Fake Empire: Chapter 23

Iwake up alone. Crew’s side of the bed is empty and cold. If he came home last night, he didn’t sleep next to me. I tossed and turned most of the night, so I’m confident I would have heard him come in. The realization he didn’t creeps in slowly, with plenty of other doubts I try to push aside.

I shower, then dry my hair and apply a light layer of makeup. Enough to cover the dark circles below my eyes and, of course, some red lipstick.

Armor feels especially important today. I pull on a pair of black tights and a gray sweater dress. It’s off-the-shoulder and loose without being baggy, camouflaging my small bump. At this point, my pregnancy is somewhat of an open secret. I doubt anyone I work with has missed the fact that I stopped drinking coffee, walk around carrying a granola bar, and occasionally run to the bathroom at inopportune times. Despite how strained our relationship is, it feels strange to tell my employees I’m pregnant before my own father. He was sleeping when I visited him yesterday, which was honestly a relief. My father and I don’t have much to say to each other under the best of circumstances.

Before I head downstairs, I peek into the guest bedroom Crew slept in when he first moved in. It’s empty, the bed neatly made and unwrinkled.

I’m stunned by how harsh and hard the panic hits. I thought I’d be okay if things between me and Crew ever went south. There’s a saying: how you’ll never know how much you want something until it’s gone. That’s not how I feel. I already knew how much I want him. I didn’t know the pain of possibly losing him would feel this visceral, how I wouldn’t be prepared for falling apart.

So, I do what I always do. I shove the pesky emotions far down and go to work.

The office isn’t as busy as it would be on a normal Thursday, but it’s far from empty. Prep work for the February issue is in full swing, which has become my professional focus now that rouge has officially launched. Approving the groundwork—from the branding to the hiring—has given me some flexibility in how much time I spend juggling my two endeavors. So has the reality I’ll have to take a stretch of time off in a few months.

Leah approaches as soon as she sees me step out of the elevator. “Good morning!”

“Good morning.” My greeting is decidedly less cheery than Leah’s.

“I’m so sorry about your father.”

I sigh. “Thank you. He’ll be fine, we think.”

“Oh, good. How was your Christmas?”

“Could have been better,” I admit. “Yours?”

“It was nice. My parents are visiting.”

“You should go, then. I told you to take today off.”

“But you’re here.”

“I can manage. Just let me know…” I glance up to see Leah is no longer paying attention to me. She’s focused behind me, on something.

Someone.

I glance over one shoulder. Sure enough, Crew is stepping out of the elevator I left minutes ago, headed straight toward me.

Most of the time, Haute’s open layout is convenient. I can quickly assess who is at their desk. Different departments can collaborate.

Right now, it’s fucking inconvenient. More people than I realized were even in the office today are poking their heads out of cubicles and from behind partitions, straining to get a better look. When I’ve been the subject of office gossip before, it wasn’t firsthand.

Up until now.

This is primetime entertainment.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

He looks good. He always looks good. Freshly showered and clean shaven, and wearing a pressed, crisp suit tailored to fit him perfectly.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Now?” The condescending challenge in my voice would be enough to make most people shrink. Crew is not one of those people.

“Now.” His tone is one I haven’t heard directed at me in a while. Stern. Cold.

“I’m busy.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here.”

Crew makes a show of looking around the office. “Maybe there’s a meeting I could crash while I’m here? Interrupt during?”

I glare. He glares back. I spin on my heeled boots and stalk in the direction of my office, not waiting to see if he’s following. But he is. I feel his presence as soon as he steps inside my office, filling the confined space.

While he shuts the door, I shrug out of my wool peacoat and toss it on a chair. “Talk.”

I don’t miss how his eyes skim over my body. We haven’t had sex since we left Switzerland, the longest it’s been in a while. If he drowned his annoyances balls deep in another woman last night, it doesn’t look like it was very satisfying.

His gaze lingers on the framed photograph of us on my desk before he speaks.

“You’re mad.”

I snort. “I’m pissed, and I don’t have time for this. I have a lot of work to get done today.”

“Cut the shit, Scarlett. You were supposed to have this whole week off.”

“That was before I became the sole breadwinner in the family.” It’s a low blow, one I almost feel bad for.

Crew doesn’t even flinch. “Please, Scarlett. I just need to—”

“Nice suit,” I interrupt. “Did you sneak in after I left?”

“No. I kept some stuff at my old place. It’s closer to my office.”

“Contingency plan?”

He studies me. “Is this your way of asking where I slept last night?”

Yes. “No.”

He knows me too well.

“I was at my dad’s. On the couch in his study, if you want details.”

