Fake Empire (Kensingtons Book 1)
Fake Empire: Chapter 1

My fiancé’s gaze meets mine across the crowded club. I hold his stare. I’m not in the business of backing down from anyone, including him.

Especially him.

It’s harder to break a habit than to form one.

The thirty feet separating us shroud them, but I know the intense eyes currently fixed on me are blue. Hovering in a shade somewhere between icy and navy. Inviting, like the flat water surrounding a tropical island. One glance and you can imagine exactly how walking into that water will feel.

The first time I saw Crew Kensington, I was tempted to tell him, You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. I was fifteen. I didn’t end up saying a word to him, because those eyes are the only attribute of his that could be described as inviting. Because they weren’t—aren’t—his only attractive feature, and that used to intimidate me speechless.

Crew doesn’t look away, even when a busty blonde wearing a dress that barely hits her mid-thigh decides to rub up against him. The redhead who was already hanging on to his left arm shoots the new arrival an annoyed glare. Neither sight surprises me. Look up player in the dictionary, and you’ll replace a two-page spread of the billionaire slouched against the long bar top like he owns it.

I can feel the confidence radiating off him from here. The cocky assurance that comes from the Kensington name and also contains something uniquely Crew. Since he arrived a few minutes ago, he’s reduced every rich, powerful, handsome man in here into a knockoff version. They’re all attainable. Not nearly as gorgeous. Poor by comparison.

Everyone in here already knows who he is. But even if Crew had a different last name and a less robust bank account, I still think I would be staring.

Call it presence or charisma or good genes. I’ve had to fight for privileges I should have been born with. Crew has them all without trying and yet people still bend over backwards to ensure he doesn’t have to work for anything.

And he knows it. Uses it.

The blonde is working hard to get his attention, running her hand up his arm, twirling her hair, and batting her eyelashes. Crew doesn’t look away from me. The redhead follows his attention. Her pretty features twist with displeasure when she sees me.

I’m not bothered by her glare.

I am bothered by Crew’s stare.

This has become a competition between us. A game. We’ve danced around each other for years. We attended different boarding schools throughout high school. Both ended up at Harvard for undergrad. He went to Yale for business school; I attended Columbia for the same two years.

The whole time, we knew we’d be inevitable. No need to fight it—or acknowledge it. That will change soon. This comfortable dynamic will shatter as easily as the thin stem of glass I’m holding.

I raise my martini to him in a silent cheers. Immediately, I second-guess the motion. It feels like toppling the first domino. Moving the first pawn. I don’t play games until I know the rules. When it comes to me and Crew, I’m not even sure if there are boundaries in place.

One corner of his mouth curls up before he finally looks away, snipping the invisible string temporarily connecting us. For the first time in what feels like hours, I exhale. Then pull in a deep breath of the cool air swirling with the scent of expensive perfume and top-shelf liquor. Followed by a healthy sip of my cocktail.

Those damn ocean eyes. I feel them on me, even when he’s not looking.

“Shit, who’s that?”

I keep my eyes on the curl of lime peel balancing on the rim of my drink. Mostly because I know who Nadia is talking about. We’ve been sitting in this booth at Proof for forty-five minutes. In that stretch of time, I’ve only spotted one person who could possibly merit the awed tone she’s using. Since I’m the single one in the booth, this will inevitably circle around to me.

“Who?” Sophie asks, looking up from her phone. She might be more dedicated to her work than I am, which is saying something.

“The hottie with dark hair,” Nadia answers. “By the bar with the two hang-ons.”

Sophie looks, then laughs. “Seriously? You don’t know?”

Nadia shakes her head.

Sophie’s eyes land on me. “That’s Scarlett’s future husband.”

I flick the curl of lime off the rim with a crimson nail before leaning back against the leather booth. “Nothing is official yet.” The yet sounds more ominous than usual. Probably because I know my father met with Arthur Kensington last week.

Nadia gapes at me. “Wait. You mean you’re actually getting married? To him?”

