Fake Empire(3)

“Who cares? He’ll still sleep around, just with a few extra billions in his pocket.”

“God, can you imagine having that much money? Scarlett is so lucky.”

“She’s already as rich as he is,” one of them points out.

I smile at that. Richer. Crew has to split his inheritance with his older brother Oliver. I’m an only child.

“How greedy can she be? Doesn’t she already have enough money?”

They’re jealous—and drunk. But still, I want to lecture them about the hypocrisy. Crew isn’t greedy? Just me?

“She’s not even that pretty. I’ve never seen her smile or flirt—ever. At the Waldorfs’ holiday party, she spent the whole evening talking business. Margaret said she was bored out of her mind.”

“Margaret is always bored out of her mind. I would be too, if I were married to Richard.”

“I’m just saying—she probably can’t get anyone else to marry her. Her father needed to dangle billions to snag a catch. Pathetic.”

I cap my lipstick and drop it back in my clutch, tucking the bag under one arm and opening the door to head for the lounge. Being the subject of gossip is nothing new to me. Everyone has an unhealthy obsession with wealth and power—and those who have it—even if they tell themselves they don’t.

A thick skin and fake it until you make it mentality are requisites for surviving in this world—especially if you have higher aspirations than spending a trust fund, which I do. No one wants to do business with a coward. The women’s movement hasn’t seen much movement in the upper echelons of society. Business is a boys’ club.

The only reason I have any foothold in it is the fact I’m the sole heir to the Ellsworth empire. Complications during my birth prevented my mother from ever conceiving again. Even a man as cold-hearted and indifferent as my father couldn’t stomach filing for divorce on those grounds alone. It’s one of the main reasons he’s pushed for my marriage to a Kensington, though. There was never any question—in his mind, at least—that I would marry well. The antiquated elite see no value in their children marrying anyone with less money than they do. Marrying down. Especially when it comes to a son who will carry on the name to the next generation.

For my family, the closest economic equivalent is the Kensingtons. It’s an arrangement advantageous to both sides, which is unique. Usually, one party gains more than the other. More money, more assets, more status.

Crew is my best option. Our situation is different because I’m also his best option. I have more power than most women entering an arranged marriage and no intention of ceding a single inch of it.

I stroll into the lounge with my head held high. All three of the women perched on velvet look familiar, but none of their names come to me right away. The only social events I attend are the ones I’m required to. Most of Manhattan’s elite feel fortunate to be invited to the endless slew of functions that act as an excuse to show off how much money you can spend on or in one evening. I only attend the parties where my lack of presence would be an insult.

As soon as I appear, all conversation ceases. Six eyes widen. Three sets of lips purse. A few harsh comments sneak to the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them. You can’t expect anyone to see you as above them if you lower yourself to their level. Insults say more about the speaker than the intended recipient.

I sweep past the three surprised women and out of the lounge without a word or a stumble. Rather than head straight back to my booth, I pause at the bar, stopping about twenty feet from where he is standing. One of the black-clad bartenders immediately rushes over to me.

“Gin martini, please,” I order.

“Right away, miss,” he replies.

He spins and immediately sets about making my drink, indicating he’s worked here long enough to appreciate Proof’s patrons don’t tolerate being kept waiting. I watch the dimmed lights twinkle off the line of colored bottles behind the bar as another bartender smoothly measures a stream of vodka and squeezes grapefruit atop it.

“Ellsworth.”

My stomach dips like the floor fell out beneath me as soon as I hear the deep, confident voice. I focus on everything tangible: the hard surface my arm is resting on, the pinch of my heels, the splash and smell of alcohol being poured. Without looking over, I instantly know who is standing beside me.

“Kensington.” I angle my head to the right so I can appraise him, keeping my casual pose in place.

Before tonight, the last time I saw him was at the Waldorfs’ holiday party four months ago. Crew looks the same, except he’s wearing a pair of navy slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up instead of the tux standard at society events. He looks like he came here straight from the office.

If there’s one thing I respect about Crew Kensington, it’s his work ethic. For someone who has had everything handed to him his entire life, he appears to pull his own weight at Kensington Consolidated. While wearing an entitled smirk, but still. His father, Arthur Kensington, values success over nepotism. He wouldn’t be grooming Crew for future CEO if he didn’t have what it takes to thrive in the role.

I glance past him, down to where he was standing before. “So, who’s the lucky lady tonight? The redhead or the blonde?”

Those blue eyes appraise me as he casually props one elbow on the varnished wood of the bar top, mirroring my relaxed posture. Crew swirls a tumbler of what smells like bourbon before he replies. “Or both.”