Fake Empire(54)

We feel like a married couple—fifty years in. Not a loving one who cherishes every moment they share. A resigned one where time together is a chore and at least one person always has somewhere they’d rather be.

I’m completely off-kilter, but if I protest more, it will essentially be admitting I can’t handle his proximity. That I’m affected by being near him while he’s unconscious. I am, but I would rather sleep on the floor than give him that information. Than give Crew the satisfaction of pushing me out of my bed—of winning.

I stomp over to my bags to retrieve my toiletry kit and pajamas. I make sure to slam the bathroom door shut behind me, well aware I’m acting like a petulant child. More than being annoyed with Crew, I’m pissed at myself. If I really wanted to, I could make him leave. I’m choosing to allow this because a part of me wants it. I can feel the cracks appearing in my walls. And I know it.

Worse? So does he.

I just won’t admit it—to him or to myself.

I wash my face and slather it with moisturizer. After I go through the rest of my evening routine, I slide out of the dress I’ve been wearing all day and pull a sleep set on.

Then I pad back out into the living room, tossing my white dress over the same couch where Crew abandoned his jacket. I continue into the bedroom. The lamp is still on, but Crew appears fast asleep, his back rising and falling steadily with each breath. I hover in the doorway, taking the rare opportunity to study him, the same as I did last time we shared a bed. Something I thought would be an infrequent occurrence.

I head to the left side of the bed and slip between the silk sheets. It’s a king size bed, but it feels tiny. Crew and I are nowhere close to touching, but I can feel the heat radiating from his side of the bed. Hear his rhythmic breaths. Instead of counting sheep, I’m thinking about having sex with him.

It takes me a long time to fall asleep.





CHAPTER TWELVE





CREW





Scarlett does not like being surprised. I knew that before I set this plan into motion, and my ears are still ringing with her questions when we land in Italy. Her tone grows more and more annoyed with each vague response.

Where are we going? “You’ll see.”

How long are we staying? “Not sure.”

My personal favorite, which I don’t bother answering: Will there be WiFi?

I know she feels badly about what went down in Paris that first day. Telling me she didn’t want me there, pouting while Jacques hit on me. She’s too stubborn and prideful to actually apologize, but she agreed to extend our trip past the few days it was originally supposed to last. I lied and told her I needed to take a meeting on behalf of Kensington Consolidated, and it made more sense for me to cross the French-Italian border than put someone else on a plane from New York to Florence. After four days of avoidance and silence, I think she was just shocked I asked.

Maybe it’s hypocritical of me, expecting honesty from her while I make up meetings. But the difference is I’m lying to keep her close. Scarlett lies to push me away. And, call me insane, but I keep trying over and over again.

I’m as stubborn as she is. Having my wife ignore me isn’t just a point of pride. Scarlett fascinates me. Her beauty is captivating, but she is enthralling. I want more than a superficial relationship with her. More than a physical one, although my body wouldn’t completely agree.

I want to know why she’s a multi-billionaire working hours like she’s struggling to pay rent. I want to know whether her relationship with her parents was ever different than it is now, if their unhappiness bled into her—and now into us. I want to know why she agreed to marry me when she seems intent on ignoring her father’s wishes and is hostile toward commitment.

After she asks about the WiFi, I stop answering her questions, which only annoys her more. She’s still grumbling as she follows me off the jet and toward the waiting car.

The late-afternoon air is warmer and drier than it was when we left France. Dapples of golden light filter down from the blue sky, bathing the tarmac and the distant buildings that make up the airport with a subtle glow.

I exchange pleasantries with the driver before sliding into the air-conditioned car. He finishes loading our luggage into the trunk, and then we’re pulling away from the airport and turning onto a busy road.

“You speak Italian?” Scarlett sounds surprised.

“Some.” I ask her where the nearest train station is.

She appears impressed, telling me she doesn’t speak any Italian.

I catch our driver smiling in the rearview mirror as traffic thins and we coast along the road connecting the port city of Salerno and clifftop Sorrento before we enter Amalfi. The car winds past scenic views of terraced vineyards and cliffside lemon groves.

The villa is one of the few international properties my family owns that I ever bother staying at. When we pull up out front, I’m reminded why. It used to be an old rope factory producing fishing nets. The workers undoubtedly enjoyed the same view of aquamarine waves dotted with boats with a shoreline framed by the colorful houses staggered on the cliffs, looking as precarious as Jenga blocks. Years of renovations and wealthy owners have made the house unrecognizable from its humble beginnings. The majolica cladding was custom designed for this property alone.

Scarlett walks across the terracotta floors toward the terrace. She says nothing, which is a first. I’ve brought other women here before, and they’ve all spent a minimum of twenty minutes oohing and aahing over every detail. None of them grew up with the level of luxury Scarlett is accustomed to. All of them knew their time here would be limited and singular.