Fake Empire(50)

“No.”

“I think you’re lying.”

“I think you’ll never know.”

“You should have played a non-contact sport in high school. Like…crew, maybe?”

He laughs. And it’s not a laugh I’ve heard from him before. It’s a warm, rough, masculine sound that feels like standing in front of a fire drinking hot chocolate. A comforting burn. “Pretty proud of yourself for coming up with that, Red?”

I smile. “A little.”

We climb the final few flights in silence. If Crew’s knee is still bothering him, he doesn’t say anything about it. He keeps up with me easily as we reach the top observation deck and glimpse Paris spread out in front of us.

“Wow.” I’m used to closing off my emotions and reactions. I’m always ready with a right answer or a snappy retort, never caught off guard or confused. Never appreciating where I am or what I’m doing. It’s exhausting, and a guard I usually only let down when I’m alone.

I never expected to be myself around Crew Kensington. I’ve seen plenty of people navigate arranged marriages with minimal interaction. I expected us to be no different. It’s disconcerting, realizing we might be. That I like him. Might have chosen to marry him even if his net worth was half of what it is—or nonexistent.

A couple of girls who look like they’re in college ask Crew to take a picture of them. I lean against the railing and eyeball their interaction. Everywhere we go, Crew seems to command female attention. The women at Proof, Hannah Garner, Olivia Spencer, the blonde tennis player.

It’s not that I don’t see Crew’s appeal—I do. It’s that I’m torn. Staking a claim—admitting my attraction—comes with risks. Once I lay down my metaphorical cards, that’s it. I’ll have skin in the game. And it will get rubbed raw when Crew cheats.

For all the attention he gets, I’ve never seen him flirt with a woman. At most, he seems to allow women to flirt with him.

Even now, with two pretty girls in their early twenties drooling over him, he seems uninterested. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He doesn’t look at them the way he was just looking at me. I wish I could blame the happy feeling on the fact I’m standing at the top of the Eiffel Tower on a perfect summer day.

I think it has more to do with him.

Rather than continue spying, I look out at the city. There’s a light breeze that counteracts some of the summer heat, blowing my hair out of my face.

“Scarlett!”

I glance over to see Crew beckoning me over. I walk over to where he is standing with the two women. Neither of them appear thrilled by my appearance.

“This is Natasha and Blair,” he introduces. “They’re from New York too.”

“Awesome.” You could hear the fakeness in my voice from outer space.

I don’t have to see Crew’s smile; I can hear it in his voice. “Natasha goes to Parsons.” He looks to the lighter of the two blondes. “Scarlett is the editor-in-chief of Haute.” There’s an unmistakable note of pride in his voice that wreaks havoc on my nervous system.

“Oh my God! Really?” Suddenly, Natasha and Blair are looking at me with awe, not annoyance. “I love Haute. I read every issue cover to cover. The articles, the photography, the design? All my friends are obsessed with it.”

Each month, I get the number for Haute’s circulation. I judge the success of the magazine on how much money it is making and which models or actresses want to be featured on the cover. But I’ve never seen the hero worship on someone’s face as they realize I approved every page.

“Can you sign this?” Natasha pulls a worn copy of the July issue out of her bag and holds it out to me, along with a pen.

“Um, sure.” I take the pen and scribble my signature just below the bold font spelling out Haute.

Natasha takes the magazine back like it’s a priceless treasure.

“Would one of you mind taking a photo of us?” Crew asks, holding his phone out.

I’m surprised but I try not to show it. Aside from our wedding photos, we don’t have any together. I didn’t think he would want any.

Blair takes Crew’s phone as he pulls me toward the railing. I trip over nothing and slam into his chest.

“If you wanted to stand this close, all you had to do was ask,” he whispers as he pulls me to him. I smile as his arms tighten around my waist, pinning me against him.

“Got it,” Blair announces. Without looking, I know what moment she captured.

Crew thanks her and we say goodbye before moving farther down the observation deck. I snap a few photos of the view while Crew fiddles with something on his phone.

“Do you not have an Instagram?”

“What?”

“There’s a Scarlett Ellsworth, but I seriously doubt you posted this.” He shows me the screen of his phone. It’s a photo of me walking down the street talking on the phone.

“What the hell?” I grab his phone and squint at it. The photo got forty-three thousand likes.

Crew takes his phone back. “So, no?”

“Technically, I run Haute’s account, but I have someone who posts content for me.”

He smirks as he types. “Of course you do. I’m not tagging a fashion magazine.”