I shrug. “Probably.”

“Do you even know him?”

“I know enough.”

I’m not surprised Nadia looks shocked by the unexpected revelation I’ll likely marry a man I’ve never even mentioned. Just like I wasn’t all that surprised Sophie recognized Crew on sight, since she has an unhealthy obsession with New York’s ever-churning gossip mill. I wasn’t expecting her to know about our rumored engagement. As far as I knew, any published gossip fizzled after years of total silence from both of our families. Whispers among our social circle are another matter, but Sophie wouldn’t be privy to those.

Nadia and Sophie are friends from business school. They both grew up in wealthy suburbs of Manhattan, riding around in brand-new cars and never applying for financial aid. They’re the comfortable sort of well-off, where worrying about paying rent or putting food on the table is a foreign concept.

I grew up taking a private jet between my six-figures-a-semester boarding school and a multi-million-dollar penthouse overlooking Central Park.

There’s wealthy, and then there’s me. Crew. We’re each set to inherit empires including sums of money that have a lot of zeroes. More than anyone could spend in a lifetime—or a thousand of them. If the Federal Trade Commission had a say in the institution known as marriage, there’s no way this merger would go through. It’s a melding of assets akin to a Rockefeller marrying a Vanderbilt.

Whether or not I want to marry Crew is mostly irrelevant. I accepted it as an inevitability a long time ago. I have a choice. It is my choice. Marrying for love isn’t an option, even if I’d ever met anyone who made me think so, which I haven’t. My world would chew him up and spit him out. Not to mention, there would always be a voice in the back of my head, wondering whether he wanted me or the money.

With Crew, I don’t have to worry about that. He’s callous, cocky, and cold. He grew up in this world, same as me; he knows what’s expected. He’s known for the traits I just observed: entertaining women, always retaining total control, and getting exactly what he wants.

My father did me a favor, arranging this marriage.

It doesn’t make it any less of a foreign, antiquated concept to people who live in the normal world. Nadia has been dating the same guy for the past two years. Finn is a sweet, unassuming native New Yorker who is in his last year at NYU Law. Sophie is currently seeing a cardiovascular surgeon named Kyle, who sounds like a total tool. According to her, his dexterity makes up for anything his personality lacks.

My mind wanders to stupid thoughts as I keep my gaze firmly on my glass. Like whether Crew is good in bed. He seems like the sort of guy who would expect blowjobs without reciprocating and always come first.

I’ll likely replace out.

The end of my drink gets drained with one gulp. “I’ll be right back.” I stand and stroll in the direction of the restrooms.

I’m sure Nadia is taking this opportunity to grill Sophie about my upcoming engagement. As soon as I heard my father met with Crew’s, I knew there was no chance I’d keep it from them—from anyone—for much longer. Neither of our families have ever confirmed an engagement. Rumors have to be fed in order to spread.

My father hasn’t broached the topic with me himself in years. He assumes I’ll do what he wants without question when the time comes, and for once, he’s right.

As I walk across the club, I can feel the stares on me. The gold sequined minidress I’m wearing isn’t meant to blend into the wallpaper. Work has eaten up most of my time lately. The only reason I left the office before eleven p.m. is that it was Andrea’s birthday tonight. None of my magazine’s editorial staff—including her—will leave before I do.

I headed out at seven, which is unheard of for me. I met Nadia and Sophie for sushi at a new spot in the Village, and we ended up here, just like I knew we would. Coming to Proof and rubbing elbows with New York’s young, rich, and famous is a novelty for my two companions. Less so for me, seeing as I was coming to places like this long before I was legally allowed to.

The hallway leading to the restrooms is empty, lit by muted columns every few feet. My stilettos click a rhythmic melody across the hand-painted tiles and into the lounge that serves as the entrance to the actual bathrooms. I pass the velvet-covered chairs, barely sparing the furnishings a glance, before locking myself into one of the stalls that are situated like private rooms. Each has its own sink and toilet. One wall is decorated with frames filled with dried flowers, while another holds a long shelf boasting an array of expensive sprays, soaps, and lotions.

