Fake Empire(52)

A clothing line might be a pursuit most people look down upon. It’s not as refined as finance or any Wall Street dealings. My father certainly thinks it’s shallow and silly.

But that’s the beauty of dreams: they’re yours. No one else’s. You don’t need permission or justification to pursue them. You can give them relevance and importance and meaning all by yourself.

Unfortunately for my heart, Crew doesn’t seem to share my dad’s opinion. Between strolling the gardens and wandering the halls of the palace, he asked me questions about rouge and listened to the answers.

Either he’s extremely dedicated to getting me into bed, or he actually cares how I spend my time, energy, and money.

I spend most of dinner studying him. This is the first time I’ve seen Crew in what isn’t his element. He’s not here to pursue a deal for Kensington Consolidated. I doubt he knows much, if anything, about the fashion industry. Jacques isn’t someone he’d have common acquaintances with.

And yet, he’s thriving. Charming. This was meant to be a business dinner. Every meal I shared with Jacques during my last trip here was spent brainstorming or flipping through sketches. Tonight, there’s no sign of the manic energy usually buzzing around him like a swarm of bees, tossing out ideas at the speed of light. Jacques is relaxed and laughing. So is Crew. I’m the interloper growing more and more annoyed as they chat like old friends instead of strangers.

This is my trip. My endeavor. My domain. Our lives were supposed to stay separate. Suddenly, they’re so entangled I can’t look past him.

I excuse myself and head to the restroom after we finish eating, not even sure they’ll notice my disappearance. After I’ve used the bathroom, I linger at the sink, dabbing my face with a paper towel and checking my teeth for food.

When I open the restroom door, Crew is leaning across the opposite wall with his arms crossed.

“I know your French isn’t great, but you’re not blind. The stick figure wearing a dress means this is the women’s restroom. Men’s must be down there.” I jerk my head to the left, where the hallway extends. On a scale of one to bitchy, I’m at an eleven.

He says nothing at first, which is the worst possible response. Crew has become the one person I can rely on to challenge me. I crave that from him, more than financial security or fidelity. I want him to see me as an equal and as a partner—because that’s the way I see him. The muscles of his jaw shift as he visibly clenches it, holding in whatever he was going to reply with. I wait, and it spills out. “What the fuck, Scarlett?”

The question is basically spat at me. I want to smile, but I don’t. “What the fuck what, Crew?”

“I can’t win with you. No matter what I do. I came here to support you. And I watch tennis for hours and try to get to know you and make small talk with your—I don’t even know what Jacques does for you—and you act like I’m in your way!”

He’s too good. At all of this. I know how to play the game of secrets and lies and deceit. Of betrayal and sweeping mistakes under the rug. I know how to handle the Crew I talked to at Proof, who looked at me with total indifference. The guy who would greet me with a perfunctory, bland You look nice and then ignored me for the rest of the night. I’m not equipped to handle the Crew who came here to support me. Who makes me feel special—same as he does with everyone else. He’s the sun and I’m Icarus, after he learned his lesson.

“I didn’t ask you to do any of that!” I snap. “I didn’t ask you to come. I didn’t want you to come.”

He shakes his head. Laughs. Scoffs. “If this is you trying, I can’t imagine how you’ll act when you’re about to file for divorce.”

I don’t react to them, but I feel the words hit me like a physical slap. I meant it when I told him I’d try. He’s staining that moment, that memory, dragging it through this ugly argument. I spent all afternoon trying. If I hadn’t, I would have been holed up in the hotel working. Ignoring each other except to exchange insults wasn’t tenable. Neither is the happy couple we pretended to be today. I’ll always have one foot out the door—always be waiting for him to turn into some version of my father—focused on nothing but keeping the keys to the kingdom.

Crew told me he could have married someone else earlier. We both know why he didn’t. If my last name wasn’t formerly Ellsworth, he would have. He has qualities that can’t be bought, like charisma and charm. More to offer than a handsome face and a bank account trailing zeroes.

People genuinely like him. They indulge me because they know I can be a powerful friend and a ruthless enemy. Because I’ve found fear far more effective than love.

He wouldn’t have married me if not for an arrangement.

But I would have married him.

That realization is why I can no longer look at him. I study the stucco floor tiles instead. “I’m not going to file for divorce.”

Maybe the most honest sentence I’ve ever said to him. I won’t be the reason this marriage ends. Fails, maybe. But not the one who flags the dotted line to sign.

Not because my father would be furious I destroyed the future he arranged.

Not because I’d lose everything I gained.

Not because my other prospects would be dismal.

Because I’m selfish.

I want him and I don’t want anyone else to have him.