Fake Empire(73)

“You wouldn’t need to get married then,” I realize.

She nods. “I wasn’t…opposed to this.” She gestures between us. “I just wanted to do it on my own terms, I guess. And if I’d waited until we got married, then Haute would have already sold. I didn’t have many options.”

“I would have given you the money.”

“Like I said, I didn’t have many options.”

I half-smile at that. “Is he still involved?”

“No. I paid him back as soon as we got married. In full.”

“Did you sleep with him? Back then.”

“No. I don’t mix business and sex.”

“So he tried to.”

“Yes,” she admits.

“And tonight?”

“He wants to pursue another investment together.” She leans back and tucks her legs underneath her. “I took the meeting as a courtesy, but I told him no. That I have my hands full with Haute and now rouge. And.” She clears her throat. “I mentioned that I’m happily married.”

Like hell is this guy getting involved in Kensington Consolidated.

“He made another pass at you?”

“Yes.” She catches sight of my expression, and hers turns amused. “I handled it, Crew.”

I sigh. “I’m sorry. Last night…I was pissed.”

“Yep. Figured that out.”

“I thought we were finally in a good place. And then I saw those photos and I just…if it was true, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know. That’s why I didn’t say anything to you until now.”

“I should have told you about it. Possibly when you insinuated I didn’t earn Haute.”

I wince. “I’m an ass sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

I set my food down on the coffee table and move closer to her. I tilt her head up and trace my thumb across her bottom lip. “Scarlett.” Her name is my favorite word in the English language. I love saying it. Caressing the syllables.

I’m about to kiss her when she asks, “Where were you last night?”

“My old place. Alone.”

She holds my gaze. “Okay.”

“Would it bother you? If I hadn’t been?”

“Yes.”

I smile. “Good.”

For the first time, all our steps feel forward.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN





SCARLETT





“Morning.” I smile at Leah and Andrea as I step off the elevator.

“Mor—morning,” Leah stutters, then looks to Andrea. “Did you, um, did you not get my message?”

“About the delay with the delivery?” I glance down at my phone to respond to a text from my mother. She’s still been badgering me about dinner. “I saw it. I requested they send everything straight to the park. We should still be on schedule.”

“Okay. Great.” When I look up, Andrea and Leah are exchanging surprised looks.

I hide a smile. They’re both probably wondering why I’m in such a good mood. “I just have to grab a few things from my office and then I’ll head over there. Everything else is on schedule, right?”

Andrea nods. “I’ll see you both at one.”

I head into my office. The samples I was supposed to look through last night are hanging from a portable rack. Leaving by eight every night has cut into my productivity. I’m more happy about that than I ever imagined being.

I didn’t realize how unbalanced my life was until Crew straightened the scales. My drive to make Haute—and now rouge—successful bled into everything else. Dedicating every thought and decision to that goal is the reason the photoshoot today in Central Park will feature the hottest designers, most talented photographers, and most coveted models. It’s a point of pride—the pinnacle of my identity outside of being Crew Kensington’s wife. But it’s not a title I feel the urge to separate myself from as much as I used to. Crew is someone I’m proud to be attached to.

As I flip through each sample, I type up my comments and send them to the design team. I read through the article submissions for the next issue. Photos for the cover get flagged based on preference. And then I leave for the shoot.

Central Park is more crowded than I’m expecting. I rarely am out and about in the city during daylight hours—at least on a weekday. Joggers and families fill the winding paths that I weave through on my quest toward the carousel, where the shoot is set to take place.

Set-up has only just begun when I arrive. The area is being cordoned off as props and cameras are strategically placed. I confirm there are no issues and then take a seat on a nearby bench.

A few emails have already piled up. I answer them all, and then let my finger hover over Crew’s name. He’s probably busy.

Things are good between us right now—really good—and I’m scared to trust it. Just because things feel stable doesn’t mean they’ll stay this way. I saw how quickly his favor can shift during the debacle with Nathaniel.

Sexual attraction isn’t an enigma to me. It’s everything else: the way we’re both home by eight, the fact we sleep in the same bed, the two percent milk in the fridge. They symbolize things I thought we’d never be.