“I didn’t ask.”

Crew grips the back of one of the chairs that face my desk. “This mess with the feds…there’s some stuff there, Scarlett. He said it won’t stick, but I can’t make any promises.”

“Promises about what?” I question.

“You might not want your last name to be Kensington. It could affect Haute and rouge. Financially, or at the very least, you’ll get questions. I might not be the CEO of a successful company. Or a respected one. Right now, we’re bleeding money. That’s not what you signed up for.” I watch his lips tighten. His jaw muscles flex and shift. “So, I guess I’m asking… Do you want a divorce?”

I inhale sharply. “I can’t have this conversation right now, Crew. I’m at work! You can’t just—”

He steps forward, faster and closer than I’m expecting. “I know. But please, Scarlett. Just answer the question. I can’t… I’ve got to go meet with my dad. The lawyers. The board. And I can handle it. I will handle it.”

“Okay. What does that have to do with me?”

“I’ll fight harder if I have something to fight for.” He pauses. “Otherwise, I’d consider walking away. I’d take Royce Raymond up on his offer, if it wasn’t in LA.”

I tilt my head to see his face better. “You told me the job was here.”

“I lied. I wanted your honest opinion, and I knew California would tip the scales. It’s not an option now though, obviously, with the baby.”

“The baby,” I repeat. “So, what? I’m worth fighting for until I’m no longer a human incubator? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I—God, no! Don’t twist what I’m saying. This is exactly what you did last night.”

“Last night. Right. When you accused me of downloading company documents for the sole purpose of blabbing about them to—”

“I didn’t accuse you of anything!” Crew shouts. “I asked, Scarlett. I found out who the leak was. You know him; I don’t. We’re a team. I was trying to—”

“If we’re a team, then maybe you should have trusted me. Maybe you should have believed me!”

“When did I not trust you? When did I not believe you?” Crew retorts.

My phone rings, shrill and loud. I hesitate, but I pick up the receiver. Only a few people have the direct number rather than going through Leah, suggesting it’s important. “Scarlett Kensington.”

“Hi, Scarlett. It’s Jeff. I’m looking through the proofs for the next issue, and I think that…” I tune him out. Crew leans forward and scribbles something on a pink sticky note.

He tilts the photo of us so it’s directly facing me, and then walks out of my office. Jeff, Haute’s head graphic designer, keeps talking. About image placement and positioning and presets.

I pick up the note and read what he wrote. If you decide to file, just have your attorney tell mine. I’ll be working late.

My gaze ping-pongs between the photo and the closed door.

Fuck. I fucked up.

“Jeff, I’m going to have to call you back.” Without waiting for a response, I hang up and run over to the door of my office. I scan the floor, but there’s no sign of Crew. Not in the kitchenette, not loitering by the elevators.

“Leah!” I rush over to my assistant, who’s standing by the main conference room, talking to Andrea. “Did you see Crew leave my office?”

“Um, yeah. A few minutes ago.”

“Where did he go?”

She shifts uncomfortably. “Um, he left.”

I swear. Loudly. Then keep walking until I reach the elevators. I bang on the down button a couple of times, hoping the doors will magically open. No such luck. That leaves the stairwell. I shove through the door, glad it doesn’t set off some alarm. Evacuating the whole building is not on today’s to-do list.

The long descent is spent deliberating on how far I should take this chase. If he’s not in the lobby—which I doubt, based on how many steps I still have to go—do I go to Kensington Consolidated? Barge in and do exactly what I just chastised him for? He’ll be home tonight, I assume. But then I think of the wording in his note. I’ll be working late. Not I’ll be home late. Not I’ll see you later.

Was that a deliberate phrasing?

Finally, I reach the ground floor and burst through the metal door. It takes me a minute to scan the lobby. To my surprise, he’s still here. Handing a badge back to a guard at the front desk.

And I’m hit with a whole new dilemma: what do I say? This was the furthest thing from a thought-out plan. Before I can second-guess, he spots me. Even from here, I can see his brow furrow.

I walk over, trying to get my breathing under control.

“How did you get down here so fast?”

“I ran down the stairs.” Ran sounds more impressive than panting and slipping.

“You ran? Why the fuck would you do that? You’re pregnant.”

I pin him with a flat stare. “Really? I had no idea,” I say sarcastically. “Women have run marathons while pregnant, Crew.”

He shakes his head. “Well? What are you doing down here? I thought you were so busy.”

“You left.”

“What you wanted, right?”

“No. I mean, yes, I wanted you to go. I’m annoyed and anxious and I try to keep my personal life totally separate from work, which is basically the opposite of yelling at each other in my office. But the answer to your question…it’s no. I don’t want a divorce.” I hold his gaze. “Better or worse, right?”

