Fake Empire: Chapter 7

The warm summer air is tinged with a hint of smoke when we step outside the restaurant. A slight breeze ruffles the hem of my dress and blows my hair back.

Jacques pauses to kiss both of my cheeks. “Magnifique, Scarlett,” he declares. Loudly enough, the group who exited ahead of us turns to look. “This line will be magnifique. A triumph.” He pulls me in for a hug. “You need anything—anything at all, you let me know, oui?”

“Oui.” I return the warm embrace. “Merci beaucoup.”

Jacques departs after a few more Frenglish phrases. My French is enough to get by, but I’m far from fluent. Jacques and I learned to communicate through a nonsensical mesh of the two languages while collaborating on my new label.

I loiter outside the bistro where we just ate dinner for a few minutes, debating whether to call a car or walk the few blocks to the hotel where I’ve been staying for the past two weeks.

“Want a smoke?” The question comes from my left, delivered in a thick French accent. I look over to see a blond-haired man leaning against the brick siding of the building. He’s wearing a leather jacket and holding a lit cigarette. I walk over to him, choosing my steps carefully on the cobblestones.

“I’m not a big smoker.” I abhor it, actually. It’s a gross, grimy habit I associate with the reckless and a disregard for personal hygiene.

Framed by the soft glow of streetlights and distant glimmer of the Eiffel Tower, it suddenly seems more sexy than repulsive. So does the lazy smile being flashed my way, paired with a slightly crooked nose and a jaw covered with a light layer of stubble. “I’m working on quitting,” he tells me.

“Seems like it’s going well.” I look pointedly at the gray smoke curling up from the orange tip and dissipating into the dark night.

He drops the cigarette and snuffs it out with a heavy boot. “I’m Andre.”

“Scarlett.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

“Merci.”

His eyes light up. “Parlez-vous français?”

“Je parle un peu français,” I admit.

Andre chuckles. “Your pronunciation is very good.”

“Thank you,” I reply. “I’ve been here for a couple of weeks. It’s improved.”

“Are you staying much longer?”

“No. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Headed where?”

“Home. New York.”

“The big fruit,” he declares.

I laugh. “Apple. Yeah.”

“Would you like a memorable final night?” The insinuation is obvious. In the way his body is angled toward mine. The smirk dancing on his lips.

I hesitate. When I approached him, this is exactly where I thought it would lead. We both know it. Now it’s on the table, and I’m undecided. The rings decorating my left hand suddenly seem heavier. I didn’t expect being married to feel any different. I signed a contract that happened to include a religious ceremony.

My loyalty to Crew can have conditions. I’ve been gone for two weeks. He’s probably had a rotating door of women coming through my penthouse. Growing up, I watched my mother send my father off on business trips with a travel safe, knowing full well he wouldn’t be traveling alone.

I promised myself I’d be different—wouldn’t be the fool who fell for the fairytale. But I angle away from Andre anyway. “All I was looking for was a cigarette.”

Andre’s hand sneaks into his jacket and emerges with a pack of them. He hands me one. “A smoker, after all?”

I shrug. “We all do things we know are bad for us, right?”

He holds a lighter out and flicks a flame to life. I hold the end of the cigarette out, letting the fire lick the paper until it ignites. “Your husband?”

I follow his gaze to the massive diamond resting on my ring finger. I could have taken it off as soon as my plane left the tarmac in New York. Instead, I’ve worn the symbols of my marriage every day I’ve been here. I’ve adjusted to the weight and the sparkles. If I ever do take them off, it will feel strange. My hand will feel naked. “No.”

“Pardon. I assumed…”

“Wrong,” I finish, taking a single drag of the cigarette before I drop and snuff it. The street is littered with them. “I should go.”

Andre says nothing as I walk away, trench coat swishing around my calves. I’m annoyed with myself. A fling with a Frenchman sounds perfect. It’s been weeks since I had sex. I can track it to one night, even. After Crew chased Evan away, I didn’t cast my metaphorical net out again. I turned down the two men who approached me later that evening. I knew I’d have the same problem with them that I would have had with Andre.

I’d pretend it was Crew kissing me. Touching me. I refuse to do that. It would be a concession of the worst sort. I’d rather be celibate than let one man fuck me while pretending he was someone else.

It would let Crew win in the worst way.

He only has as much influence over me as I allow him to have.

The street is crowded with chatter and laughter. I don’t stop at any of the rowdy bars I pass, which are all filled with Andres with arousing accents and smooth suggestions. The only spot I stop at is a wine shop on the same block as my hotel. I pick up a bottle of Bordeaux and carry it like a newborn into the lobby and up the stairs to the third floor.

