Fake Empire(42)

I thought things between me and Crew would settle naturally. That we would find some routine that allowed us to reap the benefits of this arrangement without compromising our individual goals. But more and more, it’s feeling like things between us are being permanently decided. The disconnect between us feels like it’s hardening and callousing. The decisions we’re both making feel like they’ll matter—like they’ll define what the rest of our relationship looks like for however long it lasts.

When I reach the edge of the patio, I hesitate. I should slip inside and rejoin the party. Play the perfect hostess and give Crew a chance to cool off. I walk inside, but instead of following the sound of talking and laughter, I slip up the back stairwell that leads to the second floor.

The door to my usual bedroom is ajar, even though I’m certain I closed it before heading downstairs earlier. I push it open to reveal the room is empty and dark. But the bathroom light is on. I close the door behind me and drop my heels in a heap, announcing my arrival.

Silently, I pad across the jute rug over to the doorway that leads to the en suite. Crew is standing at the sink, washing his hands. The water runs pink.

I lean against the doorway, debating what to say. I settle on, “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” His tone is as short as his response.

I stay in place as he shuts off the tap and dries his hands, avoiding the cut on one knuckle. “You should put some hydrogen peroxide on that.”

He doesn’t reply. I shove away from the doorframe, walking over to him. Tension is still radiating off him as I brush against his arm so I can lean over and pull the brown bottle out of the cabinet. I grab a few cotton balls as well.

“Sit.” I nod toward the edge of the tub as I soak the cotton with liquid. The harsh chemical smell burns my nose.

Crew hesitates before he complies. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he perches on the marble. The bathroom is big—as large as the one in my penthouse—but it feels tiny with his presence. I study the golden hairs on his tan arms. The way his shirt pulls taut across his shoulders. The blue eyes that see more than I mean to show.

Satisfied the cotton is soaked, I cross the tile and crouch down so I can dab the ball on the split between his knuckles. For a few seconds, the only sound is our breathing.

Crew speaks first. “You know, I’ve imagined you in this position before. Never doing this, though.”

I meet his gaze for a minute. A few retorts are on the tip of my tongue. Some dirtier than he probably thinks I’m capable of. But I don’t want our first time to be like this. So I ask a question I’m pretty sure will douse any more innuendo. “Why don’t you like the Hamptons?”

“I like them fine.” His response is nonchalant. There’s emotion underneath it though, underscored in the way his jaw tightens and his eyes darken. This close, I can’t not register the subtle changes.

“Then why don’t you come here in the summer?”

“Who told you that?”

I keep dabbing. “Rachel Archibald. It’s a good thing we had a short engagement. If the number of you’re not good enough for him comments I heard today are the amount after the wedding, who knows what it would have been like before.”

“Who said you’re not good enough for me?” Rather than gloating, his expression is more of a glower.

“I know what people think of me. I get everything I want without working for it, apparently.”

“You work hundred-hour weeks, Scarlett. Fuck anyone who says that.”

I don’t say what I’m thinking: you probably already did. I’m sick of the jibes.

He uses his uninjured hand to tilt my chin up. “I mean it. You’re Scarlett Ellsworth. You don’t care what anyone thinks.”

“I’m good at acting like I don’t.” More honest than I meant to be.

“You don’t have to act around me.”

I don’t answer at first. I lift his right hand so I can inspect the cut on his hand more closely. His knuckles are pink and swollen, but at least he’s no longer bleeding. “Kensington.”

“Huh?”

I drop his hand and throw the cotton balls into the trash can before I stand up. “You called me Scarlett Ellsworth. It’s Scarlett Kensington.” His smile makes me wish I’d stayed sitting. “I’m going to head back downstairs.”

He nods; I flee. I put my heels back on and step out into the hallway. I need space. Time. Distance.

Crew is confusing. Everything about him is confusing. What he says. What he does. What he doesn’t say. What he doesn’t do. And the way I feel around him is the most confusing of all.

Going into this marriage, I had one goal: to make Crew see me as an equal. I’ve retained all the power I had when I agreed to marry him. I didn’t consider any of the other ways I might want Crew to see me. I’m worried—terrified—what the repercussions of admitting I want things between us to be real might be. But continuing along the way we have isn’t tenable.

Rather than walk downstairs, I head into one of the other guest rooms down the hall. I feel like being alone. There’s a loveseat in the corner I curl up on. I lose track of time as I lie there and replay today in my head.

Once the sounds downstairs grow quieter and quieter, I stand and walk back down to my room. The bedroom is dark and the bathroom light is on, just like before. But there’s a big lump in the left side of the bed.