Fake Empire(82)

The black-and-white photograph of us on our wedding day sitting on my desk doesn’t look like a prop anymore. It looks real. I can even pinpoint the moment it was snapped, when Crew told me we should have practiced dancing before we got married the same way we kissed before speaking our vows. I’m smiling, and so is he.

I try to picture a little kid with Crew’s blue eyes and my dark hair. I can’t. I’ve never held a baby before; I can’t even remember the last time I saw one in person.

Rather than stop at a pharmacy and put all the second-guessing to rest, I go straight home. Coward. I seek out the solace only Crew can provide. It usually includes snuggling on the couch and then sex.

My body has become accustomed to the schedule—to crave it. Crave him.

The elevator doors open, revealing Crew leaning against the wall beside the Monet. “Finally! I was about to call you.”

I take him in: the combed hair, the tux, and the anxious, let’s get going expression.

He does the same to me. “You forgot.” The two words are flat. Annoyed. Any hopes of talking him into staying home, spooning on the couch, and admitting I might be pregnant flee like leaves on a windy fall day.

“No,” I lie. “My meeting just ran long. I came home as soon as I could.” The last part, at least, is true. I rushed home because I wanted to see him. “I’ll go change.”

I can’t believe I forgot. Tonight is Kensington Consolidated’s company party. I know it’s a big deal for Crew, filled with important networking for cementing his status as future CEO.

Crew grabs my hand as I try to pass him. His annoyed expression falters, something softer appearing. “Are you okay?”

I paste a smile on my face. “Of course. Just give me a few minutes, okay?” I can’t tell him. Not now, right before we have to go make small talk with important people all night. A part of me is relieved, even. There’s no choice but to not utter the words.

It’s not until I’m inside my closet that I let the smile fall. I read somewhere, once, that smiling tricks your brain. The mere motion triggers happy chemicals into releasing, whether your smile is fake or real. Since I can’t drink—possibly for nine months, but at least until I take a pregnancy test—I could really use any drugs my body can produce naturally. And I’ll be forcing lots of smiles tonight.

I swap the pencil skirt and blouse I’ve been wearing all day for a floor-length silk gown. The emerald fabric whispers against my skin as I head into the bathroom to freshen my hair and makeup. Once I’m satisfied with both, I grab a matching clutch and a strappy pair of stilettos. My feet cringe at the thought, but the fabric will drag on the floor if I don’t wear heels.

Crew is in the same spot I left him in, scrolling through emails on his phone.

“Ready,” I chirp.

“You look beautiful,” he tells me, before we walk into the elevator.

I bite down on my tongue until the pain turns sharp, battling the urge to tell him what I’ve been preoccupied by all day. “Thanks.”

“Did work go okay?”

“Yep.” I hesitate. “I might need to go to Paris next week for some meetings.”

Crew doesn’t look up from his phone. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Okay.” I rest my head back against the hard panels of the elevator, following Crew out into the underground garage when we reach the bottom floor. Roman is waiting beside the car. He gives me a respectful nod. “Mrs. Kensington.”

I smile at him before climbing into the SUV.

The ride to the Met is silent. I know Crew is nervous about tonight. He’s been handling a big acquisition lately, and I’m sure he’s bracing for questions from investors. I’m preoccupied by the possibility a tiny person might be growing inside me.

Walking from the car and up the steps is all it takes for my feet to start screaming at me. The climate controlled and smooth lobby floors of the museum are a slight relief. We’re immediately escorted into the Great Hall. Polite chatter echoes off the soaring ceiling and stone walls. I barely have the time to take in any of the candles or flower arrangements decorating the space before people start approaching us. Swarming us.

Crew is the golden boy of Kensington Consolidated—of all of Manhattan. The heir to the throne. Emperor-in-waiting.

I’ve never gotten the impression Arthur Kensington is well-liked. Business savvy, but not approachable. He’s the guy you invite because you have to, not because you want to.

Oliver is more of an enigma. I spot him standing in the corner, talking to two other men in tuxedos. He seems like his father’s lackey, willing to do whatever it takes to impress and hold his position. But I didn’t think he was the type to screw his father’s wife behind his back. No matter his intentions, he doesn’t have the effortless charisma Crew possesses. The ability to make you feel special just for holding his attention. I noticed it when I was sixteen and told my father the only Kensington I would marry was Crew, and I see it now as he talks to the Spencers.

It feels like every single one of the thousand plus attendees have spoken to Crew by the time we reach our table—in the very center of the hall. Arthur and Candace are already seated, but there’s no sign of Oliver.

Arthur rises to kiss my cheek, playing the perfect father-in-law. “Scarlett. Stunning, as always.”

“Thank you.” I smile at Candace, who looks completely at ease by her husband’s side. Maybe I underestimated her and Oliver both. She certainly doesn’t seem like the type to step out on her marriage. Cheating may be socially acceptable for men, but she’d become a pariah if it came out she had.