Fake Empire(13)

He approaches the staircase to the left. Silently, I follow. Up the stairs and down the carpeted hall and into a large room filled with dark wood walls and old books. There’s a mustiness in the air that smells off-putting but isn’t. It’s not cozy, but it doesn’t feel like a museum, the way the rest of the mansion—minus the pantry—does.

I trace the patterns in the stained glass windows while Crew walks to a painting of a fruit bowl on the wall. He lifts it off, exposing the front of a safe. I continue perusing the room while stealing glances at him.

There’s a telltale beep. The safe door opens and closes. The painting returns to its place. Crew walks toward me. There’s nothing that could be described as pomp in sight.

This should be as detached as signing on a dotted line. That’s what it is—a sign of a commitment based on nothing but business. There’s nothing moderately romantic about this moment—the dusty books, the stale air, Crew’s blank expression—but my pulse picks up anyway. I feel something, when I should feel nothing.

Giddiness.

Anticipation.

Interest.

I try to pretend I’m in here with Oliver Kensington instead. If Crew’s older brother was approaching me, I’d be unbothered. I wouldn’t be mentally measuring the inches separating us. The inches steadily shrinking.

Maybe I messed up my life worst of all, I suddenly realize.

Crew stops less than a foot away. Nine inches, I’d estimate. “Here.”

I stare down at the small, square, black box that he just dropped on my palm. One glance at his unreadable expression is all I allow myself before opening it. A huge diamond set in a halo of smaller ones twinkles up at me. It screams expensive without seeming garish. It’s timeless and classic. Something I would have picked out for myself.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, truthfully.

Crew doesn’t make any attempt to, so I lift the ring out of the box and slide it onto my finger. The weight feels heavy, unfamiliar, and permanent. If I took it off right now, I would still feel the lingering sensation on my skin, like a brand.

Scarlett Kensington. I roll my married name around in my mind, trying to accustom myself to it the same way I’ll have to adjust to wearing a sparkling reminder of Crew on my hand.

For once, I have no idea what else to say. Thank you? This ring cost a lot, no doubt. But he didn’t buy it because he wanted to or because I wanted him to. I don’t dole out thanks and apologies as freely as most people do.

“Dinner will be served soon.”

I nod, absorbing the sting of dismissal. There’s no reason to feel slighted. He’s behaving exactly how I expected him to all along: cold and distant. How I wanted him to act. If he hadn’t agreed to change our prenup so I retain full control of my magazine and hadn’t fed me chocolate-covered biscuits, I wouldn’t be battling the bizarre urge to ask him what’s wrong right now.

From Crew’s perspective, I’m a prize.

Property.

A pawn.

Not a partner.

Probably not even a person. My worth to him can be boiled down to my net worth and how I’ll look on his arm and the kids we’ll have together who will inherit his ancestors’ hard work.

I’ve wondered if I would ever meet a guy that would make me wish for more. That might make me resent how the marriages that last are ones built on understanding and agreements and contingencies. Not love and lust and passion.

Marriages with a purpose preserve empires.

Marriages fueled by desire are plagued by jealousy and ultimatums and whispers at the wedding that the bride must be pregnant.

I’ve never wondered if that guy might be him. Up until right now.

Crew steps to his left at the same time I move to my right. Rather than move further apart, like we both attempted to, we’re closer together.

Close enough, he could reach out and touch me.

Close enough, he does.

Suddenly the cavernous library doesn’t seem so large, after all. We’re taking up the smallest percentage of space two people could. The space between us has shrunk further. Three inches, maybe four.

I watch Crew’s hand rise, feel the stiff material of his suit brush against my bare arm. His thumb traces across the length of my jaw, leaving a searing trail on my skin that lingers like the lick of a flame. His other palm rises to press against my waist, anchoring me in this spot beside the fireplace.

There’s no fire burning in the grate now, just clean, gray stones. That’s what I thought Crew and I would be: a bare fireplace. A spot where softer, warmer emotions than duty and obligation could be built but wouldn’t be.

Empty potential.

“Scarlett.” His voice slides over me like warm honey, followed by a whisper of whiskey. No one has ever said my name like that before.

Like a prayer and a curse.

A secret and a sin.

A hope and a fear.

I meet his gaze and discover the mask of stoicism has slipped. When I think of passion, I picture bright, flagrant colors. Oranges and reds. Fire and heat and hearts and blood.

From this moment on, I’ll imagine light blue. The sky on a sunny day with no sign of clouds. The ocean on a calm day with the barest hint of waves. That’s how Crew’s eyes appear. So, so blue. Endless. Bottomless. Consuming. Beneath their calm color lurks the same potential for calamity as the sky and the sea.

If I let him, he’ll wreak havoc on my world.