My room is spacious, and yet I head out onto the tiny balcony that juts off the side of the hotel and overlooks the Seine. It’s barely large enough for the one chair out here. I kick off my heels, shed my coat, and use the corkscrew provided in the room to open the bottle. I rest my toes on the wrought-iron railing and stare at the city lights, occasionally taking sips of the tart wine.

I could be in Andre’s bed right now, having sweet nothings whispered in my ear in French and warm hands running across my skin. Instead, I’m quickly nursing the bottle equivalent of my third glass of wine. I’ll feel like shit in the morning.

My flight leaves early tomorrow, so I’ll be back in Manhattan by noon. I’ll likely have to face him before brunch with Sophie and Nadia the following morning.

It’s been complete and total silence from Crew since I left after the wedding. No asking if I landed safely. No wondering when I’m coming home. Nothing at all.

Exactly what I wanted—what I thought I wanted.

Instead, I think of him saying I’m not pretending. Recall the feel of his lips against mine. Chastise myself for doing both.

Crew is a cliff. Dangerous. Challenging. One wrong step could be catastrophic.

You’re stronger than this, Scarlett.

I’m not, though. Not when I’m alone with no chance of facing consequences. That’s confirmed when I slip my phone out of my pocket and log into the security app for my penthouse. It’s just past one a.m. here. Crew is reliably home by seven p.m. Earlier than I ever used to return. I wonder if his schedule will change once I’m back in New York. If he’ll avoid being in our shared home, the same way I will.

I flip through the cameras until I find him. He’s in the kitchen, talking to Phillipe. There’s sound but I don’t turn it on. I drink wine from the bottle and watch my husband—still bizarre to think, let alone say—talk to Phillipe while eating a plate of pasta. His suit jacket is off, but his tie is still on, hanging slightly crooked as he twirls pasta on his fork and smiles.

He’s home and alone.

I fall asleep watching him.

I missed Manhattan.

I didn’t realize how much until I step onto the tarmac outside the private wing of JFK. The sight of the skyline is an unexpected relief, like treating a wound you just realized was inflicted. My lungs fill with the scent of exhaust and wet cement. The commotion wakes me more than the espresso I downed on the plane.

A car is waiting. I climb inside and instruct the driver to take me to my office. Leah, my assistant, and Andrea, the head of my editorial section, both know the real reason why I spent the past two weeks in Paris. The rest of Haute’s employees know it was a work trip, just not as part of a new endeavor.

I’m going to need to delegate most of my responsibilities at either Haute or rouge—what I’ve decided to name my clothing line—but I haven’t decided how to handle either yet. Managing both might be possible once I have more of a design team in place for the clothing label. I’m happy to spend as little time at my penthouse as possible. Juggling two demanding roles is a certain way to accomplish that.

My arrival back at the office causes a stir. I stride past the cubicles and down to my corner office, half-listening to Leah as she trots beside me, spouting off everything I’m supposed to handle today.

I feel like shit. I changed out of a wrinkled sundress on the plane, into the tight sheath dress I’m wearing now. The stiff fabric feels constrictive. My head is pounding and my limbs feel heavy. Three hours of sleep and most of a bottle of wine might not have been setting myself up for success today.

Crew’s fault.

Two weeks away from him were supposed to settle me. Remind me of how little my life has changed and that my priorities haven’t shifted. Scarlett Kensington can be the same person as Scarlett Ellsworth was.

Three thousand six hundred and twenty-five miles sounded like a lot. Sounded like plenty of distance.

They weren’t.

I thought about him. While I was attending photoshoots. When I was picking out fabrics. As Jacques was showing me sketches. Last night, when I went home alone.

Leah keeps talking. Rather than admit I haven’t been paying much attention, I tell her I have to make a phone call. She scurries out of my office, shutting the door behind her and leaving me in silence. I sink down into my desk chair and lean forward to massage my temples. For the first time since taking over Haute, I don’t want to be here.

I want to go home. Not out of wifely obligation or because I missed sleeping in my own bed. I want to get seeing him over with. The anticipation is worse than anything he might say or do. A couple of months ago, I’d expect him to act entirely indifferent to my departure and return.

Now I don’t know what to expect. It’s annoying and nerve-wracking.

