Fake Empire (Kensingtons Book 1)
Fake Empire: Chapter 8

Her eyes widen she sees me. Barely, but I’m watching her closely enough to see the subtle shift in her face. Aside from her eyes, Scarlett’s expression remains sanguine. Two women are trailing her. One is typing frantically on her phone, probably taking notes. The other is balancing a tall stack of binders.

Scarlett’s steps don’t falter as she strides straight toward me. As they near, I can hear what she’s saying. “Hopkins should be booked for Thursday. Tell him I want two locations, preferably three. I handled the models already and all the samples from Chanel should be arriving on Monday. Tell Jeanette Richardson I need her piece on the wildlife foundation next week or she’ll be bumped until next year. Same with the travel feature. I’ll need final versions by Wednesday.”

She stops at my side. “Crew.”

“Scarlett.”

“Ready?”

“You’re not going to introduce me?”

Scarlett shoots me an annoyed look before turning back to the two women. “Crew, this is Leah, my main assistant.”

A petite woman with a blonde bob and black glasses gives me a small smile.

“And Andrea, my head of editorial content.”

“Lovely to meet you both.” I smile.

Andrea gives me an unimpressed look, while Leah looks away. Working with Scarlett has clearly rubbed off on them.

“I’ll be in the office tomorrow, if you need to reach me,” Scarlett says. Her tone is brisk. Both women hang on to every word. “Did you bring the Lorenzo sketches?” she asks Andrea.

Wordlessly, Andrea hands over one of the binders. Scarlett opens it and flips through a few of the pages. “Perfect. Good night.”

“Good night,” they both chorus, ignoring me. Whatever impression Scarlett has given them of me, it hasn’t been complimentary. And they’re loyal to her, the sort of loyalty that can’t be bought, only earned. It makes me admire her more, and there wasn’t a lack of it to begin with. She bought this flailing magazine and turned it into a thriving enterprise. I’m impressed. Proud—despite the fact I have no credit to claim. My sole contribution is that Scarlett seems set on spending as little time in my company as possible. If she’s actually spending the bulk of the time she’s not at the penthouse working, she’s logging ninety-hour weeks.

I move, straightening from the side of the limo I’ve been leaning against, and open the door. Andrea and Leah disappear back inside the building that houses Haute’s offices, leaving us on the bustling street.

“What a gentleman.”

“You’d think differently if you trusted yourself to be alone with me.”

Scarlett’s eyes flash as she slides onto the leather seat, arranging the blue organza so it covers up the flash of calf I just caught. The gown she’s wearing is off-the-shoulder with a sweetheart neckline that dips between the curves of her breasts. Standing while she sits offers one hell of a view.

“It has nothing to do with trust.”

I hum before shutting the car door and rounding the rear of the car to climb in the other side. As soon as my door shuts, the limo pulls out into traffic.

“Good day?”

She’s already started flipping through pages in one of the binders Andrea left her with. “Yeah. Fine.”

Stubbornly—stupidly—I press her. “What did you do?”

“More than fetch daddy’s coffee.”

Scarlett is trying to piss me off. Ever since the night she got back from Paris—when I carried her upstairs and demonstrated an incredible amount of self-control by not stealing a glimpse of her naked—she’s been prickly and combative every chance she’s had. I have a feeling if I’d come home to find her in heels and standing, not curled up on the couch, the animosity might be dialed down a notch. She’s definitely not indifferent toward me. I’m not sure if this is an improvement though.

I got up for a glass of water at three a.m. two nights ago. Scarlett was standing in the kitchen in her standard attire of a dress and heels, making a cup of tea. I haven’t seen her in jeans since my bachelor party, much less sweatpants or pajamas.

She’s already turned back to her binders, but I feel obligated to respond. “I’m the Vice President of—”

“I don’t care, Crew. Do whatever you want at work. Do whatever you want when you’re not at work. Just don’t tell me when I can or can’t work.”

“I didn’t tell you couldn’t work. I asked you about work, Scarlett.” I let some ire leak into my voice. Me being nice freaked her out. I can be short instead. “But let’s just sit in awkward fucking silence, same as we have every day since you got back.”

“Great. Let’s.” She flips a page so aggressively the corner tears.

I snort and look outside.