Relief floods his expression, smoothing the creases in his forehead. “Richer or poorer seems more fitting for the current situation. Stock dropped more this morning.”

I lift and lower a shoulder. “I promised both.”

“I won’t hold you to it. I won’t fight you on it.”

“I don’t want a divorce,” I repeat.

His eyes close for a minute before he shrinks the small gap between us. He cups my jaw and I’m treated to a heady dose of déjà vu. This feels like our first kiss.

The anticipation. The uncertainty. The possibility.

I grip the stiff fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

Crew brushes my hair back. Runs his thumb along my jaw. “This mess—it’s not about the money or the company or the scandal or my dad. It’s about you. It’s about being the guy that’s good enough to stand next to you. You were worried I wouldn’t see you as an equal—as a partner? I’m worried about the exact. Same. Thing.”

It’s so vulnerable, saying I love you to someone you choose to love. Love toward my parents was obligatory, stemming from the biological fact that without them, I wouldn’t exist and the opportunities their work allowed for. Love toward the baby I’m carrying is instinctual. He or she is my child, a tiny piece of me, my responsibility to protect and adore.

None of that applies to Crew.

I love him because I want to. Because he challenges me and confides in me. Supports and softens me. I know the moment he enters the room and the second he leaves.

He sighs when I say nothing. “I know I’m the one who barged in here and demanded to talk to you, but now I really do have to go. If it was just my dad, I’d make him wait, but it’s the whole board and most of the legal department. I’ll get home as early as I can tonight. Okay?”

I keep holding his shirt. Stay silent.

His forehead wrinkles. “Red—”

“I love you.” The words fall out of my mouth and hang between us.

And… Welp, there it is. I said it.

Awkward and unsure, I stare at Crew, waiting for him to react. Say something. Move. He’s stunned; that much is obvious. Eyes wide. Lips parted, like he was about to say something that no longer applies.

He clears his throat.

“You don’t have to say it back. It wasn’t, I didn’t, I—”

His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to look at him. He kisses me again, firm and warm and unyielding. It lingers on my lips with an invisible brand. Property of Crew Kensington. “I love you, Scarlett. So fucking much.”

“You do?” To my embarrassment, my voice wavers. I genuinely wasn’t sure if he did—does. It’s part of why I hadn’t said it until now. Not because I didn’t want to show my cards, but because I didn’t want him to feel like he had to.

His thumb swipes my cheek, caressing my face like it’s something precious. “Yeah,” he replies softly. “I do.”

Crew is looking at me like I’m all he’ll ever want. I let myself trust it. Cherish it. Believe it.

“Okay.” It comes out as a whisper.

“I’ll see you tonight.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, as unwilling to leave as I am to let him go.

Reluctantly, I nod.

He smiles. Shakes his head a little. Exhales. “Okay.” Then he drops his hand and walks away toward the glass doors separating the lobby from the street. I can see Roman standing outside, waiting next to the car. Crew pauses to say something to his driver before he climbs in the backseat and out of sight.

I turn back toward the elevator with a smile on my face. This time, it arrives quickly. I’m back in Haute’s offices in a couple of minutes, with plenty of curious looks being aimed my way. Me running into the stairwell isn’t a normal occurrence.

When I walk into my office, it takes a few moments of staring stupidly at my monitor before I remember I have work to do. I start shuffling through papers on my desk, trying to decide what to prioritize. I have to call Jeff back. A pink sticky note goes fluttering to the ground. I reach down to pick it up and freeze.

It’s the note Crew wrote. But the side I’m staring at is the sticky back. The side I didn’t think anyone wrote on.

Crew did.

And by the way, I love you. That’s what he wrote.

I stare at it for a minute, heart pounding. Then I pick up my phone and text him.

Scarlett: Who writes on the BACK of a sticky note???

Crew responds instantly. He must still be in the car.

Crew: I feel like that’s a rhetorical question.

Crew: Don’t feel bad I said it first.

Scarlett: You wrote it. Not the same thing.

Scarlett: I just saw it.

Crew: I figured that out halfway through our conversation, Red.

Scarlett: You were just going to drop the l-bomb and leave?!

Crew: Drop the l-bomb? How romantic.

Scarlett: Let me remind you the sentence started with “and by the way.” Hardly Hallmark material.

Crew: I’ll work on it.

Crew: I’m at the office.

Crew: I love you.

I smile like he can see me.

Scarlett: I love you too.

I take the pink sticky note and tape it to my monitor, back side facing toward me. And then I pick up the phone and call Jeff back.