Fake Empire(99)

“A favor? Stock has dropped ten points in an hour, Brent.”

“This came out sooner than they wanted. We can hit back while they still have nothing. Defamation. Document requests. I’m already coordinating with public relations on putting out a statement. Assuming there’s no smoking gun, we’ll be fine.” He hesitates. “Unless there’s anything you need to tell me?”

“If there is, I don’t know it.”

Brent sighs. “That’s probably for the best. I’ll keep you in the loop on everything. Do you want me to copy Arthur as well?”

“No. Everything goes through me.”

“You got it.”

I hang up and stalk down the hallway to take a shower. The door to our bedroom is still shut, so I head to the guest room’s bathroom. The hot water washes away the sweat, but none of the worries.

I should have taken Royce Raymond’s offer. If I had, I wouldn’t be in the middle of this shitstorm, all alone. With a pregnant wife. A kid on the way who’s supposed to inherit this burning legacy.

When I enter the kitchen, Phillipe is standing at the stove, cooking. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Kensington,” he greets.

And…of course it’s fucking Christmas. ’Tis the season for corporate espionage.

“Merry Christmas, Phillipe,” I reply. I rub my forehead, feeling the few hours of sleep I’m running on. “You didn’t need to come in today. I didn’t even realize…”

He smiles. “It’s no trouble. The usual this morning?”

“Yes, please.”

I take a seat at the table and scroll through the news as Phillipe cooks my omelet. Asher wasn’t exaggerating. It is everywhere. I scroll a few articles and get the gist of the story. There aren’t any concrete details, and that gives me some reassurance.

After eating breakfast, I end up on the living room couch, working on my laptop. I need to go into the office, but I don’t want Scarlett to wake up all alone.

It’s past eleven when she comes downstairs with wet hair, wearing a silk pajama set.

“Hey.” She stops a few feet away, running a hand through her hair self-consciously.

“Hi.” I close my laptop and lean forward. “It’s, uh, Christmas.”

Her eyes widen. “Shit, really?”

“Really.”

“Wow. I’ll…I can get dressed. I feel like I should stop by the hospital, but we can go do something after, if you want?”

I do want. Badly. I want nothing more than to drink hot chocolate and go skating and look at elaborate decorations and whatever other touristy shit people do here during the holidays that I’d normally look down upon. As long as I do it with her. But I can’t. And I have to tell her why. “I can’t. I have to go into the office.”

“On Christmas? You were supposed to have this whole week off.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

I nod toward the muted television. The banner at the bottom says the words I can’t seem to. Kensington Consolidated Investigated for Insider Trading, it reads.

“Fuck,” Scarlett breathes.

“Yep.”

“Is it…true?”

“I have no idea. But I’ve got to handle it, either way.”

“Can this take down the company?”

“I don’t know.” I rest my elbows on my knees and scrub my hands over my face. “The legal team is working on it. My dad and Oliver aren’t taking my calls.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means they knew about this and kept me out of the loop.”

“Maybe they were trying to protect you,” Scarlett suggests softly.

“Fuck that. This is my family’s company. My legacy. I’m supposed to be the next CEO.”

“You didn’t know anything about this. You didn’t do anything wrong. If you have to, you can start over. Start your own company.”

“If this goes that far, the Kensington name won’t be worth much.”

“Money talks.”

“Most of mine is tied up in this sinking ship.”

“I have money, Sport.”

“And you married me for mine.” I stand and grab my laptop. “So I’d better go bail out this ship, huh?”

“Crew…”

“I’m sorry I can’t go to the hospital with you. I’m going to drive myself to the office. If you want Roman to take you, just give him a call.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” I repeat.

I walk over and kiss her. It’s brief and sweet.

She grabs the inside of my elbow, holding me in place for a minute.

“Merry Christmas, Red.”

“Merry Christmas, Sport.”





The meetings last for hours. I’m drained and irritated by the time I head back toward my office.

Asher is waiting. His feet aren’t up on my desk. If I’d ever told him why this hunk of wood holds sentimental value, I know he never would have put them up in the first place. Probably why I never did. Not many people challenge me.

“Nathaniel Stewart.”

“What about him?” I ask.