Fake Empire(66)

He doesn’t call me out on it, even when Oliver’s eyes widen. “I spoke with Sebastian Crane last week. Talked him out of taking his business elsewhere, after you assaulted his son.”

“Camden had it coming.”

My father shakes his head. “This spell of stupidity ends now, Crew. She may be beautiful, but she’s just a piece of pussy. Pull it together, before you embarrass this family.”

I’ve never wanted to hit my father more. “I said I’ll handle it.”

Brown eyes pin me in place. I’ve never been more grateful I inherited my mother’s blue ones instead. I look more like her than Oliver does, and I’ve always wondered if that’s why my father heaps me with more. More responsibility, more praise, more disappointment. It all depends on the day. Whatever he finds seems sufficient.

“Good.”

Oliver was too cowardly to interject in our conversation before, but he does me a solid and brings up some production issue with an overseas company. I pretend to listen, scratching out notes on a legal pad and stealing glares at the manilla envelope that puts Scarlett and me right back where we started: strangers.





My mood hasn’t improved by the time I stalk into my office. I nod at everyone who greets me, not even bothering with a hello.

Asher is in his usual spot: feet propped up on the corner of my desk. He grins when he sees me, waiting for me to comment. I’m too pissed to care where he sets his shoes. My skin hums with restless energy that simmers in my blood.

The last time I felt this unhinged, I punched Camden Crane. Before the Fourth of July, I’d been in one fight. It was in a Boston bar. A guy bumped into me and was drunk enough to think I shoved him. He threw the first punch, and I dropped him in one blow I’d consider self-defense. I’m not an irrational guy. I have a temper but I keep it closely leashed. Or at least I used to, before I married Scarlett.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Asher says. When I don’t reply, he adds, “I thought people were supposed to come back from vacation all relaxed. You look like you just attended your own funeral. I mean…” He lifts his feet and raises his eyebrows. “You didn’t even say anything.”

Sunshine. I snort. He should have seen me before eight a.m. I was fucking whistling when I walked into the building. Now, I yank my chair away from the desk so hard it almost topples. “I’m fine.”

Asher’s eyebrows are close to his hairline. “Holy fuck. What the hell happened? I’ve never seen you so pissed.”

“Just some bullshit with my dad,” I half-answer. “Forget it.”

“Bullshit about what?”

I shake my head.

“So…how was your trip?”

“Great.”

“Really?” He drawls the question in a disbelieving tone.

“Yep.” I log into my computer and start sorting through the stack of papers Celeste left on my desk.

“What about things with Scarlett?”

I force myself to keep sorting through the papers. “Good.”

The second “Really?” sounds even more dubious than the first.

There’s a knock on the door of my office. “Come in,” I call out.

It opens to reveal Isabel. I’m not surprised to see her; I half-expected she would be waiting in my office next to Asher.

“Hi, Crew.”

“Morning, Isabel.”

“Welcome back. You have a nice trip?”

“It was fine.”

“I thought it was great?” Asher interjects. I shoot him a glare, and he wisely shuts up.

“If you have some time this morning, I thought I’d catch you up on where the projects stand.”

“I’m free until ten. Take a seat.” I nod toward the open chair next to Asher.

“Guess that’s my cue.” Asher stands and buttons his suit jacket. “Great to have you back, buddy.”

I grunt a response as I grab a fresh sheet of paper to take notes on.





The four changes to a five. Quarter to eight, instead of 7:44. I’ve spent all day debating whether to honor the promise I made to Scarlett this morning—that I’d be home by eight. It was an easy one to, especially since she usually works later than I do. I was happy to; wanted to. But a big, petty part of me now wants to show her that I can be indifferent too.

I can put other things first.

Except I can’t, apparently, because I’m standing and grabbing my briefcase and heading for the elevators. All day, I’ve battled the urge to confront her. To show up at Haute’s offices and demand answers. But I didn’t. And now that the chance to get answers about the photos in my briefcase is approaching, I don’t know if I really want them.

The drive to the penthouse takes thirteen minutes. I step out of the elevator at 7:58. There’s commotion in the kitchen, so I head there first. Phillipe is standing in front of the stove, manning three pans at once. “Good evening, Mr. Kensington.”

“Evening, Phillipe. Is Scarlett home?”

“I don’t believe so.”

I glance at the clock. 7:59. “Okay. I’ll wait until she gets home to eat.”

“I’ll make sure everything is ready.”

“Thank you.”