the culmination of years of planning. Haute served as an unplanned springboard to making connections in the fashion industry that made rouge more attainable.

A clothing line might be a pursuit most people look down upon. It’s not as refined as finance or any Wall Street dealings. My father certainly thinks it’s shallow and silly.

But that’s the beauty of dreams: they’re yours. No one else’s. You don’t need permission or justification to pursue them. You can give them relevance and importance and meaning all by yourself.

Unfortunately for my heart, Crew doesn’t seem to share my dad’s opinion. Between strolling the gardens and wandering the halls of the palace, he asked me questions about rouge and listened to the answers.

Either he’s extremely dedicated to getting me into bed, or he actually cares how I spend my time, energy, and money.

I spend most of dinner studying him. This is the first time I’ve seen Crew in what isn’t his element. He’s not here to pursue a deal for Kensington Consolidated. I doubt he knows much, if anything, about the fashion industry. Jacques isn’t someone he’d have common acquaintances with.

And yet, he’s thriving. Charming. This was meant to be a business dinner. Every meal I shared with Jacques during my last trip here was spent brainstorming or flipping through sketches. Tonight, there’s no sign of the manic energy usually buzzing around him like a swarm of bees, tossing out ideas at the speed of light. Jacques is relaxed and laughing. So is Crew. I’m the interloper growing more and more annoyed as they chat like old friends instead of strangers.

This is my trip. My endeavor. My domain. Our lives were supposed to stay separate. Suddenly, they’re so entangled I can’t look past him.

I excuse myself and head to the restroom after we finish eating, not even sure they’ll notice my disappearance. After I’ve used the bathroom, I linger at the sink, dabbing my face with a paper towel and checking my teeth for food.

When I open the restroom door, Crew is leaning across the opposite wall with his arms crossed.

“I know your French isn’t great, but you’re not blind. The stick figure wearing a dress means this is the women’s restroom. Men’s must be down there.” I jerk my head to the left, where the hallway extends. On a scale of one to bitchy, I’m at an eleven.

He says nothing at first, which is the worst possible response. Crew has become the one person I can rely on to challenge me. I crave that from him, more than financial security or fidelity. I want him to see me as an equal and as a partner—because that’s the way I see him. The muscles of his jaw shift as he visibly clenches it, holding in whatever he was going to reply with. I wait, and it spills out. “What the fuck, Scarlett?”

The question is basically spat at me. I want to smile, but I don’t. “What the fuck what, Crew?”

“I can’t win with you. No matter what I do. I came here to support you. And I watch tennis for hours and try to get to know you and make small talk with your—I don’t even know what Jacques does for you—and you act like I’m in your way!”

He’s too good. At all of this. I know how to play the game of secrets and lies and deceit. Of betrayal and sweeping mistakes under the rug. I know how to handle the Crew I talked to at Proof, who looked at me with total indifference. The guy who would greet me with a perfunctory, bland You look nice and then ignored me for the rest of the night. I’m not equipped to handle the Crew who came here to support me. Who makes me feel special—same as he does with everyone else. He’s the sun and I’m Icarus, after he learned his lesson.

“I didn’t ask you to do any of that!” I snap. “I didn’t ask you to come. I didn’t want you to come.”

He shakes his head. Laughs. Scoffs. “If this is you trying, I can’t imagine how you’ll act when you’re about to file for divorce.”

I don’t react to them, but I feel the words hit me like a physical slap. I meant it when I told him I’d try. He’s staining that moment, that memory, dragging it through this ugly argument. I spent all afternoon trying. If I hadn’t, I would have been holed up in the hotel working. Ignoring each other except to exchange insults wasn’t tenable. Neither is the happy couple we pretended to be today. I’ll always have one foot out the door—always be waiting for him to turn into some version of my father—focused on nothing but keeping the keys to the kingdom.

Crew told me he could have married someone else earlier. We both know why he didn’t. If my last name wasn’t formerly Ellsworth, he would have. He has qualities that can’t be bought, like charisma and charm. More to offer than a handsome face and a bank account trailing zeroes.

People genuinely like him. They indulge me because they know I can be a powerful friend and a ruthless enemy. Because I’ve found fear far more effective than love.

He wouldn’t have married me if not for an arrangement.

But I would have married him.

That realization is why I can no longer look at him. I study the stucco floor tiles instead. “I’m not going to file for divorce.”

Maybe the most honest sentence I’ve ever said to him. I won’t be the reason this marriage ends. Fails, maybe. But not the one who flags the dotted line to sign.

Not because my father would be furious I destroyed the future he arranged.

Not because I’d lose everything I gained.

Not because my other prospects would be dismal.

Because I’m selfish.

I want him and I don’t want anyone else to have him.

Crew pushes away from the wall, looming over me. For one wild, thrilling second, I think he’s about to kiss me. Force me to admit I do want him here. Instead, he turns to his right, toward the exit.

“You’re leaving?”

One eyebrow cocks infuriatingly as he glances back. “Using the restroom. Is that allowed, honey?”

The harshest word in the sentence is the sweetest. The honey slaps. Our nickname game was entertaining. But after hearing him call me Red with feeling, with genuine affection, honey just sounds insulting. I sigh, the fight draining from me as his bitter tone registers. That’s one of our many problems: one of us is usually in the mood to spar. “You can leave, if you want.”

I’m not only talking about the restaurant, and I know he realizes that when determination flashes across his face. “I’m not a quitter. For better or worse, Red.”