I shake a Tylenol out of the container I keep in my top desk drawer and swallow it. Even if I went home right now, Crew wouldn’t be there. He’s been returning to the penthouse reliably at seven, although that might change, now that I’m back. I know Leah gave his secretary my travel itinerary. If he wanted to, he could have known the second my jet’s wheels hit the tarmac. But that would suggest a level of interest in my whereabouts I don’t think he has. His behavior before and during our wedding was probably a novelty.

Crew may have experience with women. He doesn’t have experience with a wife.

That title comes with weight, even in an arrangement like ours. And I know I’m complicating matters by withholding sex. If I had already slept with him, that would have been that. By waiting, I’m giving it significance. Importance. Maybe even meaning. My intentions for waiting were to achieve the opposite.

If I’d stayed for our wedding night, I would have had the sound of him promising to honor and cherish and love me running through my head while he was inside me. I needed time to establish emotional distance before I allow the physical distance to disappear.

At least, that’s what I told myself at the time. I’m no longer certain it will make any difference at all.

I stare out at the New York skyline until my head stops pounding. Then I stand and head into an endless slew of meetings. Everything I have to approve—which is everything—has stacked up during my absence. Photo format and models and photographers and products and samples and articles.

When I’m finished with the final batch of approvals, I ask Leah to order me lunch from the cafe down the street and head back to my office. A familiar figure is waiting on the couch in the seating area just outside the door.

I sigh, my headache returning in full force. “Hi, Mom,” I greet when I reach her.

“Scarlett.” Her green-brown irises skate over my appearance with a discerning eye.

I got dressed on an airplane, but she won’t find anything to critique. “What are you doing here?”

She’s only visited me at Haute once before. My father threw a small fit after I purchased the magazine without his permission—not to mention money—and my mother is skilled at self-preservation. I don’t blame her for deferring to my father; Hanson Ellsworth is a formidable opponent. I promised myself a long time ago I would never defer to my future husband the way my mother has always acquiesced when it comes to my father.

“I wanted to see how married life is treating you.”

“It’s fine.” A query that would be easier to answer if I’d actually seen or talked to Crew since our wedding.

“Hmmm.” Something in my mother’s voice makes me think she might know that already.

I didn’t tell her or my father about my trip to Paris, but I wouldn’t put it past her to dig it up. As far as my father is concerned, I’m Crew’s problem and responsibility now. But my mother is the ringleader of the New York gossip circuit. Nothing happens on this island without her hearing about it.

I break the pointed silence. “Was there anything else, Mom? I’ve got a lot of work to get done.”

“No, nothing else. Let’s get lunch next week. I’ll have your secretary set something up.”

“Fine.” I agree, knowing arguing will be pointless.

My mother pauses. “You chose well, Scarlett.”

I sigh. “Chose what well?”

“Crew.”

The sound of his name hits me unexpectedly. I tell myself it’s because I wasn’t expecting that to be her response. “We both know he wasn’t a choice, Mom.”

“We both know you’ve never gone through with a thing you didn’t want to, Scarlett.” She raises both of her perfectly manicured brows, as if daring me to disagree with her. I tell myself I don’t because it doesn’t matter what she thinks.

“I’ve got a lot of work to get done…”

“All right, all right, I’ll get going. Just—he’s your chance, Scarlett.”

I tell myself not to answer. For the third time, my brain doesn’t listen. “My chance for what? I already have everything I need.”

“Your chance for happiness, sweetheart.”

I scoff at that, then glance at Leah’s desk. She’s trying very hard to act like she’s not listening to this conversation. “Crew Kensington? He’s…he’s a means to an end. Nothing more. Treating this like the business relationship it is will make me happy.”

My mother purses her lips, but she doesn’t argue. I’m used to her small bursts of maternal concern buried between critiques and strict instructions. “You’ll be in the Hamptons for the Fourth next weekend, right?”

Shit. How is that already next weekend? My parents throw a massive party at their house in the Hamptons for the Fourth of July every year. I’ve been dreading it more than usual ever since I learned I would already be married to Crew by the beginning of July. We’ll be expected to act like the united, loving couple we aren’t for a couple of days.

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

“And Crew?”

I look away. “I assume so.” That sounds better than I’ll have my secretary ask his secretary.

The small shake of her head makes it clear that’s not the answer my mother was looking for, but she doesn’t comment further before she turns and leaves.

Rather than head into my office once she disappears, I walk toward the kitchenette around the corner. I pull a sparkling water out of the fridge and carry it into my office, pressing the cold glass bottle against my forehead as soon as I’m out of sight from the rest of the floor. I take a seat at my desk and spin around so I’m staring out at the skyline. My vision blurs as my focus disappears, turning the sharp angles into a jumble.

