Fake Empire(33)

After taking two pills, I slip between the cool sheets and immediately fall asleep.





CHAPTER EIGHT





CREW





Her eyes widen she sees me. Barely, but I’m watching her closely enough to see the subtle shift in her face. Aside from her eyes, Scarlett’s expression remains sanguine. Two women are trailing her. One is typing frantically on her phone, probably taking notes. The other is balancing a tall stack of binders.

Scarlett’s steps don’t falter as she strides straight toward me. As they near, I can hear what she’s saying. “Hopkins should be booked for Thursday. Tell him I want two locations, preferably three. I handled the models already and all the samples from Chanel should be arriving on Monday. Tell Jeanette Richardson I need her piece on the wildlife foundation next week or she’ll be bumped until next year. Same with the travel feature. I’ll need final versions by Wednesday.”

She stops at my side. “Crew.”

“Scarlett.”

“Ready?”

“You’re not going to introduce me?”

Scarlett shoots me an annoyed look before turning back to the two women. “Crew, this is Leah, my main assistant.”

A petite woman with a blonde bob and black glasses gives me a small smile.

“And Andrea, my head of editorial content.”

“Lovely to meet you both.” I smile.

Andrea gives me an unimpressed look, while Leah looks away. Working with Scarlett has clearly rubbed off on them.

“I’ll be in the office tomorrow, if you need to reach me,” Scarlett says. Her tone is brisk. Both women hang on to every word. “Did you bring the Lorenzo sketches?” she asks Andrea.

Wordlessly, Andrea hands over one of the binders. Scarlett opens it and flips through a few of the pages. “Perfect. Good night.”

“Good night,” they both chorus, ignoring me. Whatever impression Scarlett has given them of me, it hasn’t been complimentary. And they’re loyal to her, the sort of loyalty that can’t be bought, only earned. It makes me admire her more, and there wasn’t a lack of it to begin with. She bought this flailing magazine and turned it into a thriving enterprise. I’m impressed. Proud—despite the fact I have no credit to claim. My sole contribution is that Scarlett seems set on spending as little time in my company as possible. If she’s actually spending the bulk of the time she’s not at the penthouse working, she’s logging ninety-hour weeks.

I move, straightening from the side of the limo I’ve been leaning against, and open the door. Andrea and Leah disappear back inside the building that houses Haute’s offices, leaving us on the bustling street.

“What a gentleman.”

“You’d think differently if you trusted yourself to be alone with me.”

Scarlett’s eyes flash as she slides onto the leather seat, arranging the blue organza so it covers up the flash of calf I just caught. The gown she’s wearing is off-the-shoulder with a sweetheart neckline that dips between the curves of her breasts. Standing while she sits offers one hell of a view.

“It has nothing to do with trust.”

I hum before shutting the car door and rounding the rear of the car to climb in the other side. As soon as my door shuts, the limo pulls out into traffic.

“Good day?”

She’s already started flipping through pages in one of the binders Andrea left her with. “Yeah. Fine.”

Stubbornly—stupidly—I press her. “What did you do?”

“More than fetch daddy’s coffee.”

Scarlett is trying to piss me off. Ever since the night she got back from Paris—when I carried her upstairs and demonstrated an incredible amount of self-control by not stealing a glimpse of her naked—she’s been prickly and combative every chance she’s had. I have a feeling if I’d come home to find her in heels and standing, not curled up on the couch, the animosity might be dialed down a notch. She’s definitely not indifferent toward me. I’m not sure if this is an improvement though.

I got up for a glass of water at three a.m. two nights ago. Scarlett was standing in the kitchen in her standard attire of a dress and heels, making a cup of tea. I haven’t seen her in jeans since my bachelor party, much less sweatpants or pajamas.

She’s already turned back to her binders, but I feel obligated to respond. “I’m the Vice President of—”

“I don’t care, Crew. Do whatever you want at work. Do whatever you want when you’re not at work. Just don’t tell me when I can or can’t work.”

“I didn’t tell you couldn’t work. I asked you about work, Scarlett.” I let some ire leak into my voice. Me being nice freaked her out. I can be short instead. “But let’s just sit in awkward fucking silence, same as we have every day since you got back.”

“Great. Let’s.” She flips a page so aggressively the corner tears.

I snort and look outside.

Tonight’s gala is being held on Carnegie Hall’s rooftop terrace. Our arrival attracts more attention than I’m expecting. This is our first official outing as a couple—much less a married one. Neither Scarlett’s parents nor mine are attending tonight, which makes us the sole representatives of New York’s two wealthiest families. Attention is something I’m used to. But the scrutiny feels different with Scarlett by my side. I battle the contrary urges to shield her and to step away.