Tonight’s gala is being held on Carnegie Hall’s rooftop terrace. Our arrival attracts more attention than I’m expecting. This is our first official outing as a couple—much less a married one. Neither Scarlett’s parents nor mine are attending tonight, which makes us the sole representatives of New York’s two wealthiest families. Attention is something I’m used to. But the scrutiny feels different with Scarlett by my side. I battle the contrary urges to shield her and to step away.

Scarlett makes the decision for me. As soon as we’re inside, she snags a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and heads for a large group of giggling women. They accept her into the circle with ease, a few glancing back at me.

It shouldn’t surprise me. This is how we’ve acted at every other event we’ve both attended in the past. I doubt Scarlett considers any of the women she’s now chatting with to be friends, but you wouldn’t know it based on the way she’s laughing and nodding along to something one of them is saying.

I order a bourbon and start to make the rounds, beginning with the Rutherfords, who are hosting tonight. Donald Rutherford is the chair of the board at New York General Hospital. His wife, Jennifer, is an heiress involved with half a dozen charities around the city. I compliment them on the evening and hand Jennifer a check for the fundraiser before moving on and getting sucked into a conversation about upcoming events in the Hamptons.

My summers are spent in Manhattan. If I need an escape, I travel upstate or to Europe. Our Hamptons house is the only one of my family’s many properties that contains clear memories of my mother. I spend as little time as possible there. Being there with Candace and the current state of my relationship with my father and brother would be like spilling water on writing. I want to preserve my memories, not ruin them.

When Daniel Waldorf mentions the Ellsworth Fourth of July party next weekend, I realize I might not have much of a choice. Scarlett hasn’t brought it up to me, but there’s no way her parents won’t expect her—won’t expect us—to attend.

Daniel is describing his new sailboat to me when Hannah Garner sidles over to us. “Nice seeing you, Crew.”

Daniel smiles and bails, leaving me alone with Hannah.

She doesn’t spare Daniel a glance, assessing me with clear blue eyes. Hannah is probably the closest I came to willingly entering into a committed relationship. Her family is wealthy and well-connected—her father founded a sports agency that represents a whole host of athletes set to become future Hall of Famers. He also owns the Los Angeles Titans. Last fall, Hannah and I attended a game together. She deep-throated me during halftime. That’s how our involvement has always been, picking up when it was convenient and nonexistent when it wasn’t.

“Hello, Crew.” Her long, blonde hair is curled tonight. One piece dips between the valley of her breasts, pulling my attention to her cleavage. She smirks, tracking my gaze.

“Hannah,” I reply. “I didn’t realize you were in town.”

“I convinced Dad to let me handle some business. There’s a guy on the Mets he wants to sign.” She pauses. “I would have called…but you got married.”

There’s no mistaking the bite in the word, but I don’t owe her an explanation. “Were you at the wedding?” I’m guessing the Garners were invited.

Her whole expression tightens. “Couldn’t make it.”

“That’s a shame.”

“You never said a word.”

I sip some bourbon. “Would it have mattered, Hannah?”

“Scarlett Ellsworth? Really, Crew?”

“Kensington,” I correct. Hannah’s brow furrows. “Her name is Scarlett Kensington now.”

At that, she scoffs. “Changing her last name doesn’t change the fact she’s uppity and entitled, with the emotional capacity of an iceberg. You could have done better.”

The rush of anger takes me off-guard. Our sexual escapades aside, I consider Hannah a friend. I rode here next to evidence that Scarlett is cold and closed-off. But iceberg or not, she’s still my wife. I tighten my grip on the glass, allowing plenty of ire to infiltrate my voice. “Insult my wife again, and this will be our last conversation, Hannah.”

“Come on, Crew. No one expects you to be loyal to her. You married her for her money.”

Guests start filing inside the banquet room where dinner will be served. “Try me,” I tell her, then start to walk away.

Her hand grabs mine before I make it more than a couple of steps. “I’m here through Wednesday. Staying in my usual suite at The Carlyle.”

I shake her hand off and keep walking.

Scarlett is already seated at our assigned table when I enter the large hall. I say nothing as I take the chair beside her. Polite chatter echoes around us.

Her finger traces the rim of a champagne glass, filling some of the silence with a subtle hum. She sighs, then downs the contents with one final gulp.

“Thirsty?”

