Fake Empire(6)

“You’re late,” my father announces as I take a seat across from him. I resist the urge to direct his attention to the clock above the projector screen used for presentations.

It’s ten seconds past eight a.m.

Instead, I say, “Sorry. Hope you two had some golf stories to swap.”

My father’s eyes narrow, trying to decide if I’m being glib or genuine. The fact he can’t tell is a source of pride.

He and Oliver love flying investors and potential partners around to different courses, hashing out business over eighteen holes. Those outings often involve polo shirts and bets. I prefer to do business in a stiff suit inside a boardroom.

“The paperwork is all set?” he questions, letting the jab slide.

“Yes,” I answer. “I went to Richard’s office on Sunday.” Just how I wanted to spend my one day off in two weeks, signing a two-hundred-page document explicitly laying out how each asset will be distributed in the event my upcoming union ends in a divorce.

My father hums, which is the closest to a sound of approval he gets. “The Ellsworths will be over for dinner on Friday night. Make sure you have a ring by then.”

“I want Mom’s.”

Not much gets to my father anymore. A mention of the woman he buried two decades ago seems to be the one thing that always does. The glimmer of surprise in his eyes disappears quickly. “It’s in the safe.”

I nod.

“Can we move on from the marriage talk?” Oliver requests. The snide way he says marriage answers any questions about how he’s handling the upcoming addition to the family.

Two years older than me, he should be the one embarking on the archaic tradition of an arranged marriage. Probably to Scarlett Ellsworth, a prospect that didn’t bother me at all before I exchanged more than a few dozen words with her. Her sharp tongue would be lost on my stalworth brother. Before, our engagement was a hypothetical. A probable outcome, but far from certain. That’s changed, and the tick in Oliver’s jaw says it bothers him.

Our father decided I was going to be the one who married Scarlett years ago, and Oliver and I learned far earlier than that not to question his decisions. What Arthur Kensington says, goes.

The muscle above my father’s right eye twitches, a surefire sign he’s displeased. “This marriage is crucial for the future of this family, Oliver. You know that.”

No matter how old you get, I don’t think the perverse satisfaction of a sibling getting scolded for a slight against you ever fades. It hasn’t after twenty-five years, at least.

“I do, Dad,” is Oliver’s hasty answer.

Our father nods. “Good. Now, we need to go over the team for the Warner Communications transition. I was planning to have Crew oversee everything, but he’ll be busy over the next few months, before and after the wedding.”

My brain homes in on the phrases few months and after the wedding. “There’s a date set for the wedding?”

“Nothing official yet. We’ll let the engagement announcement settle for a few days before announcing one. The wedding planner said she could pull something together by early June.”

June? “June?” It’s mid-April. I’m not opposed to marrying Scarlett. Mildly intrigued, even, following our conversation at Proof on Friday night. But six weeks feels close—claustrophobic. I wonder if her father has even told her we’re officially engaged yet.

“This agreement has been in place for nearly a decade, Crew. If you had objections, we’re far past the point to raise them. The press release is going out tomorrow.” I love how my father makes pushing your sixteen-year-old into a future engagement sound normal. I don’t even remember what our conversation back then consisted of. Probably lots of nodding on my part.

“I’m not objecting, Dad. Just asking.”

“Josephine Ellsworth is handling the wedding logistics. Scarlett is her only child. I’m sure she’ll keep you appraised, probably with more than you want to know. Now, what do you think about assigning Billingston to lead Warner? He had the experience at Paulson with…” My father continues to talk through the strengths and weaknesses of all the executives not currently on assignment. I lean back in the chair and scratch notes on a legal pad to refer to later.

Eight fifteen a.m., and I’m ready to call it a day.





I walk into my office and stop. Take a few steps back. Glance at the nameplate. “For a second, I thought I had the wrong office. But no. This is my office.”

“That joke gets funnier every single day you do it, man.”

“Off.”

Asher Cotes doesn’t move his feet from the corner of my desk. “Good morning to you too.”

“I mean it, Cotes. I’m not in the mood.”

“Was Roman thirty seconds late to pick you up again?” my best friend teases.

I snort as I stalk toward my chair. “I was late for a meeting with our entire accounting division on Friday because of that delay.”

“Too bad your name’s not on the letterhead. I’m sure they chewed you out.”

They didn’t, and we both know it. The vice president actually apologized, thinking he got the time wrong. I don’t tell Asher that.

“That’s how my dad runs things. Not me.” I unbutton my suit jacket and take a seat behind the massive mahogany desk.