Home feels different now.

Three hours later, I leave my office. Leah looks up as soon as the door opens, ready for a request or a question. Instead, I tell her, “I’m headed out for the day.”

If she’s trying to mask her shock, she’s doing a poor job of it. Her coffee almost gets upended and sticky notes go flying as she struggles to comprehend my statement. “You’re—I mean, you’re—it’s—” Leah glances at the clock on her computer, as if I’m unaware it’s not even five p.m. yet.

“I have some personal business to take care of. I’ve been gone for a while.”

“I—sure, of course.”

Despite the fact I’m feeling worse instead of better, I manage a smile. “I have a life outside this office, Leah.”

That makes her panic more. “Of course you do. I didn’t mean—I… Please don’t fire me.”

I laugh, then wince as my head gives a particularly painful throb. “I’ll be back in first thing tomorrow.”

Leah nods. “Before you go…”

I pause. “Yes?”

“Your, uh, your husband’s secretary called earlier. While you were in the meeting with Lilyanne Morris.”

“And?”

“She called about the Rutherford gala for the children’s hospital on Friday. Mr. Kensington is requesting you attend with him.”

“Fine.”

Leah looks relieved by my answer. “Okay. I’ll let Celeste know.”

“No need. I’ll handle it.” I’ll have to talk to Crew eventually. It might as well include a conversation about how we’ll handle our joint social calendar.

Leah very obviously wants to ask me what I mean by that, but doesn’t. I want my employees to feel comfortable approaching me, but I don’t invite or indulge speculation about my personal life. That policy has been more difficult to enforce as of late, for obvious reasons. I let the news coverage inform my employees of my hasty engagement and marriage.

Telling someone something invites an opinion on it.

I say goodbye to Leah and head for the elevators, texting my driver to let him know I’m leaving. Twenty minutes later, I climb out of the car and walk into my building to take another elevator up to the top floor.

When the doors open, exhaustion hits me so fast I feel dizzy. This penthouse has always been a safe space for me—somewhere I can be Scarlett. Not poised or prepared or professional or anything anyone expects from me. I resent Crew for taking that sanctuary away from me.

Around him, I feel the compulsion to be perfect, more so than I’ve ever felt with anyone else. I care what he thinks of me. I can’t genuinely say that about anyone else, even my parents. It’s a problem—one I don’t have the energy to think about right now. Especially since he doesn’t appear to be here. There’s nothing indicating he ever has been.

I’m not sure why I expected my home to look different—but I did. I thought there would be some obvious evidence a man lives here now. Maybe boxers on the floor or a tie draped on the couch or a strip of condoms on the coffee table. There’s nothing. Not even a water stain on the teak coffee table I picked out. The tidiness is really all I absorb before I flop face-first onto the white couch. It’s uncomfortable, having my face smushed against the cushions. The construction crew hammering away at my skull isn’t all that relaxing either. I’m too uncomfortable to fall asleep and too comfortable to move upstairs.

I must fall asleep, though, because when my eyes blink open, I’m no longer alone. At first, I think the shadowy figure must be Phillipe or Martha. Then, I realize it’s too broad and tall to be either my chef or my maid. Recognize the way my traitorous heart starts beating faster for no good reason at all. I’m lying down—no exertion in sight.

“Rough trip?” Crew asks. The low, rough timbre of his voice washes over me, temporarily taking care of the headache. Adrenaline erases exhaustion. I forgot how stupidly symmetrical his face is.

I groan in response. My head still hurts. My throat is dry and my muscles feel stiff. “I feel like shit.”

“I gathered.” There’s a dry note to his voice that makes me think I must look as terrible as I feel. I shouldn’t care. I do. Crew Kensington is the last person I want to exhibit any sort of weakness in front of.

He approaches me hesitantly, like I’m a rabid animal likely to attack. If I could move my head, I would. I’d stand up and go far, far away. Somewhere I can’t smell him and sense him and see him. I close my eyes, like shutting off that sense will help. “I just need a minute before going upstairs. Go…do whatever. Have a drink in the library like usual.”

“How would you know what my usual is?”

Crap. Shit. Fuck. I keep my eyes closed and hope my face doesn’t say I browsed the security footage instead of watching Netflix while I was in Paris. “You’re just predictable, I guess.”

Crew hums. It’s an infuriating sound that gives no indication of whether or not he believes me. I consider opening my eyes and decide I’d rather not know what he’s thinking. A warm palm presses against my forehead. I flinch. The physical contact is unexpected. So is the gentle way his hand brushes my hair off my face. My skin prickles, reacting to his touch even after it disappears.

