Fake Empire(43)

I tiptoe into the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face.

When I step back into the bedroom, Crew’s asleep. Or he’s doing a convincing job of pretending he is. He’s not wearing a shirt either. Until this evening, I’d rarely seen my husband in anything but a suit. I lean against the doorframe and look at him. His skin is golden. I’m not sure when he has the chance to absorb any Vitamin D. He seems to work almost as much as I do. His tan stands out against the white sheets loosely draped over the abdomen that’s impressively defined even while relaxed. He must work out. When, I have no clue. That realization bothers me. I’ve spent the past couple of weeks living with him, and I learned more when I was spying on security footage from across the Atlantic.

Getting to know Crew terrifies me. The little I already know intrigues me. The reasons for this marriage were supposed to be the real part. The money, the opportunities, the empire our combined resources would form. Me and him were supposed to be fake.

Instead, the empire feels fake.

Leaning against Crew earlier felt very real.

What happened to her? That girl who didn’t care? There was a very recent time when I didn’t second-guess anything. When I wasn’t tempted to leave work early. When I didn’t get distracted. When blue eyes didn’t haunt my thoughts.

A tiny corner of my heart whispers the answer. She married Crew Kensington.

I turn off the bathroom light and tiptoe across the floor until I reach my suitcase. It takes me a few minutes to sort through my belongings in the dark, but I finally find a silky nightgown.

Slipping under warm sheets feels foreign. The bed is usually cold when I climb into it. I huddle as close to the edge of the mattress as I can without falling off it. Even though I can’t see or feel him, I can sense him. Smell his shampoo. Hear his breathing.

Once I’ve accepted I won’t be falling asleep anytime soon, I slip out of bed and pad toward the door. The hallway is empty and quiet. I head downstairs and cross the cold tile of the entryway that leads into the living room. French doors line the far wall overlooking the pool. I pause by the bookcase to grab the well-worn copy of Gone With The Wind and then type the security code into the keypad by the fridge. It flashes green, indicating the alarm has been disabled.

There’s no sign of the party that took place earlier. Every surface gleams, spotless. I grab a wineglass, an unopened bottle, and an opener, then head outside. The moon casts a luminous glow that coats everything.

I settle on one of the chairs that line the edge of the pool. The cork pops on the first try. I pour myself a generous glass and then settle back against the cushions, taking the occasional sip as I stare out at the stretch of private beach that buttresses the backyard from the ocean.

Then I pick up the book and start to read.





CHAPTER TEN





CREW





When I wake up, I’m the only one in the bed. I stretch one hand out, feeling the cool fabric where Scarlett should be. My sore knuckles protest the movement. I wince, both from the pain and the memories of how I ended up with a swollen hand. A glance at the clock on the bedside table tells me it’s just past three a.m.

I flip onto my back, trying to fall back asleep. Eventually, I give up. I climb out of bed and pull on a pair of athletic shorts. I don’t bother with a shirt before heading out into the hallway. Josephine and Hanson’s room is in the opposite wing of the house. Unless they make it a habit of wandering around in the middle of the night, which I very much doubt, I don’t need to worry about running into my in-laws.

It doesn’t take long to find Scarlett. The lights are on in the kitchen and the door leading out to the patio and pool is ajar. As soon as I step outside, I spot her sprawled out on one of the chairs, holding a wineglass in one hand and paging through a paperback with the other.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask as I take a seat at the end of the lounge chair she’s lying on.

She shoves her book aside and takes a sip of wine before she answers. “You snore.”

“No, I don’t.”

Scarlett sighs. “No, you don’t. But you were there.”

I know what she means. We have yet to sleep together, in the literal or the sexual sense. The forced proximity of this trip isn’t unwelcome, but it’s definitely weird. I never know how to act around her. Every time I think we might have made some progress, we slide right back. She can’t even sleep next to me.

I rest my elbows on my knees and stare at the flat surface of the pool. The filters form small ripples that refract the moonlight beaming down. “Is this how it’s going to be, Scarlett?”

“Is this how what is going to be?”

“Us. Is this what you want?”

“We’ve never been about what I want.”

I laugh. “Bullshit.”

Her eyes flash. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. If you didn’t want this, we wouldn’t be married.” I stare her down, daring her to deny it.

She looks away. “I expected this to be different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know. Just…different.”

I sigh. Nothing is ever simple or straightforward with this woman. “I’d like to know what it’s like to fuck my wife, Scarlett.”

She doesn’t flinch at the crude statement. Doesn’t react at all. “You can get that elsewhere.”