“I thought the only vow you meant was for richer.”

His lips twitch, his bad mood temporarily fading like the sun peeking out behind clouds. “You’re still wearing your sticker.”

“Huh?”

Crew steps forward and tugs the green admission sticker from Versailles off my dress. I snag it from his fingers before he can crumple it.

He watches me tuck it into my clutch with an unreadable expression. “It’s okay to care, you know.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Crew counters.

Then he leaves me standing here, gaping after him like a goldfish.

You wouldn’t know it’s summer based on the iciness in this car. The rest of dinner with Jacques went smoothly. Crew stayed quiet as Jacques and I went over everything that needs to get taken care of this week.

I hoped Jacques was oblivious to the tension simmering between me and Crew throughout dinner. But he whispered Amore is not easy, ma cherie in my ear as we said our goodbyes, making me think you might have needed to be blind and deaf not to notice we weren’t behaving like newlyweds. Jacques laughed at the scowl I answered his advice with.

After dinner, the driver drops us off back at the hotel. I stride across the marble lobby, not bothering to wait for Crew. I need some space. Unfortunately, his long legs carry him into the elevator mere seconds after me. The golden doors slide shut slowly, sealing us inside, and we begin to rise.

I expect him to talk, but he stays silent, leaning against the shiny metal wall and acting as though I’m not standing two feet away.

We arrive at the top floor of suites a couple of minutes later.

“You have my room key?” I ask when the doors open, annoyed I had to break the silence first. He was the one who checked us in. Unless I want to sleep in the hallway or pat him down like a police officer, I have no choice.

Wordlessly, Crew plucks a plastic rectangle from his pocket and hands it to me. I nod a thanks before I head toward the number emblazoned on the plastic. I hold the key against the sensor. It flashes green, allowing me inside. I shut the heavy door behind me and lean back against it for a moment. What a day. Parts—most—of it were good, which is bittersweet. I’ll remember his pissed-off posture in the car just now when I think of climbing the Eiffel Tower side by side. My fault.

I head deeper inside the plush suite, kicking off my stilettos with a heavy sigh that doesn’t release any tension. My bags have all been piled in the living room, next to unfamiliar luggage that should not be in here. I turn around at the same time as the door beeps again. Crew enters the room.

“What are you doing in here? I thought you had your own room.”

“There were none available,” Crew says breezily, pulling off his suit jacket and tossing it across the back of the gilded couch.

“You’re lying,” I inform him, crossing my arms.

“Am I?” He gives me an infuriating smirk.

“You’re not sleeping in here.”

“Why not? Worried you won’t be able to control yourself, Red?”

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. “I’ve controlled myself for the month we’ve been married. So no, I’m not.”

I expect him to bring up how loudly I moaned next to my parents’ pool. The only reason we didn’t have sex that night was because he didn’t have a condom and thinks I’m sleeping with a surgeon. Rubbing up against him wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of self-control. But instead of a reminder, all he says is, “Great. I don’t see what the problem is then.”

“You’re sleeping on the couch.” Fuck. I don’t negotiate. Ever.

Crew’s triumphant smirk is maddening. He untucks his shirt and starts unbuttoning it. Looks at the fancy Victorian-style sofa that appears about as soft as a wooden board. “The bed looks more comfortable.”

“I’m sure it is. If you want a bed—” Another suggestion to get his own damn room dies on my tongue as he discards his khaki shorts and strides to the bed in nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs. My mouth goes dry as he climbs in on the side of the bed I usually sleep on.

Golden skin rippling over defined muscles assaults my vision and hijacks my thoughts. He did most of the exploring the last time he was shirtless. I’m ogling and he appears indifferent, climbing into bed and rolling onto his stomach. He tugs a pillow under his head, closes his eyes, and that’s it.

No touching. No teasing. No taunting. No talking.

We feel like a married couple—fifty years in. Not a loving one who cherishes every moment they share. A resigned one where time together is a chore and at least one person always has somewhere they’d rather be.

I’m completely off-kilter, but if I protest more, it will essentially be admitting I can’t handle his proximity. That I’m affected by being near him while he’s unconscious. I am, but I would rather sleep on the floor than give him that information. Than give Crew the satisfaction of pushing me out of my bed—of winning.

I stomp over to my bags to retrieve my toiletry kit and pajamas. I make sure to slam the bathroom door shut behind me, well aware I’m acting like a petulant child. More than being annoyed with Crew, I’m pissed at myself. If I really wanted to, I could make him leave. I’m choosing to allow this because a part of me wants it. I can feel the cracks appearing in my walls. And I know it.

Worse? So does he.

I just won’t admit it—to him or to myself.

I wash my face and slather it with moisturizer. After I go through the rest of my evening routine, I slide out of the dress I’ve been wearing all day and pull a sleep set on.

Then I pad back out into the living room, tossing my white dress over the same couch where Crew abandoned his jacket. I continue into the bedroom. The lamp is still on, but Crew appears fast asleep, his back rising and falling steadily with each breath. I hover in the doorway, taking the rare opportunity to study him, the same as I did last time we shared a bed. Something I thought would be an infrequent occurrence.

I head to the left side of the bed and slip between the silk sheets. It’s a king size bed, but it feels tiny. Crew and I are nowhere close to touching, but I can feel the heat radiating from his side of the bed. Hear his rhythmic breaths. Instead of counting sheep, I’m thinking about having sex with him.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep.