Fake Empire(47)

For the first time since Scarlett came downstairs, Hanson speaks. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Scarlett?”

Her hand tightens around her fork. “Yes.”

“The magazine might be doing well for the time being, but that’s no reason to get ahead of yourself. Especially now that you’re married.”

“I fail to see what my marriage has to do with it.” Scarlett’s voice is icy.

“You’re too smart to play dumb, sweetie.” Hanson’s tone is condescending. “You know what the expectations are.”

Scarlett stabs another strawberry. “Thanks for the unsolicited advice, Dad.”

“If you won’t listen to me, I hope you’ll listen to your husband. This arrangement took years. Don’t destroy it to play dress-up.” Hanson glances at me. “Surely you agree this is ridiculous.”

“If I thought it was ridiculous, I wouldn’t be going to Paris next week to help out however I can.” Without thinking it through—at all—that’s the reply that flies out of my mouth.

Hanson is too practiced of a businessman to show any surprise. But it’s obvious he’s taken aback in the way he doesn’t say anything right away. Whatever he was planning to say clearly no longer applies.

“How exciting!” Josephine jumps into the conversation. “I hope you two will make time for some sight-seeing. You never went on a honeymoon.”

“I love sight-seeing.” I don’t; I can’t recall the last time I actually took in the sights on a trip. My international travel for Kensington Consolidated usually consists of quality time spent at a hotel and in a boardroom. It’s worth saying so to see the dubious expression on Scarlett’s face, though. I resist the urge to laugh.

Josephine goes on and on about her favorite spots in Paris while Scarlett and I eat. Hanson stays focused on his newspaper. Scarlett eventually excuses herself to go up and change. I give her a few minutes head start and then follow.

When I walk into the room, Scarlett has already dressed in a pink sundress. She glances up in the midst of slipping on a pair of wedges. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I repeat.

“I’m leaving the car here if you want to go out. Keys are on the dresser.”

I slip my hands in my pockets, watching as she straightens and smooths her dress. “Okay. I might go see Andrew for a bit.”

“Okay,” she echoes. There’s some curiosity on her face—I’m sure she wants to ask about what happened with Camden again—but all she does is grab her phone.

“You want to head home when you get back?”

Our original plan was to spend another night, but I’m happy to head back early.

Relief washes over her face. “Yeah.”

I nod. “Okay.”

She glances around the room, checking to make sure she has everything. Then she walks toward the doorway where I’m standing. Rather than pass, she pauses. Her mouth opens. Closes.

Scarlett shakes her head. “Fuck it.”

She kisses me. I’m too shocked to react at first. By the time I start to respond, she’s already pulling back.

One small smile, and she’s gone.





CHAPTER ELEVEN





SCARLETT





As Audrey said, Paris is always a good idea. And ever since I became editor-in-chief of Haute, trips to France’s capital city have become common.

This particular visit is one I’ve been dreading and anticipating. I’m here to approve final designs and fabrics for rouge. Once everything is in place, I’ll go public with the announcement. It’s a daunting prospect. I’m worried I’ll fail. Fashion is a hard industry to break into, no matter how much money you have. You can’t buy success. And if I fail, I’ll fail as Scarlett Kensington.

Right now, I’m more focused on my companion for this trip than anything else. I wasn’t expecting for Crew to back me up with my dad in the Hamptons. I was expecting for him to stay in New York. Apparently, he meant it when he said he was coming with me.

Things have been tenuous between us since the Fourth. Not awkward, the way they were before we left for the Hamptons. It took me a few days to process everything that happened in the short span of time. Those same days were spent logging long hours finalizing the September issue of Haute and preparing for this trip. And then he was waiting at the airport when I arrived for my flight, since Leah shares all my travel details with his secretary. I made the mature decision to pretend to sleep for the duration of the six-hour flight.

Crew hasn’t said much since we arrived. So far, we’ve checked in at the hotel, met with two of my fabric suppliers, and now we’re at the French Open. Jacqueline Perout is a friend from Harvard and heiress to Europe’s premier department store. Securing her interest in rouge will be paramount to its success, so turning down an invitation to watch a morning match from her box wasn’t really an option.

“Scarlett Ellsworth! How lovely to see you!” Richard Cavendish has come to stand beside me in the executive suite I’m watching the match from.

Richard is the vice president of a prominent French publication. Our paths inevitably cross at many of the social events I attend here. I believe he’s the only person who considers himself charming.

I take a sip of mimosa before answering. Just like with most of the men in my social circle, it’s less painful to converse with Richard slightly buzzed. “Nice to see you too, Richard.”