Fake Empire(101)

I’m about the furthest from happy a person can get right now. “No.”

“Yeah. Me neither. Merry fucking Christmas.”

I watch her stomp up the stairs.

Merry fucking Christmas, indeed.





I end up back at the office. When in doubt, work, as the Kensington family motto goes. I’m used to spending late nights and long hours inside these four walls.

I envy the employees who feel like they earned their position here. I still don’t. Maybe I never will. Some second-guessing is healthy. I don’t think never feeling like you’re working hard enough is.

Except, today, maybe for the first time, I saw it.

Respect.

Today was the most tumultuous day Kensington Consolidated has experienced since my great-grandfather took a small loan and turned it into an empire. Yet no one asked where my father was. Where Oliver was. They did exactly what I asked without question. Listened to me without questioning or whispering behind my back. And the one person I’m endlessly trying to impress—my father—wasn’t even here to see it.

And this same shitstorm made a mess between me and the one person whose feelings I care about.

I spend a couple of hours going through emails and reports. Today was spent doing damage control. Everything else was shoved to the back burner, but still needs to be dealt with.

When I finish, I pour myself a generous splash of bourbon and sprawl out on the leather couch in the corner of my office, debating whether I should go home or just sleep here. I sip and stare at the ceiling.

The knock on the door startles me. I was certain I was the only one here at this hour. I’m not entirely shocked to see Isabel is the one opening the door. She was here all day, by my side, doing anything she could to help. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I reply. “I didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

“Same. I saw the light on under the door on my way back from the restroom.”

I sit up and run a hand through my hair. “What are you still doing here?”

She walks over and takes a seat on the couch next to me. “Working.”

“At…” I glance at the clock. “Ten thirty? On Christmas?”

Isabel shrugs. “I’m not a big holiday person.”

That doesn’t surprise me at all. Although it occurs to me, I know hardly anything about Isabel outside of her professional aspirations. “Me neither.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

I sigh. Down more bourbon. “No. I fucked things up with Scarlett.”

“Oh?”

“We had a fight. It was my fault. I just—I didn’t expect it to be like this, you know? She—we—weren’t supposed to feel so real.” I drain the rest of my glass before standing and walking over to the bar cart, refilling my glass before I sink down beside her, slouching back against the couch. “Quite the damn day, huh?”

Isabel leans back, mirroring my posture. “Yeah.” She pauses. “The board’s vote will be unanimous, you know.”

“Vote about what?”

“Making you CEO.”

“I’ve got the right last name.”

“You’ve got a lot more than that, Crew.” Her left hand migrates to my knee. Before I’ve had time to process the touch, she’s sliding up my thigh with a clear destination in mind.

I’m frozen. Shocked. For some reason, this wasn’t an outcome I imagined when she entered this office. And it would be easy to let this unfold. Emotionless and empty, exactly what I used to expect from sex. Scarlett would never need to know. Maybe she wouldn’t even care after our argument earlier.

But I would know. I would care. My brain is processing what my body already knows: I only want Scarlett. My dick isn’t even reacting. And I haven’t had that much to drink.

I stand abruptly, leaving Isabel on the couch with a wounded expression. “Go.”

“Crew…”

“I said go, Isabel. I’m your boss. If you want to keep your job, you’ll never touch me inappropriately again.”

She stands, some defiance mixing with the hurt. “I won’t tell anyone about us. You can trust me.”

“There is no us, and I don’t trust you, Isabel. I’m married.”

Isabel scoffs. “Not happily.”

“I. Don’t. Want. You. Don’t test me, Isabel. You won’t like the consequences.”

Reality and stubbornness fight for space in her expression. “I’ve had a crush on you since I started here, you know. I should have made a move sooner. Apparently, I was the only person in this city unaware you were engaged to Scarlett Ellsworth. What I get for avoiding gossip, huh? But then everyone said she was cold and detached and only in it for the money. So I thought I still had a shot.”

I sigh, suddenly exhausted. “I am happily married, Isabel.”

She gives me a small, sad smile. “Yeah, I figured that out when you jumped away like I’d set the couch on fire.”

“I didn’t know you felt that way. If you want to transfer to another team, I can—”

“No. No, it won’t be an issue. I promise.”

I study her for a minute, weighing her sincerity. “I don’t give second chances.”

She swallows and bobs a nod. “I know.”