Fake Empire(56)

“I know you’re a decent guy, and so does she. She’s using it. Playing you. Everyone says she’s an ice queen. Even if the sex is good, cut your losses. Just—”

“Stop. Talking.”

“Crew…”

“She’s not an ice queen. You should trust me on that, not the guys bitter she never gave them the time of day.”

“If you say so.” Asher’s voice is skeptical.

“If you don’t believe me, ask Camden Crane what he was saying right before I punched him,” I suggest. “If you want to discuss anything related to work, email me. I’ll answer once I’ve thawed out.” Then I hang up.





I can’t look away from her. Candles dance between us, casting a soft glow over Scarlett. Across her sharp cheekbones and long lashes. Her red lips and blue dress.

She was quiet when I returned from the café. Agreeable when I suggested going out to dinner. We’re at my favorite restaurant. The railing to my left is built into the cliff itself. A glance to the side, and all you can see is the churning sea. We’re suspended on solid ground.

“So everything is all set? With rouge?” I ask.

“Yes. The website will go live tomorrow as soon as it’s announced.”

“Are you excited?”

I’m expecting a glib retort. Not, “Terrified.”

For a second, I think she’s messing with me. But the tiny shrug before she takes a bite of bucatini is genuine in its vulnerability.

I lean forward. “Don’t take this the wrong way—”

She interrupts. “Terrible way to start a sentence.”

I smile. “Why are you doing it? I know Haute has been lucrative, but you don’t need the money. You were already handling the jobs of three people, and then you went and added more work for yourself. At first, I thought it was me—us. You were avoiding being at home. But at dinner with Jacques…you’ve been planning this for years. Why, Scarlett? I get proving yourself, I do. But pushing yourself like this seems…I don’t know. Excessive?”

Scarlett looks out at the water. The sunset is smeared across the sky behind her. Splashes of tangerine and peach mingled with golden light. Her profile is just as stunning as the rest of her.

Sighing, I lean back. “Never mind. I—”

“I feel like I need to earn it.” She turns back toward me, her hazel eyes appearing more green than brown tonight. “My whole life, I’ve had everything handed to me. Yeah, I worked for things, but I would have gotten them, regardless. Harvard wasn’t going to reject an Ellsworth. Applying was practically a formality. I saw Haute was for sale, and I… I don’t know. I knew I could turn it around. Even now that it’s doing well, I haven’t fully let myself trust it. The harder I work, the more I feel like I deserve the success. But I took it over. The pieces were all in place; I just used money and connections to make them shiny again. With rouge…it’s mine. All me. I want the clothes I design to make women feel powerful. I want them to be made in cities where people need work, in a building where people are excited and proud to be working there. I want to feel like I did something that mattered, and that I did it myself. When I donate to charities, that’s all I can do. Sign the check. I’m not healing the kids or flying the plane with emergency supplies. But I know clothes. I can design the outfit that someone wears when they get their dream job. Or on the first date with the person they’re going to marry. Or—” She stops talking and looks away, cheeks flushing. “It’s silly, I know.”

“It’s not.” That’s all I say until she meets my gaze. “It’s not silly, Red.” I lift my glass and tip it toward her. “To rouge.”

“To rouge,” she echoes, tapping hers against mine.

We maintain eye contact as we both drink, and it feels more intimate than I can recall sex ever being.

“Royce Raymond wants me to take over his production company.” A subtle rise of her eyebrows is the only indication she heard me. “He made the offer at our wedding. Said I should carve out my own legacy. I don’t think I’ll take it. But…it’s an option.”

Scarlett drains her glass and refills it. “An option in LA?”

“I wouldn’t consider it if it was in LA.”

“Why not? It’s warm. Sunny. You could surf.”

I smirk. “I don’t know how to surf.”

“You could learn.”

Somehow, Scarlett always manages to say what I least expect. “Do you want to move to LA?”

She scoffs. “Of course not. New York is home. I’d never move to California.”

“Like I said, I wouldn’t consider it if I had to move to LA.”

That confession sits between us for a minute. “You don’t know anything about the film industry.”

“How do you know?” I counter.

“You read or you watch baseball when you have free time.”

She’s right; I can’t even come up with the name for the last movie I watched. I’m surprised she noticed. “I said the same thing,” I admit. “He said he has people who do. He wants me for my business sense.” I leave off the bit about my moral compass.

Scarlett nods, as if that answer makes sense. “No crack about how I don’t have any?” I tease.