“Bored.”

“I’m finding the evening highly entertaining,” I reply, just to needle her.

“I’m sure you are,” she mutters, looking away at the stage.

She must have noticed me talking to Hannah. With any other woman, I’d think she was jealous. Since it’s Scarlett, I’m guessing she’s miffed I’m enjoying myself.

Jennifer Rutherford—the hostess tonight—appears on stage. Everyone still standing hurries to their seats as the crowd quiets. I zone out as she starts speaking, thanking everyone for coming tonight and sharing plans for the renovations they’re fundraising for tonight. It’s not until I hear my name mentioned that I zone back in on the conversation.

“…and Crew Kensington, whose generous contributions ensured we’ve already met tonight’s goal.”

Contributions? I glance at Scarlett as loud applause sounds around us. “You wrote a check?” I ask, quietly enough no one else at our table can hear.

“It’s a fundraiser,” she whispers back in the you’re an idiot tone I’m becoming quite familiar with. “Of course I donated.”

“You could have told me. It looks strange for us to make two separate donations.”

“I didn’t feel like elbowing my way past the blonde.”

I want to scoff at that, but I keep a smile pasted on my face instead. It remains in place for the rest of Jennifer’s speech and through dinner. I’m seated next to Howard Burton, a hedge fund manager a few years younger than my father. He prattles on about market trends while I shove lemon risotto and seared duck into my mouth.

Once dinner ends, seats get rearranged. Howard and his wife gravitate toward the silent auction set up in the next room. Scarlett is talking with Katherine Billings, who is sitting on her other side. I’m about to go get another drink when Asher takes Howard’s empty seat.

I raise both eyebrows at him. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight.”

He slouches in his seat. “Eh, changed my mind.”

“Your dad?”

“Yep.” Asher rolls his eyes. His father loves the status of getting invited to events like this, but rarely has the follow-through to actually attend. It’s the same reason Asher ended up working at Kensington Consolidated—his father ran a thriving company into the ground, thanks to sheer neglect. And he always expects Asher to step up and save his ass.

“Let him handle his own messes, man.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” Asher replies. We both know he won’t. “Hannah is here.”

I stiffen at the attempt to change the subject and to gauge my reaction. “Yeah, I know.”

“She pissed?”

I shrug. “She’s not thrilled.” I look over at Scarlett to confirm she’s still talking with Katherine. She’s not. Katherine is gone, and Scarlett is scrolling on her phone. Her expression is blank, giving me no indication of whether she’s listening to or absorbing our conversation.

Asher makes an annoying humming sound in response.

Scarlett stands. “Excuse me.”

I watch her walk away, then look back at Asher. “Thanks a fuck ton for that.”

He looks confused. “Since when do you care what a woman thinks?”

“Since I married one,” I reply. “I’m stuck with her for more than one night.”

“You said you barely see her. That you’re leading separate lives.”

“Both true.”

“So? Stop making an effort. I invited her to the climbing gym, and she left after fifteen minutes. Doesn’t seem like she’ll care about Hannah or not.”

“She won’t.” That’s all I say though. I don’t explain I inexplicably want her to care. That jealousy—an emotion I’ve always abhorred in women—would thrill me coming from Scarlett.

“Then what’s the issue?”

“Just…don’t mention other women around her, okay?”

He studies me for a minute before he agrees. “Fine.”

I feel his eyes remain on me as I make a point of looking around. A string quartet has set up in the corner and started playing, providing a muted soundtrack to the evening. A few couples gravitate toward the dancefloor and begin to twirl.

“How’s the sex?”

I say nothing.

Asher scoffs. “Come on, Kensington. You’re not the shy sort.”

“It’s different, and you know it.”

“Different because you don’t know?” he teases.

I rub my finger against the rim of my glass.

Asher laughs. “Holy fuck. You don’t.”

“It hasn’t come up,” I mutter.

“How the fuck does having sex with your wife not come up?”

I stand. “I’m getting a refill.”

But rather than head for the bar, I somehow end up approaching Scarlett. I interrupt the group she’s talking to with a polite smile.

“Would you like to dance, dollface?”

“Sure, sugar.”

As soon as we’re out of earshot, she mutters, “Dollface? That’s your worst one yet.”

“Funny. I think sugar might be my new favorite.”

