Fake Empire(29)

I’d pretend it was Crew kissing me. Touching me. I refuse to do that. It would be a concession of the worst sort. I’d rather be celibate than let one man fuck me while pretending he was someone else.

It would let Crew win in the worst way.

He only has as much influence over me as I allow him to have.

The street is crowded with chatter and laughter. I don’t stop at any of the rowdy bars I pass, which are all filled with Andres with arousing accents and smooth suggestions. The only spot I stop at is a wine shop on the same block as my hotel. I pick up a bottle of Bordeaux and carry it like a newborn into the lobby and up the stairs to the third floor.

My room is spacious, and yet I head out onto the tiny balcony that juts off the side of the hotel and overlooks the Seine. It’s barely large enough for the one chair out here. I kick off my heels, shed my coat, and use the corkscrew provided in the room to open the bottle. I rest my toes on the wrought-iron railing and stare at the city lights, occasionally taking sips of the tart wine.

I could be in Andre’s bed right now, having sweet nothings whispered in my ear in French and warm hands running across my skin. Instead, I’m quickly nursing the bottle equivalent of my third glass of wine. I’ll feel like shit in the morning.

My flight leaves early tomorrow, so I’ll be back in Manhattan by noon. I’ll likely have to face him before brunch with Sophie and Nadia the following morning.

It’s been complete and total silence from Crew since I left after the wedding. No asking if I landed safely. No wondering when I’m coming home. Nothing at all.

Exactly what I wanted—what I thought I wanted.

Instead, I think of him saying I’m not pretending. Recall the feel of his lips against mine. Chastise myself for doing both.

Crew is a cliff. Dangerous. Challenging. One wrong step could be catastrophic.

You’re stronger than this, Scarlett.

I’m not, though. Not when I’m alone with no chance of facing consequences. That’s confirmed when I slip my phone out of my pocket and log into the security app for my penthouse. It’s just past one a.m. here. Crew is reliably home by seven p.m. Earlier than I ever used to return. I wonder if his schedule will change once I’m back in New York. If he’ll avoid being in our shared home, the same way I will.

I flip through the cameras until I find him. He’s in the kitchen, talking to Phillipe. There’s sound but I don’t turn it on. I drink wine from the bottle and watch my husband—still bizarre to think, let alone say—talk to Phillipe while eating a plate of pasta. His suit jacket is off, but his tie is still on, hanging slightly crooked as he twirls pasta on his fork and smiles.

He’s home and alone.

I fall asleep watching him.





I missed Manhattan.

I didn’t realize how much until I step onto the tarmac outside the private wing of JFK. The sight of the skyline is an unexpected relief, like treating a wound you just realized was inflicted. My lungs fill with the scent of exhaust and wet cement. The commotion wakes me more than the espresso I downed on the plane.

A car is waiting. I climb inside and instruct the driver to take me to my office. Leah, my assistant, and Andrea, the head of my editorial section, both know the real reason why I spent the past two weeks in Paris. The rest of Haute’s employees know it was a work trip, just not as part of a new endeavor.

I’m going to need to delegate most of my responsibilities at either Haute or rouge—what I’ve decided to name my clothing line—but I haven’t decided how to handle either yet. Managing both might be possible once I have more of a design team in place for the clothing label. I’m happy to spend as little time at my penthouse as possible. Juggling two demanding roles is a certain way to accomplish that.

My arrival back at the office causes a stir. I stride past the cubicles and down to my corner office, half-listening to Leah as she trots beside me, spouting off everything I’m supposed to handle today.

I feel like shit. I changed out of a wrinkled sundress on the plane, into the tight sheath dress I’m wearing now. The stiff fabric feels constrictive. My head is pounding and my limbs feel heavy. Three hours of sleep and most of a bottle of wine might not have been setting myself up for success today.

Crew’s fault.

Two weeks away from him were supposed to settle me. Remind me of how little my life has changed and that my priorities haven’t shifted. Scarlett Kensington can be the same person as Scarlett Ellsworth was.

Three thousand six hundred and twenty-five miles sounded like a lot. Sounded like plenty of distance.

They weren’t.

I thought about him. While I was attending photoshoots. When I was picking out fabrics. As Jacques was showing me sketches. Last night, when I went home alone.

Leah keeps talking. Rather than admit I haven’t been paying much attention, I tell her I have to make a phone call. She scurries out of my office, shutting the door behind her and leaving me in silence. I sink down into my desk chair and lean forward to massage my temples. For the first time since taking over Haute, I don’t want to be here.

I want to go home. Not out of wifely obligation or because I missed sleeping in my own bed. I want to get seeing him over with. The anticipation is worse than anything he might say or do. A couple of months ago, I’d expect him to act entirely indifferent to my departure and return.

Now I don’t know what to expect. It’s annoying and nerve-wracking.