Fake Empire(37)

We haven’t even reached the end of the block when she speaks. “You have horrible taste in women.”

I look over. “What does that say about you?”

She ignores me. “I don’t want her in my penthouse.”

I bite back the our I want to correct her with. Instead, I tell her the truth. “It won’t be an issue.”

“I have work lunches at The Carlyle.”

It takes me a minute to realize what she’s saying. Another to wonder how the hell Scarlett knows that’s where Hannah stays when she’s in the city. “That’s not what I meant. She and I are done.”

“Does she know that?”

“Yes,” I reply. Then, for some stupid reason, that feels a lot like the loyalty she doesn’t seem to want, I elaborate. “I told her if she insulted you, I wouldn’t talk to her again.”

Scarlett scoffs. “Don’t do me any favors.”

I exhale loudly. “Now you’re annoyed I’m not fucking her?”

“No! I just—”

“Are you sleeping with other people?” I finally voice the question that’s been bothering me for weeks.

“Not sure,” she responds.

I gnash my teeth together. “Not sure what?”

“Not sure you would call it sleeping.”

Fuck. She is. “Who is he?”

“You don’t know him.”

Yeah, right. “I know a lot of people.”

“His name is Kyle. He’s a surgeon.”

That’s her type? A science nerd with a superiority complex? It bothers me more than I’m expecting. More than it should. If he’s not part of our world, maybe she actually has real feelings for the guy. “He sounds like a tool.”

“Jealous?” she taunts.

“That would require me caring what you do.”

“Exactly.”

I force a chuckle out. It sounds empty to my ears, but I doubt she can tell the difference. “That’s not something you need to worry about.”

“Great.”

“Great,” I echo.

It’s become predictable: the cycle of our conversations. The joking and the taunting and the silence. The way one of us is a little more open than the other. We’re never in sync—never both willing to give without wanting to take.

I pull out my phone and start to sort through emails that could all wait until Monday. At least my father will be happy about my initiative. He and Oliver got stranded in Miami due to a tropical storm. They traveled down south for some golfing and to meet with a commercial developer about offices for a new acquisition. In their extended absence, everything goes through me. I got home at three a.m. last night, or this morning, technically.

“I finalized the branding for my new clothing line today.” The sound of Scarlett’s voice is so unexpected, it startles me. I figured she was working on her side of the car. “It’s called rouge. That’s what these drawings are for. I’m choosing a design team. I also approved the proofs for the August issue of Haute and chose the articles for the September one. That was after I interviewed five secretaries, because Leah already has her hands full running my schedule at Haute and I need more help.”

Questions form. I know nothing about what she does on a daily basis. That’s why I asked earlier. But that was before I knew how much of a sham she sees this marriage as. Before I knew she’s fucked another guy with my ring on her finger.

Anger and jealousy pool in my stomach like tar—dark and toxic. “I don’t give a single fuck what you do, Scarlett. Remember?” I drawl the words like I have something better to do than to bother to say them, then continue scrolling through the hundreds of emails that have piled up.

She flinches. I catch the subtle recoil out of the corner of my eye before she turns away from me to stare out at the city lights. Troublesome emotions harden, sinking down through me like an anchor.

Why do I care?

Why can’t she?

The rest of the ride is silent.





CHAPTER NINE





SCARLETT





It’s hard to say which is more oppressive: the July heat or the five women staring at me with the intensity of a firing squad. “Are you and Crew trying for kids?”

I bite back the sarcastic retorts that come to mind in response to Eileen Waldorf’s probing question.

I’m still a virgin.

My husband is too busy with his mistresses.

Maybe in a decade or two.

Any of those comments would spread across the patio of my parents’ Hamptons house like wildfire. I may have clawed my way to relevance and respect in parts of the business world, but it’s come at the detriment of my standing among most of the women in New York society. My attempts to break out of the mold of marriage and kids haven’t made me any friends.

Eileen is only a year older than me. Before she married Daniel Waldorf last summer, she worked at a public relations agency. She had their first child a few months ago. It’s not uncommon for women to work—until they get married. I’m supposed to be joining the boards of charities and picking out nursery colors now that I’m Mrs. Kensington.

Instead of answering Eileen’s question with a sharp retort, I laugh and toss my hair. Just because I hate the game doesn’t mean I can’t play it. “No, not yet. We’re enjoying this time together, just the two of us.”