Fake Empire(8)

Oliver scoffs at that. “Why would she care? She’s got her fashion shit to focus on.”

I say nothing before I walk out of the suite that serves as the floor’s break room. The glass door shuts soundlessly behind me as I stroll down the hallway that leads to the main executives’ offices, which includes mine. Employees scutter out of my way as I pass.

Celeste is back at her desk when I reach the end of the hall.

“She’s inside?” I ask.

My secretary nods. I want to take a moment—to prepare to see her—but I can’t. Aside from Celeste, there are at least a dozen people in this wing of the building surreptitiously eyeing me. Hesitation is weakness, and I refuse to show it. I stroll into my office like I own it—which I do.

Scarlett is standing behind my desk, staring out at the skyline. The afternoon sun shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing my office—and her—in golden light.

She turns at the sound of the door closing behind me. The silk material of her navy dress swishes around her thighs as she moves, strolling to the side of my desk. Her confident posture suggests this is her office, not mine. No one ventures behind the stretch of mahogany, much less leans against it, the way she is casually doing. Fifteen years of friendship, and all Asher has ever dared to do is rest his shoes on one corner.

She crosses her arms. “Took you long enough.”

“Some of us have important matters to handle, darling.”

“Your secretary said you were at lunch.”

I grind my molars. “It was a working lunch.”

“Sure.”

Normally, I’d immediately stride behind my desk and take a seat in the leather chair. But if I do that, I won’t be able to maintain eye contact with her. If I sit down, I’ll be beneath her, looking up. So I stay where I am, essentially ceding control of the room to her.

Scarlett smirks, realizing the same, then straightens. She pulls a thick packet of papers out of her handbag and tosses them onto my desk with a soft smack. “I need you to sign these.”

I move, walking over to my desk like it was my choice to linger by the door at first. This feels like a game of chess. Fitting, since the queen is the most powerful piece. I pick up the heavy stack and flip through the first few pages. It’s our prenuptial agreement. “I already signed this.”

Spent two hours signing it.

“Well, I didn’t. Changes needed to be made first.”

Changes? I round the edge of my desk and take a seat in the chair. Leather creaks as I lean back. My left eye twitches as I page through the lengthy document. “Do you want me to do a line-by-line comparison, or are you going to tell me what changes were made?”

“My father neglected to distinguish his holdings from mine in the disclosures for the original document. You’re entitled to a share of the Ellsworth name. Not my name.”

I flip back to the first page before I look up at her. “Meaning?”

“I want to maintain total ownership of my business enterprises. My personal accounts and my magazine. While we’re married, and in case we divorce.”

A mixture of surprise and annoyance war within me. This, I did not see coming. “That’s what this is about? Your little magazine? You’re worried I’ll tell you how to dress your cover models or what trends are in?”

Scarlett’s expression doesn’t react to the taunt. She’s waltzed in here, made demands she’s not entitled to, and still has the gall to look at me like I am the one inconveniencing her. Something that feels a lot like respect flickers deep down.

“My father has had no involvement in the magazine. It’s not his choice how it’s handled. Or yours. I want full control, or I walk.”

I smile at the bold proclamation. “You’re going to walk away from an arrangement worth hundreds of billions, for a fashion magazine worth…what? Fifty million? At most?”

“Not all of us inherit everything we own, Crew.”

“You inherited the money you used to pursue this venture.”

Her eyes flash. “It’s non-negotiable. I’m not bluffing. My father can make all the arrangements he wants. He can’t make me marry you.”

“You’d be a fool not to.”

“I’m bringing more to the table. If you don’t agree to my terms, you’re the one who will look like a fool. I don’t need you or your money, Crew Kensington. Don’t forget that.”

I flip through a few more pages to buy myself some time. I’m not sure what to do—and I can’t remember the last time that happened. I don’t care about the magazine. I do care about giving Scarlett the impression she’s in control here. “All you changed are the magazine’s shares?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I need to see earning statements before I agree.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I make informed decisions, Scarlett.” I focus on her hazel eyes, because looking elsewhere won’t end well. Scarlett is distracting. The brunette hair I can’t help but imagine spread across a pillow. The pouty lips painted an enticing shade of red. The tailored blue fabric that hugs her curves. All distractions.

She sighs, then steps closer. “Move.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you want to see the earning statements, move.”