Scarlett looks away, but not before I catch the ghost of a smile. She never attempts to hide any negative emotions, I’ve noticed. When she’s angry or upset, it’s all on display. It’s the few pleasant moments we’ve shared that she schools her reactions to.

As soon as we reach the dance floor, I test the theory. There are about a dozen other couples dancing, most of them middle-aged or older. All waltzing with a respectable distance between them.

I spin Scarlett so our chests are touching. Her expression doesn’t change as we begin to dance, nor as I tighten my grip on her hand and her waist. My thumb leaves her palm and drifts down to her wrist. The only jewelry she’s wearing tonight is a pair of diamond earrings and the rings I gave her, leaving the smooth skin below her palm bare. I settle my thumb on top of her pulse point, feeling it pound at a rapid pace.

I smile, feeling her heart race. She may not want to want me, but she does. I know the feeling well.

She doesn’t pull away, but she won’t meet my gaze either. This is the closest we’ve been since I carried her upstairs after discovering her on the couch. Scarlett isn’t the only one acting unaffected. I want to haul her lips to mine. I want her to be naked and be allowed to look. I want to talk with her without having to extract any syllable that isn’t cutting.

Instead, I just twirl her around the dancefloor. Silence is usually neutral. Between us, it shimmers. It has shape and substance. The quiet is weighted by all the things we aren’t saying and all the emotions we aren’t expressing.

The song ends and transitions into a new one. After a few minutes, she swallows and looks right at me. “I have an early day tomorrow.”

After our conversation in the car earlier, I know suggesting she take Saturday off is a bad idea. “So do I.” I don’t.

“I want to take the car back, Crew.”

“Fine.” I stop dancing. “Let’s go.”

Surprise flickers across her face. “You’re coming home tonight?”

“Did I tell you otherwise?”

Pink heats her cheeks. “I assumed you made plans.”

“You know what they say about people who make assumptions.”

“No, I don’t,” she challenges. “What do they say?”

“You want me to call you an ass?”

“I’ve been called worse,” she replies, then starts walking toward the exit.

I catch up with her at the coat check. “I’m getting sick of this, Scarlett. Does every conversation we have need to turn combative? You want to leave? Let’s leave. I’m not fighting you.”

“You’re making a scene.”

I grab her arm to stall her in place. “You’re mad I’m coming home? I didn’t think you’d care either way.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you being so difficult?” I hiss.

“Difficult?” she echoes. “I’m not the one who—”

“Are you two in line for the valet?” Fuck. I know that voice. I turn to see Hannah aiming a sweet smile my way. There’s no authenticity in the expression. “Oh. Crew.” She lets out a small, fake laugh. “I didn’t realize that was you.”

I raise one eyebrow, silently calling her out on that bullshit. “We’re not in line for the valet. Our driver is on his way.”

“Oh. All right, then.”

Still, she doesn’t move. I press my lips together, annoyed. “Hannah, this is my wife, Scarlett. Scarlett, this is Hannah Garner.” This is the first time I’ve ever introduced Scarlett as my wife. It’s bizarre to say, and equally strange to realize I like the way it sounds.

“We’ve met before,” Hannah says. “Lovely to see you again, Scarlett.”

Scarlett stares at her. “Where?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said we’ve met before. Where?” sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNovᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Hannah looks flustered, but recovers quickly. “Oh. Um, it must have been at some event here? Crew loves visiting LA, but it doesn’t seem like your sort of place.”

“New York isn’t for everyone, either,” Scarlett replies.

“I prefer to visit in the summer. I hate the cold.”

“I can see why.” Scarlett’s eyes flit over the short hem and low neckline of Hannah’s dress.

Hannah stiffens. “For such a busy city, it can also feel lonely.” She glances at me—deliberately.

I’m torn between doing something and saying nothing. It’s obvious what Hannah is doing and why. She’s jealous and hurt I married someone else, despite the fact it’s been months since we were in the same state and we were never a couple. What I don’t understand is what Scarlett is doing—why she’s engaging rather than ignoring. At every turn, she’s made it clear she sees our marriage as nothing more than a business relationship, if that. I’d go so far as to say she treats her business partners with more warmth than she’s shown me. And yet—she’s sparring with Hannah rather than walking away. Not possessive per se, but not displaying total indifference either.

