Fake Empire(31)

Rather than head into my office once she disappears, I walk toward the kitchenette around the corner. I pull a sparkling water out of the fridge and carry it into my office, pressing the cold glass bottle against my forehead as soon as I’m out of sight from the rest of the floor. I take a seat at my desk and spin around so I’m staring out at the skyline. My vision blurs as my focus disappears, turning the sharp angles into a jumble.

Home feels different now.





Three hours later, I leave my office. Leah looks up as soon as the door opens, ready for a request or a question. Instead, I tell her, “I’m headed out for the day.”

If she’s trying to mask her shock, she’s doing a poor job of it. Her coffee almost gets upended and sticky notes go flying as she struggles to comprehend my statement. “You’re—I mean, you’re—it’s—” Leah glances at the clock on her computer, as if I’m unaware it’s not even five p.m. yet.

“I have some personal business to take care of. I’ve been gone for a while.”

“I—sure, of course.”

Despite the fact I’m feeling worse instead of better, I manage a smile. “I have a life outside this office, Leah.”

That makes her panic more. “Of course you do. I didn’t mean—I… Please don’t fire me.”

I laugh, then wince as my head gives a particularly painful throb. “I’ll be back in first thing tomorrow.”

Leah nods. “Before you go…”

I pause. “Yes?”

“Your, uh, your husband’s secretary called earlier. While you were in the meeting with Lilyanne Morris.”

“And?”

“She called about the Rutherford gala for the children’s hospital on Friday. Mr. Kensington is requesting you attend with him.”

“Fine.”

Leah looks relieved by my answer. “Okay. I’ll let Celeste know.”

“No need. I’ll handle it.” I’ll have to talk to Crew eventually. It might as well include a conversation about how we’ll handle our joint social calendar.

Leah very obviously wants to ask me what I mean by that, but doesn’t. I want my employees to feel comfortable approaching me, but I don’t invite or indulge speculation about my personal life. That policy has been more difficult to enforce as of late, for obvious reasons. I let the news coverage inform my employees of my hasty engagement and marriage.

Telling someone something invites an opinion on it.

I say goodbye to Leah and head for the elevators, texting my driver to let him know I’m leaving. Twenty minutes later, I climb out of the car and walk into my building to take another elevator up to the top floor.

When the doors open, exhaustion hits me so fast I feel dizzy. This penthouse has always been a safe space for me—somewhere I can be Scarlett. Not poised or prepared or professional or anything anyone expects from me. I resent Crew for taking that sanctuary away from me.

Around him, I feel the compulsion to be perfect, more so than I’ve ever felt with anyone else. I care what he thinks of me. I can’t genuinely say that about anyone else, even my parents. It’s a problem—one I don’t have the energy to think about right now. Especially since he doesn’t appear to be here. There’s nothing indicating he ever has been.

I’m not sure why I expected my home to look different—but I did. I thought there would be some obvious evidence a man lives here now. Maybe boxers on the floor or a tie draped on the couch or a strip of condoms on the coffee table. There’s nothing. Not even a water stain on the teak coffee table I picked out. The tidiness is really all I absorb before I flop face-first onto the white couch. It’s uncomfortable, having my face smushed against the cushions. The construction crew hammering away at my skull isn’t all that relaxing either. I’m too uncomfortable to fall asleep and too comfortable to move upstairs.

I must fall asleep, though, because when my eyes blink open, I’m no longer alone. At first, I think the shadowy figure must be Phillipe or Martha. Then, I realize it’s too broad and tall to be either my chef or my maid. Recognize the way my traitorous heart starts beating faster for no good reason at all. I’m lying down—no exertion in sight.

“Rough trip?” Crew asks. The low, rough timbre of his voice washes over me, temporarily taking care of the headache. Adrenaline erases exhaustion. I forgot how stupidly symmetrical his face is.

I groan in response. My head still hurts. My throat is dry and my muscles feel stiff. “I feel like shit.”

“I gathered.” There’s a dry note to his voice that makes me think I must look as terrible as I feel. I shouldn’t care. I do. Crew Kensington is the last person I want to exhibit any sort of weakness in front of.

He approaches me hesitantly, like I’m a rabid animal likely to attack. If I could move my head, I would. I’d stand up and go far, far away. Somewhere I can’t smell him and sense him and see him. I close my eyes, like shutting off that sense will help. “I just need a minute before going upstairs. Go…do whatever. Have a drink in the library like usual.”

“How would you know what my usual is?”

Crap. Shit. Fuck. I keep my eyes closed and hope my face doesn’t say I browsed the security footage instead of watching Netflix while I was in Paris. “You’re just predictable, I guess.”