Fake Empire(10)

Looks like I won’t be eating the rest of my lunch. “Fine. We can use the main conference room until the meeting starts.”

Isabel nods. I follow her out of my office and stop by Celeste’s desk, dropping the stack of papers consisting of my prenup on the counter, encircling her space with a thud. “Get these to legal,” I instruct. “I want them to look through every word and get me a memo listing every difference from the original document that was drawn up. Have them tab every spot I’m supposed to sign too. I don’t have time to go through it all myself. Again. Tell them to drop everything else. I want this done by the end of the day.”

“Yes, of course.” Celeste grabs the papers and hurries toward the elevators.

I stride to where Isabel is waiting. As we walk, she fills me in on the changes that were made to the pitch tomorrow. The main conference room is in the very center of the executive floor, surrounded by glass that’s frosted during important meetings.

“What did Scarlett want?” Isabel asks as soon as we enter the room. I can tell she’s trying to sound casual, but the question alone is an anomaly. Isabel and I discuss business, that’s it. It’s why we work well together.

I unbutton my jacket and take a seat at the table. “Some paperwork needed to be straightened out.”

“She could have had it sent over,” Isabel points out.

“She wanted to talk in person.” I pull out the notes for the meeting.

“Are you having second thoughts about marrying her? She seems awfully needy.”

I almost smile at that, picturing how Scarlett might react to being called needy. This line of questioning is giving me the impression Asher might not have been entirely off base the three times he’s told me Isabel has non-professional feelings for me. I’m sure rumors of nepotism fly about when I’m not around, but I take my role here seriously. I don’t mix business with anything else. I’ve never dated an employee or fooled around in my office. “Is there a point coming? About my personal life?” Warnings litter those two questions.

Warnings Isabel doesn’t heed. “I’m worried about this woman’s impact on the future of this company.”

Now I know she’s jealous. “Her impact on the future of this company will be strengthening the Kensington name by adding billions to my assets and giving me children to leave everything to.”

“But you don’t want to marry her, do you?”

I don’t do things I don’t want to do. There are downsides to being born into the sort of wealth most people can’t comprehend. But autonomy has never been an issue. Especially when it comes to big, life-changing choices. If I didn’t want to marry Scarlett, I would have found a way out of it years ago.

“She’s stunning and has a shit-ton of money. I could do worse.” I’m not sure why I’m continuing to indulge this conversation. No one else has shown up early for the meeting, I guess. And I like working with Isabel. I’m eager to rid her of any notion there’s a chance of anything ever happening between us. “We’re colleagues, Isabel. If I wanted your input on my life outside this office, I’d ask for it.”

Her cheeks turn pink at the chastisement. “Of course. Just looking out for you.”

We both know that wasn’t all she was doing, but other people are finally arriving for the meeting, so I turn my attention back to my notes. I’m not absorbing anything I’m reading. Not paying any attention to Isabel sitting across from me. Nor any of the greetings aimed my way.

She’s stunning and has a shit-ton of money.

That’s how I described Scarlett just now. Both true. The second fact is the main reason I’m marrying her. The first is a nice, albeit somewhat inconvenient, bonus. But pretty and rich are no longer the first two adjectives I’d use to describe Scarlett Ellsworth. After two conversations, I’d describe her as ambitious.

Fearless.

Vivacious.

That’s what I need to look out for.





CHAPTER THREE





SCARLETT





It would be very easy to break this glass, I decide. To watch the fragments shatter and the golden liquid spread. I roll the thin stem of the champagne flute between my pointer finger and thumb, trying to decide if the temporary thrill will be worth the inevitable mess.

I decide not to and take a sip of fizzy alcohol.

The bubbles burn a trail down my esophagus and simmer in my empty stomach. I hate caviar, and it’s all that’s been served so far tonight. Part of the endless posturing. I would kill for some fries. To be anywhere else.

Moonlight glimmers off the surface of the pool, bathing the perfectly even stones and pristine landscaping that surround it in a luminous glow.

I suck in a deep lungful of air as I continue staring at the dark surface of the water before me. Oxygen circulates in my bloodstream. Carbon dioxide tries to escape. I don’t let it. Even once the uncomfortable sensation turns painful. Finally, I exhale.

Sweet relief flows through me. I feel alive. Refreshed. Cleansed.

“Contemplating a swim?”

I don’t react to the sound of his voice, even as awareness sparks across my skin. I do bristle at the taunting comment. As far as I can tell, Crew has two settings: privileged asshole or obnoxious asshole.

“Do I look dressed for a swim?” I tug at the shimmering silk gown I’m wearing for emphasis. It’s gold. My mother picked it out and had it sent over to my penthouse to wear tonight. Probably as a reminder to the Kensingtons I’m a trophy—a prize.