Fake Empire(23)

I clear my throat. “You should go.”

If he’s bothered by the immediate dismissal, he doesn’t show it. Crew nods once, brisk and business-like. His hands fall away from my face, and I immediately miss their warmth. Their possessive presumptuousness. “See you out there.”

I watch him turn and walk away, warring with myself. He gave me an inch. I can do the same. Marriage is about compromise, right?

“Crew.” He pauses when I speak but doesn’t turn around. My eyes coast over his broad shoulders, stretching the tux jacket tight. Unlike me, he’s already wearing his wedding attire. I’m glad he doesn’t turn around. It makes it easier to spit out, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t look back. The door closes behind him a few seconds later, leaving me alone. Surrounded by shoe boxes and cans of hairspray and the products painted on my face, waiting for the hairstylist to appear so I can change into my dress and walk down the aisle.





CHAPTER SIX





CREW





I hear her before I see her. Subtle sounds alert me to Scarlett’s approach. There’s the glide of satin and silk and whatever else wedding dresses are constructed from across the marble floor. The whispers of the crowd. The swell of the music before it reaches the crescendo that’s supposed to signify her arrival at the altar.

According to the one time we practiced this, I’m not meant to turn until Scarlett has reached the final pew. I’m happy to comply. I wouldn’t know how to look. Stoic is my default setting. That’s not how a groom is meant to look, watching his bride come down the aisle. We’re supposed to be selling a love story to everyone who is in attendance today. Stock in our families’ companies has skyrocketed since our engagement was announced a few weeks ago. Scarlett and I are the faces of the future. The stronger we appear, the better.

Deals fall apart.

Business partners part ways.

Marriages are made of tougher stuff, at least in our world. Divorce is rare when fidelity isn’t expected and each party will end up poorer for it.

My cue to turn appears. I look to the left. Without realizing it, I started holding my breath.

I don’t exhale, even when my lungs begin to burn.

I don’t move, even though I’m supposed to take a step toward her.

I just stare.

The first time I saw Scarlett Ellsworth, I was fifteen years old. So was she. We were both kids playing adults. I was wearing a custom suit I’d outgrow in a couple of weeks. Scarlett was wearing a floor-length gown, heels, and makeup. I was drunk—off Thomas Archibald’s father’s scotch. Breaking into studies and sneaking expensive liquor was a common pastime at parties on the Upper East Side.

I thought she was beautiful then.

I’ve thought she looked stunning every single time I’ve seen her in the ten years that have elapsed since. Scarlett possesses a classic, timeless poise that provides the same presence as actual royalty.

But today? She’s devastatingly, heartbreakingly beautiful. The untouchable sort of regal. An ice queen. A snow angel. A moon goddess. She walks toward me on her father’s arm surrounded by a waterfall of white organza, her brunette hair curled in an elaborate updo and her lips painted their signature crimson shade.

Hanson Ellsworth doesn’t walk her all the way to me. He stops at the last pew, and Scarlett takes the final steps toward me alone. When she reaches me, I demonstrate more staring. More not moving. It’s not customary for the bride and groom to pause before approaching the priest, and the rustling of the audience emphasizes that.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” I clear my throat. “Ready?”

“Ready.” There’s no hint of hesitation on her face.

I rely on her confidence like a crutch. “You look…” I flip through adjectives that all fall short. The best I can come up with is “stunning,” but it doesn’t say everything I’m trying to.

Scarlett looks away after I compliment her, up at the altar where we’re about to get married. “Thank you.”

We start up the short row of steps that lead to the waiting priest, side by side. The priest launches into a speech about the sanctity of marriage. I don’t pay close attention to any of the readings that follow. I’m mostly focused on not looking over at Scarlett. We’re on display up here, and I’m no longer worried about appearing too indifferent to her presence. I’m concerned about the exact opposite—giving away too much.

When it comes time for the vows, I have no choice but to look at her. Scarlett hands off her bouquet, and we’re stuck staring at each other while the rings are blessed.

I go first. When we met with Father Callahan, he asked if we would be writing out our own vows. Scarlett and I talked over each other in our haste to let him know we’d be sticking with the traditional ones. I wasn’t worried about saying them. But suddenly these words—ones that millions of people have said millions of times before during millions of weddings—sound far too intimate as I look at her.

“I, Crew Anthony Kensington, take you, Scarlett Cordelia Ellsworth, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do we part.” I slide the diamond wedding band onto her ring finger. “I give this ring as a sign of my love.”