“If you’re so desperate for some company, maybe you should go back inside and find some,” Scarlett suggests. “Seeing as we are leaving.”

I smother a smile, not missing the way she emphasizes we.

Hannah doesn’t miss it either. She sizes Scarlett up, not bothering to cloak her dislike. “I didn’t know you were capable of caring about anything other than business, Scarlett.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew anything about me,” Scarlett shoots back. “Especially since you seem far more interested in my husband.”

Hannah smiles. Small, yet flashy and fake. She looks to me. “I hope to see you around, Crew.” Her smile turns genuine for the first time before she passes us and heads back inside.

I keep studying Scarlett.

“What?” she snaps. I think her tone was warmer toward Hannah.

I smile. “Nothing.”

Scarlett shakes her head before heading toward our car. Roman pulled up at some point during the encounter with Hannah. He climbs out to open the door, but I wave him off and open the door for Scarlett myself. She grumbles a thank you before climbing into the backseat. I slide in on the opposite side, then knock on the privacy divider to let Roman know we’re ready to depart.

We haven’t even reached the end of the block when she speaks. “You have horrible taste in women.”

I look over. “What does that say about you?”

She ignores me. “I don’t want her in my penthouse.”

I bite back the our I want to correct her with. Instead, I tell her the truth. “It won’t be an issue.”

“I have work lunches at The Carlyle.”

It takes me a minute to realize what she’s saying. Another to wonder how the hell Scarlett knows that’s where Hannah stays when she’s in the city. “That’s not what I meant. She and I are done.”

“Does she know that?”

“Yes,” I reply. Then, for some stupid reason, that feels a lot like the loyalty she doesn’t seem to want, I elaborate. “I told her if she insulted you, I wouldn’t talk to her again.”

Scarlett scoffs. “Don’t do me any favors.”

I exhale loudly. “Now you’re annoyed I’m not fucking her?”

“No! I just—”

“Are you sleeping with other people?” I finally voice the question that’s been bothering me for weeks.

“Not sure,” she responds.

I gnash my teeth together. “Not sure what?”

“Not sure you would call it sleeping.”

Fuck. She is. “Who is he?”

“You don’t know him.”

Yeah, right. “I know a lot of people.”

“His name is Kyle. He’s a surgeon.”

That’s her type? A science nerd with a superiority complex? It bothers me more than I’m expecting. More than it should. If he’s not part of our world, maybe she actually has real feelings for the guy. “He sounds like a tool.”

“Jealous?” she taunts.

“That would require me caring what you do.”

“Exactly.”

I force a chuckle out. It sounds empty to my ears, but I doubt she can tell the difference. “That’s not something you need to worry about.”

“Great.”

“Great,” I echo.

It’s become predictable: the cycle of our conversations. The joking and the taunting and the silence. The way one of us is a little more open than the other. We’re never in sync—never both willing to give without wanting to take.

I pull out my phone and start to sort through emails that could all wait until Monday. At least my father will be happy about my initiative. He and Oliver got stranded in Miami due to a tropical storm. They traveled down south for some golfing and to meet with a commercial developer about offices for a new acquisition. In their extended absence, everything goes through me. I got home at three a.m. last night, or this morning, technically.

“I finalized the branding for my new clothing line today.” The sound of Scarlett’s voice is so unexpected, it startles me. I figured she was working on her side of the car. “It’s called rouge. That’s what these drawings are for. I’m choosing a design team. I also approved the proofs for the August issue of Haute and chose the articles for the September one. That was after I interviewed five secretaries, because Leah already has her hands full running my schedule at Haute and I need more help.”

Questions form. I know nothing about what she does on a daily basis. That’s why I asked earlier. But that was before I knew how much of a sham she sees this marriage as. Before I knew she’s fucked another guy with my ring on her finger.

Anger and jealousy pool in my stomach like tar—dark and toxic. “I don’t give a single fuck what you do, Scarlett. Remember?” I drawl the words like I have something better to do than to bother to say them, then continue scrolling through the hundreds of emails that have piled up.

She flinches. I catch the subtle recoil out of the corner of my eye before she turns away from me to stare out at the city lights. Troublesome emotions harden, sinking down through me like an anchor.

Why do I care?

Why can’t she?

The rest of the ride is silent.

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