Fake Empire(81)

There’s a long stretch of silence between us. “Would you sell Haute?”

Talk about a loaded question. And it’s so Scarlett. Testing my feelings for her by discussing business. “No,” I reply. “I wouldn’t.”

She holds my gaze, but I can feel how much she wants to look away. I can tell what she thinks I’m saying.

“I would make sure it thrived because I think that’s what you would want. My father is a coward when it comes to his feelings. I wouldn’t try to forget. I would fight like hell to remember.”

I’ve never seen Scarlett cry. She doesn’t now, but there’s a sheen covering her hazel eyes that suggests she might be close to it. Her hand is still in my hair, and she uses it to tug me closer, until our lips are just a few breaths apart.

“I wouldn’t sell either,” she whispers, before she kisses me.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





SCARLETT





“Scarlett? Scarlett?”

I blink and glance at Leah, who’s giving me a strange look.

“Yes?”

“I was just asking if you had any comments on the October issue before we end the meeting.”

I glance down at the pages of notes in front of me. Rub my forehead in an attempt to alleviate the headache building. “No. This all looks great. Good work, everyone.”

Silence follows. Silence with a shocked undertone. I always have notes. Suggestions. Input. I’m too distracted to come up with any right now.

I stand, needing out of this room. I’m exhausted. I want to snuggle up on the couch in sweatpants with a bottle of wine and Crew.

Except the wine might not be an option. I realized my period was late—two weeks late—four days ago. I’ve been so busy I didn’t realize how quickly time is passing.

I’m pregnant.

I think.

I’ve thrown up every morning for the past few days. I’ve been emotional. Tired. And I’m late, which has never happened before. But I don’t know if I’m pregnant for certain because I’m afraid to find out. I never thought I’d call myself a coward, but that’s exactly who I am right now. I’m terrified to know for sure. Terrified to tell Crew. If I’m this far along, he knocked me up in Italy, possibly the first time we slept together.

He’ll probably be proud. Our families will be thrilled.

And I’m…freaking out.

Also, I feel like I’m going to be sick. Again. Lately, my “morning sickness” has felt a lot like all-day nausea. Talk about false advertising. I don’t know anything about babies or pregnancy. I thought I would have time. I wanted time. Crew’s swimmers clearly had other ideas. Statistically speaking, we’ve had plenty of sex to make pregnancy a possibility. Protected sex. If I’m really six weeks along, we conceived back when he was still wearing condoms. Ninety-nine percent effective? I guess we’re part of the one percent in more ways than one.

I’m not against having kids. I knew we would, eventually. Crew wants kids, although I know part of that urge is fueled by his father. It just feels fast. Soon. We weren’t a couple before we got married. It took us a month to have sex. We’ve finally found an equilibrium that this will shake. Sharing responsibility for a dog was an adjustment. Having a child is a huge change for any couple. For us, it will come with a whole host of complications I was happy to put off for a while.

I hobble down the hall in my heels, wishing I could take them off and chuck them at the wall. I’m sleep-deprived. And possibly hormonal. As soon as we have sex, Crew is out like a light. I’ve laid awake the past few nights, worrying about all the ways this will change our lives.

My office is a sanctuary. When I bought this magazine, I spent hours deciding how every inch would be decorated. I hold all my meetings here. It makes a statement, the colors bold but not garish. Abstract paintings line the wall above the white leather sofa. Framed issues of Haute are displayed on the opposite wall, above a table that always boasts a fresh arrangement of flowers. They’re peonies today. The floral scent usually makes me happy. Right now, it makes me want to hurl.

I take a seat at my desk, firing off a few rapid replies to the emails that came in during the meeting I just left. I have a thousand things to do: photo shoot approvals, communications with advertisers, and arrangements with different vendors. A few months ago, I’d be ordering takeout and settling in for a few more hours here.

All I want to do right now is go home.

My eyes fall to the framed photograph to the right of my computer. I placed it there as a prop, a testament to the women can have it all mentality: a happy home life and a successful career. I already had the successful career, and I’ve always known I have the capability to accomplish whatever project I want to. For the past nine years, I’ve also known I would probably marry Crew Kensington. I just didn’t know what it would be like being married to him. Confusing and thrilling and fun. He’s become someone I rely upon and trust and look forward to seeing.

How the hell did that happen?

I thought he’d have no interest in making this marriage work as anything more than a two-hundred-page document spelling out the consequences if it didn’t. I banked upon that. Relied upon it. The way we’ve become something so different is both reassuring and worrisome.