Fake Empire(69)

“Nope. But he did discount his fabric to half cost when I was willing to pay double.”

“How exciting,” I drone.

“What’s this?” She’s looking at the cappuccino.

“What you think it is.”

“You got me a coffee?”

“There’s a cart,” I reply, excruciatingly aware of how everyone in a ten-seat radius is listening to this conversation.

“I can’t drink this.”

I sigh. “It’s soy, okay?”

Her eyes burn into me as I continue to pretend to look at papers. In reality, the numbers are blurring together.

“You think dairy substitutes are ludicrous.”

“They are. I just didn’t feel like listening to you complain about how you can’t drink dairy, despite the fact you’re not lactose intolerant.”

“The way I had to listen to you complain about the missing carton of two percent?”

I close the folder. “It’s not missing if you threw it out.”

“I relocated it.”

“Into the trash.”

“You don’t even take coffee to work in the mornings. I do.”

“There’s more oat milk in our fridge than ten people could drink in a month. But my one carton—”

“There were three,” Scarlett interjects.

Asher laughs. He tries to hide it in a cough, but it’s too late.

Scarlett glances past me. “Hi, Asher.”

“Scarlett. Pleasure, as always. I haven’t enjoyed a board meeting this much…ever.”

“It won’t be a regular occurrence. I’ve got plenty of work already. But I’m an overachiever, so…”

I grit my teeth as she delivers that little dig.

“I saw the announcement about rouge. Congrats.”

“Thanks, Asher.” Scarlett sounds genuine.

“And it already sold out? No pressure, huh?”

I look over at her, ignoring Asher entirely. “It sold out?”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t meet my gaze, sliding a folder back into her bag.

“You didn’t tell me.”

The words are out before I’ve thought them through, nothing more than a reflex. I know they’re a mistake, even before she scoffs. “I was going to tell you last night. Part of why I was late. You had other plans for the evening, apparently.”

Before I can decide how to respond or deal with the guilt, my father appears. The room falls silent as he takes his seat at the head of the table. There are no round tables at Kensington Consolidated. The pecking order might as well be spraypainted on the walls in here. Even among the board, the hierarchy is clear.

His eyes linger on Scarlett, but he doesn’t react to her presence. I knew he wouldn’t. I’ll hear about this at our next “chat” though.

Arthur Kensington doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He delves right into today’s agenda, taking updates from different departments on current projects and different acquisitions. The projectors display a series of graphs and charts disclosing profits and margins.

Scarlett seems engrossed in the material. I wonder if this is how she acted at Harvard.

I’m sipping my coffee when she speaks.

“Where are the November earning projections?”

Total silence follows Scarlett’s question. It’s carpeted in here, but if someone dropped a pen, you could hear it fall. You don’t interrupt Arthur Kensington. Not while he’s leading a meeting. Not when he’s complaining about the weather. Some of the executives sitting at the table have never said a single word during a board meeting, they’re so petrified of my father.

Scarlett isn’t stupid; she’s making a statement.

My father holds her gaze while the rest of us hold our breath. I have the bizarre urge to make a sound and break the quiet. To protect Scarlett from the heavy weight of Arthur Kensington’s disapproval.

Ridiculous on many levels, not the least of which is that Scarlett doesn’t need my protection—doesn’t need me for anything. She’s made that clear.

The rush of pride is also unexpected. Not many people have the confidence to question my father about anything, let alone business.

Silence continues to stretch. If I had to guess, I’d say that my father is wondering if dealing with Scarlett’s boldness is worth the billions we gained. He should try being married to her. I don’t regret agreeing to it—don’t hate her, the way she implied last night—but I most definitely underestimated what a challenge it would be.

“Isabel?”

I wonder if Scarlett knew Isabel is responsible for calculating the projections for our new projects. She definitely knew my father approves the packet before the meeting. I flip to the section containing the projections. September, October, December. No November.

My father missed a mistake, and Scarlett caught it.

“Yes, Mr. Kensington?” To Isabel’s credit, her voice doesn’t waver as she gets called out.

“Did your department exclude November from the projections?”

“It appears so. My apologies. I’ll correct the section and recirculate a copy to the board.”

My father nods. “Do that.” He looks to Scarlett. “I’m glad to see your talents extend beyond designing clothes and networking, Mrs. Kensington.”