I’m washing my hands when I hear the distinctive tapping of other heels approaching and the muted murmur of feminine voices. I shut off the water and dry my hands on one of the fluffy towels from the basket beside the sink before tossing it into the hamper. One of the women is complaining about her blisters. The other is talking nonsensically and fast, indicating she’s already over-indulged. It costs a small fortune to get wasted in a place like this, so she’s probably someone I know.

I open my clutch and pull out a tube of lipstick to slick my lips with my signature shade of red. Even if I didn’t share a name with a hue of the color, I like to think I’d still be the sort of woman who walks around with crimson lips.

It makes a statement.

“Did you see Crew Kensington is here?” a third voice asks. My hand stills halfway across my lower lip.

“He’s hard to miss. Anna St. Clair was over there in seconds.” That surprisingly sober sentence comes from the woman who was spilling gibberish about some film premiere seconds ago.

“I’m surprised he’s here. He hasn’t been coming out much. Kensington Consolidated just bought that new electronics company. Isn’t he taking that over for his father, along with everything else? Talk about a slap to the face for Oliver.”

“I thought that was just gossip. Like the engagement to Scarlett Ellsworth.”

“No, I heard that’s true. He’s really going to marry her.”

“Then why hasn’t he?” the woman formerly complaining about her heels asks.

“Maybe Crew is trying to get out of it. She’s not exactly his type. He likes his women a little…looser.” She laughs. “Not the princess of Park Avenue and her perfect pedestal.”

“Who cares? He’ll still sleep around, just with a few extra billions in his pocket.”

“God, can you imagine having that much money? Scarlett is so lucky.”

“She’s already as rich as he is,” one of them points out.

I smile at that. Richer. Crew has to split his inheritance with his older brother Oliver. I’m an only child.

“How greedy can she be? Doesn’t she already have enough money?”

They’re jealous—and drunk. But still, I want to lecture them about the hypocrisy. Crew isn’t greedy? Just me?

“She’s not even that pretty. I’ve never seen her smile or flirt—ever. At the Waldorfs’ holiday party, she spent the whole evening talking business. Margaret said she was bored out of her mind.”

“Margaret is always bored out of her mind. I would be too, if I were married to Richard.”

“I’m just saying—she probably can’t get anyone else to marry her. Her father needed to dangle billions to snag a catch. Pathetic.”

I cap my lipstick and drop it back in my clutch, tucking the bag under one arm and opening the door to head for the lounge. Being the subject of gossip is nothing new to me. Everyone has an unhealthy obsession with wealth and power—and those who have it—even if they tell themselves they don’t.

A thick skin and fake it until you make it mentality are requisites for surviving in this world—especially if you have higher aspirations than spending a trust fund, which I do. No one wants to do business with a coward. The women’s movement hasn’t seen much movement in the upper echelons of society. Business is a boys’ club.

The only reason I have any foothold in it is the fact I’m the sole heir to the Ellsworth empire. Complications during my birth prevented my mother from ever conceiving again. Even a man as cold-hearted and indifferent as my father couldn’t stomach filing for divorce on those grounds alone. It’s one of the main reasons he’s pushed for my marriage to a Kensington, though. There was never any question—in his mind, at least—that I would marry well. The antiquated elite see no value in their children marrying anyone with less money than they do. Marrying down. Especially when it comes to a son who will carry on the name to the next generation.

For my family, the closest economic equivalent is the Kensingtons. It’s an arrangement advantageous to both sides, which is unique. Usually, one party gains more than the other. More money, more assets, more status.

Crew is my best option. Our situation is different because I’m also his best option. I have more power than most women entering an arranged marriage and no intention of ceding a single inch of it.