“How long have you been like this?”

“I don’t know. I’m hungover or tired or jetlagged or all three. The couch was closer than my bed. I haven’t left the office before five…ever.”

The last sentence isn’t necessary. I feel some strange compulsion to justify the fact I’m splayed out on the cushions like a starfish while it’s still light out. To prove I don’t sit back and collect a paycheck. Once again, I shouldn’t care. But I do. I care that my mascara must be smudged and my hair matted, and my work ethic appears questionable.

Crew doesn’t reply. Then, suddenly, I’m not lying horizontal on the couch. I’m weightless—at least that’s how it feels at first. A few seconds later, I’m rocking. I focus on the solid press of his chest and arms. My head isn’t appreciative of the movement. The rest of my body embraces the sensation of Crew carrying me. But I protest anyway. “What the hell are you doing?”

“How out of it are you? I thought it was obvious.”

I’m not out of it at all anymore. I wish I were. Every sensation I’m experiencing right now are ones I’m fully present for. Worse, I’ll be able to remember this later. The way he smells good and feels even better. The press of a metal band against the skin of my thigh that symbolizes he belongs to me in a way many people would consider permanent.

I clear my throat. “This is sort of sweet of you, but I’m fine.” I pack as much conviction into the last word as I can muster.

“I think that couch would disagree.”

Crew starts up the stairs. I stop arguing. If he’s going to be stubborn about it, I’m best off pretending this is no big deal. Like I let men carry me bridal style all the time.

He turns to the right as soon as we reach the top of the steps and heads straight into my bedroom. “You explored?” The question comes out dry. There are seven guest bedrooms, minus the one he’s claimed as his own. This wasn’t just a lucky guess.

“What’s yours is mine, baby.”

“Don’t call me that,” I mumble. The heat of his body is seeping into mine, and it’s making me sleepy. Sleepier. I haven’t slept well in weeks. Before I left for Paris, I was riddled with nerves about the wedding. In Paris, I worked late and was woken up early by the market underneath my balcony. I’m the sort of tired that blurs reality. I wouldn’t be shocked if I wake up on the couch in an hour to learn this was a dream.

Rather than dump me on the bed, Crew carries me into the attached bathroom and sets me down on the marble that surrounds the tub. “What are you doing?” I question.

He doesn’t answer. Either with an explanation or by telling me I’m asking the obvious again. It is obvious when he starts the tap running and dumps in an assortment of the salts and soaps from the glass containers set along the windowsill. Steam starts to rise from the water, swirling with the fragrant scents of rose and eucalyptus and steadily building bubbles.

Once the tub is filled, Crew shuts the water off and pulls me standing. I’m worried I might fall asleep mid-bath. I’m far more concerned this sweet gesture might make me say or do something very stupid.

Crew’s eyes hold mine hostage as he reaches behind me and tugs at the zipper of my dress. I feel the back gape open and slide down. He pulls the fabric over my shoulders. With a quiet whoosh, the silk hits the floor, leaving me standing in my bra and underwear. He doesn’t drop his gaze. Blue burns me, roots me in place.

His touch is clinical and detached. Neither hand lingers as he unsnaps my bra and lowers my thong. In seconds, I’m naked before him.

“Do you need me to get you anything?” He holds eye contact, not looking lower.

“I…” I clear my throat and shake my head. “I’m good.”

Arousal is a better stimulant than caffeine. I’m no longer worried about falling asleep and accidentally drowning. I’m standing in front of him, totally naked, while he’s completely dressed. After he ran me a bath. And Crew is acting like all of this is a normal occurrence.

“I’ll be having a drink in the library if you need me.” There’s no missing the teasing in his tone. I hope it’s because I called him predictable and not because he suspects I spent nights in Paris spying on him.

“Okay.” The word flies out fast.

He needs to get out of here. Before I find out how serious he was about the begging. Before I beg.

Crew disappears, closing the bathroom door behind him. I climb into the tub, letting the hot water envelop my body inch by inch until I’m accustomed to the temperature. It feels like heaven. The steam clears my head and the warmth chases away the long day of travel followed by work.

I sit in the tub until the water starts to cool. Once it’s tepid, I climb out and pull on a silk robe, not bothering to dry my hair or brush it. When I walk back into my bedroom, there’s a glass of water on the table next to the bed. Along with a bottle of Tylenol. I stall in place for a few seconds, unexpected emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

After taking two pills, I slip between the cool sheets and immediately fall asleep.