Fake Empire(2)

I grew up taking a private jet between my six-figures-a-semester boarding school and a multi-million-dollar penthouse overlooking Central Park.

There’s wealthy, and then there’s me. Crew. We’re each set to inherit empires including sums of money that have a lot of zeroes. More than anyone could spend in a lifetime—or a thousand of them. If the Federal Trade Commission had a say in the institution known as marriage, there’s no way this merger would go through. It’s a melding of assets akin to a Rockefeller marrying a Vanderbilt.

Whether or not I want to marry Crew is mostly irrelevant. I accepted it as an inevitability a long time ago. I have a choice. It is my choice. Marrying for love isn’t an option, even if I’d ever met anyone who made me think so, which I haven’t. My world would chew him up and spit him out. Not to mention, there would always be a voice in the back of my head, wondering whether he wanted me or the money.

With Crew, I don’t have to worry about that. He’s callous, cocky, and cold. He grew up in this world, same as me; he knows what’s expected. He’s known for the traits I just observed: entertaining women, always retaining total control, and getting exactly what he wants.

My father did me a favor, arranging this marriage.

It doesn’t make it any less of a foreign, antiquated concept to people who live in the normal world. Nadia has been dating the same guy for the past two years. Finn is a sweet, unassuming native New Yorker who is in his last year at NYU Law. Sophie is currently seeing a cardiovascular surgeon named Kyle, who sounds like a total tool. According to her, his dexterity makes up for anything his personality lacks.

My mind wanders to stupid thoughts as I keep my gaze firmly on my glass. Like whether Crew is good in bed. He seems like the sort of guy who would expect blowjobs without reciprocating and always come first.

I’ll likely find out.

The end of my drink gets drained with one gulp. “I’ll be right back.” I stand and stroll in the direction of the restrooms.

I’m sure Nadia is taking this opportunity to grill Sophie about my upcoming engagement. As soon as I heard my father met with Crew’s, I knew there was no chance I’d keep it from them—from anyone—for much longer. Neither of our families have ever confirmed an engagement. Rumors have to be fed in order to spread.

My father hasn’t broached the topic with me himself in years. He assumes I’ll do what he wants without question when the time comes, and for once, he’s right.

As I walk across the club, I can feel the stares on me. The gold sequined minidress I’m wearing isn’t meant to blend into the wallpaper. Work has eaten up most of my time lately. The only reason I left the office before eleven p.m. is that it was Andrea’s birthday tonight. None of my magazine’s editorial staff—including her—will leave before I do.

I headed out at seven, which is unheard of for me. I met Nadia and Sophie for sushi at a new spot in the Village, and we ended up here, just like I knew we would. Coming to Proof and rubbing elbows with New York’s young, rich, and famous is a novelty for my two companions. Less so for me, seeing as I was coming to places like this long before I was legally allowed to.

The hallway leading to the restrooms is empty, lit by muted columns every few feet. My stilettos click a rhythmic melody across the hand-painted tiles and into the lounge that serves as the entrance to the actual bathrooms. I pass the velvet-covered chairs, barely sparing the furnishings a glance, before locking myself into one of the stalls that are situated like private rooms. Each has its own sink and toilet. One wall is decorated with frames filled with dried flowers, while another holds a long shelf boasting an array of expensive sprays, soaps, and lotions.

I’m washing my hands when I hear the distinctive tapping of other heels approaching and the muted murmur of feminine voices. I shut off the water and dry my hands on one of the fluffy towels from the basket beside the sink before tossing it into the hamper. One of the women is complaining about her blisters. The other is talking nonsensically and fast, indicating she’s already over-indulged. It costs a small fortune to get wasted in a place like this, so she’s probably someone I know.

I open my clutch and pull out a tube of lipstick to slick my lips with my signature shade of red. Even if I didn’t share a name with a hue of the color, I like to think I’d still be the sort of woman who walks around with crimson lips.

It makes a statement.

“Did you see Crew Kensington is here?” a third voice asks. My hand stills halfway across my lower lip.

“He’s hard to miss. Anna St. Clair was over there in seconds.” That surprisingly sober sentence comes from the woman who was spilling gibberish about some film premiere seconds ago.

“I’m surprised he’s here. He hasn’t been coming out much. Kensington Consolidated just bought that new electronics company. Isn’t he taking that over for his father, along with everything else? Talk about a slap to the face for Oliver.”

“I thought that was just gossip. Like the engagement to Scarlett Ellsworth.”

“No, I heard that’s true. He’s really going to marry her.”

“Then why hasn’t he?” the woman formerly complaining about her heels asks.

“Maybe Crew is trying to get out of it. She’s not exactly his type. He likes his women a little…looser.” She laughs. “Not the princess of Park Avenue and her perfect pedestal.”