I stroll into the lounge with my head held high. All three of the women perched on velvet look familiar, but none of their names come to me right away. The only social events I attend are the ones I’m required to. Most of Manhattan’s elite feel fortunate to be invited to the endless slew of functions that act as an excuse to show off how much money you can spend on or in one evening. I only attend the parties where my lack of presence would be an insult.

As soon as I appear, all conversation ceases. Six eyes widen. Three sets of lips purse. A few harsh comments sneak to the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them. You can’t expect anyone to see you as above them if you lower yourself to their level. Insults say more about the speaker than the intended recipient.

I sweep past the three surprised women and out of the lounge without a word or a stumble. Rather than head straight back to my booth, I pause at the bar, stopping about twenty feet from where he is standing. One of the black-clad bartenders immediately rushes over to me.

“Gin martini, please,” I order.

“Right away, miss,” he replies.

He spins and immediately sets about making my drink, indicating he’s worked here long enough to appreciate Proof’s patrons don’t tolerate being kept waiting. I watch the dimmed lights twinkle off the line of colored bottles behind the bar as another bartender smoothly measures a stream of vodka and squeezes grapefruit atop it.

“Ellsworth.”

My stomach dips like the floor fell out beneath me as soon as I hear the deep, confident voice. I focus on everything tangible: the hard surface my arm is resting on, the pinch of my heels, the splash and smell of alcohol being poured. Without looking over, I instantly know who is standing beside me.

“Kensington.” I angle my head to the right so I can appraise him, keeping my casual pose in place.

Before tonight, the last time I saw him was at the Waldorfs’ holiday party four months ago. Crew looks the same, except he’s wearing a pair of navy slacks and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up instead of the tux standard at society events. He looks like he came here straight from the office.

If there’s one thing I respect about Crew Kensington, it’s his work ethic. For someone who has had everything handed to him his entire life, he appears to pull his own weight at Kensington Consolidated. While wearing an entitled smirk, but still. His father, Arthur Kensington, values success over nepotism. He wouldn’t be grooming Crew for future CEO if he didn’t have what it takes to thrive in the role.

I glance past him, down to where he was standing before. “So, who’s the lucky lady tonight? The redhead or the blonde?”

Those blue eyes appraise me as he casually props one elbow on the varnished wood of the bar top, mirroring my relaxed posture. Crew swirls a tumbler of what smells like bourbon before he replies. “Or both.”

“Underachiever.”

The left corner of his mouth creases with a hint of amusement as the bartender sets a fresh martini down in front of me.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

Crew holds eye contact with me with me as he reaches into his pocket. His hand emerges with a hundred-dollar bill, which he slides across the smooth surface. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir.” The bartender departs quickly, unwilling to give Crew a chance to change his mind. Even at a place as upscale as this, it’s an outrageous tip. People are happy to drop whatever amount they’re charged for overpriced liquor. More than the obligatory twenty percent tip to service staff is usually another story.

I say nothing. If he’s trying to impress me, money is the wrong way to do it. I don’t know what he’s trying to do. He approached me, all but confirming the outcome of our fathers’ conversation last week.

Crew watches me closely as I raise my glass and take a sip. A high-pitched, whiny voice interrupts our silent staring contest.

“Crew, you said you’d be right back.”

He acts like nothing was said. I hold his gaze for a few more seconds, then glance at the woman who’s approached us. The redhead who was hanging on him earlier has one hip cocked and a smile pasted on her face. Neither completely masks the irritation wafting off her—presumably about his choice to leave her side and approach me instead.

I savor another sip of my martini before acknowledging her unwelcome presence. “It’s rude to interrupt.”

The redhead gives me a snotty look. “And who are you?”

“Crew’s fiancée.” The two words roll off my tongue like I’ve said them before, even though I haven’t. They still sound strange.

That title shuts her up fast, especially when Crew doesn’t deny my claim. He just continues to watch me, unreadable emotions swirling in cerulean depths as he ignores her.

The redhead flounces off.

“Happy?” Crew drawls.

“Disappointed, actually. I was hoping she’d slap you.”

