Fake Empire(28)

I wonder whose idea that was.

Most of my belongings, the decorations and furniture, were put into storage or left at my old place. The bulk of what I brought along were clothes. Rather than unpacking or sorting through anything, I lie back on the white bedspread and stare out at the shimmering skyline of Manhattan. I could call someone. A woman. Asher or Jeremy. Go out to a club or a bar.

I’m too tired. Too drained.

Looks like I’ll be spending my wedding night…alone.





CHAPTER SEVEN





SCARLETT





The warm summer air is tinged with a hint of smoke when we step outside the restaurant. A slight breeze ruffles the hem of my dress and blows my hair back.

Jacques pauses to kiss both of my cheeks. “Magnifique, Scarlett,” he declares. Loudly enough, the group who exited ahead of us turns to look. “This line will be magnifique. A triumph.” He pulls me in for a hug. “You need anything—anything at all, you let me know, oui?”

“Oui.” I return the warm embrace. “Merci beaucoup.”

Jacques departs after a few more Frenglish phrases. My French is enough to get by, but I’m far from fluent. Jacques and I learned to communicate through a nonsensical mesh of the two languages while collaborating on my new label.

I loiter outside the bistro where we just ate dinner for a few minutes, debating whether to call a car or walk the few blocks to the hotel where I’ve been staying for the past two weeks.

“Want a smoke?” The question comes from my left, delivered in a thick French accent. I look over to see a blond-haired man leaning against the brick siding of the building. He’s wearing a leather jacket and holding a lit cigarette. I walk over to him, choosing my steps carefully on the cobblestones.

“I’m not a big smoker.” I abhor it, actually. It’s a gross, grimy habit I associate with the reckless and a disregard for personal hygiene.

Framed by the soft glow of streetlights and distant glimmer of the Eiffel Tower, it suddenly seems more sexy than repulsive. So does the lazy smile being flashed my way, paired with a slightly crooked nose and a jaw covered with a light layer of stubble. “I’m working on quitting,” he tells me.

“Seems like it’s going well.” I look pointedly at the gray smoke curling up from the orange tip and dissipating into the dark night.

He drops the cigarette and snuffs it out with a heavy boot. “I’m Andre.”

“Scarlett.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”

“Merci.”

His eyes light up. “Parlez-vous français?”

“Je parle un peu français,” I admit.

Andre chuckles. “Your pronunciation is very good.”

“Thank you,” I reply. “I’ve been here for a couple of weeks. It’s improved.”

“Are you staying much longer?”

“No. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“Headed where?”

“Home. New York.”

“The big fruit,” he declares.

I laugh. “Apple. Yeah.”

“Would you like a memorable final night?” The insinuation is obvious. In the way his body is angled toward mine. The smirk dancing on his lips.

I hesitate. When I approached him, this is exactly where I thought it would lead. We both know it. Now it’s on the table, and I’m undecided. The rings decorating my left hand suddenly seem heavier. I didn’t expect being married to feel any different. I signed a contract that happened to include a religious ceremony.

My loyalty to Crew can have conditions. I’ve been gone for two weeks. He’s probably had a rotating door of women coming through my penthouse. Growing up, I watched my mother send my father off on business trips with a travel safe, knowing full well he wouldn’t be traveling alone.

I promised myself I’d be different—wouldn’t be the fool who fell for the fairytale. But I angle away from Andre anyway. “All I was looking for was a cigarette.”

Andre’s hand sneaks into his jacket and emerges with a pack of them. He hands me one. “A smoker, after all?”

I shrug. “We all do things we know are bad for us, right?”

He holds a lighter out and flicks a flame to life. I hold the end of the cigarette out, letting the fire lick the paper until it ignites. “Your husband?”

I follow his gaze to the massive diamond resting on my ring finger. I could have taken it off as soon as my plane left the tarmac in New York. Instead, I’ve worn the symbols of my marriage every day I’ve been here. I’ve adjusted to the weight and the sparkles. If I ever do take them off, it will feel strange. My hand will feel naked. “No.”

“Pardon. I assumed…”

“Wrong,” I finish, taking a single drag of the cigarette before I drop and snuff it. The street is littered with them. “I should go.”

Andre says nothing as I walk away, trench coat swishing around my calves. I’m annoyed with myself. A fling with a Frenchman sounds perfect. It’s been weeks since I had sex. I can track it to one night, even. After Crew chased Evan away, I didn’t cast my metaphorical net out again. I turned down the two men who approached me later that evening. I knew I’d have the same problem with them that I would have had with Andre.