Another corner of his mouth curl. I’m beginning to think it’s his idea of a smile.

“So…” He steps closer.

I want to breathe, but there’s a brief moment where I can’t.

“You’re my fiancée now?”

“Aren’t I?” I take another sip of gin. At this rate, I’ll be finished with my second drink before I make it back to the booth. Maybe I’ll break my two-drink limit as an engagement gift to myself.

“Prenup paperwork is being drawn up as we speak.” Crew pauses. “Your father didn’t tell you?”

“The less he tells me, the more power he can pretend he has.” I look away, back at the long row of bottles behind the bar. “His secretary called my secretary about lunch. I’m guessing I’ll get the happy news then.”

“Glad to hear you and Hanson are closer than ever.”

I scoff. “Not all of us ask how high? when Daddy says jump.”

“Have you always had this much of an edge, or is it a recent development?”

“If you’d ever done more than compliment me on my dress in the past decade, you’d know the answer to that.”

Crew makes a show of looking the gold minidress I’m wearing up and down. “It’s shiny?”

“Have you always been this terrible at coming up with compliments, or is it a recent development?”

For the first time—ever—I get a full-blown smile from Crew Kensington. He looks damn good pouting. Amusement—genuine, not mocking—softens the sharper angles of his face. Throw on a backwards baseball cap and a t-shirt, and he wouldn’t look like a ruthless billionaire.

As quickly as the grin appears, it fades.

I want to stand here and coax another one out of him, which is what convinces me to leave. He’ll be my husband, and this is the first conversation we’ve ever had that encapsulates more than polite small talk. Curiosity is one thing, interest another.

“Thanks for the drink,” I tell him, then walk away.

Sophie is practically bouncing in the booth when I return to my seat. “Ah! What did he say?”

“He bought my drink and then gave me a half-assed compliment.” And confirmed our engagement is imminent and incoming, but I keep that to myself.

“Sounds like he likes you.”

“More like he’s trying to figure out how much of a pushover I am.”

Nadia laughs. “He’s in for a surprise, then.”

“Maybe.” I’m only half-listening now, busy scanning the tall tables below the wall of champagne bottles. It’s more than a maybe. Crew and I know a lot about each other. But we don’t know each other.

I’ve never wondered what he thinks of me—until tonight.

I’ve never considered he might surprise me—until tonight.

The two realizations are unnerving, uncomfortable. I don’t like the implications, and I need a distraction.

A group of guys strolls inside. One toward the front, a blond, makes direct eye contact with me. He’s wearing a full suit that looks custom made—tie, jacket, and all—which seems like trying too hard to me. If you have money, there’s no need to flaunt it. Especially in a place like this. But he has an appealing face and a decent body, which are my main criteria at the moment, so I smile at him. He smiles back. I look down, take a sip, and then glance back up. He’s still staring at me. I pretend to be self-conscious about his eyes on me, glancing away and shifting in my seat like the attention is overwhelming rather than exactly what I was hoping for.

After ordering a drink, he heads our way.

“Incoming,” Sophie teases, spotting him. Nadia looks as well. All three of us watch him saunter over.

“Is this seat taken?”

Not the most original opener, but the way he addresses us all while talking only to me indicates he’s no newcomer to picking up women. I’m not interested in his conversation skills, although some would be a plus.

I shake my head in response. He slides into the seat beside me, sitting close enough the stiff material of his pants brush my leg. It’s a deliberate, practiced move, one that should probably prompt more of a response than light chafing. Unfortunately, I’m distracted by the feel of eyes on me, eyes that don’t belong to the guy beside me. I don’t succumb to the strong urge to look at the bar.

The blond beside me introduces himself as Evan. He, Sophie, and Nadia chat as I work to act like I’m listening to their idle conversation, not slowly simmering beneath blue flames. I’ve talked to other guys in front of Crew Kensington before. Why should this time be any different?

“What do you do, Scarlett?” Evan eventually asks.

“I run a magazine.”

“Really?” He looks intrigued. “What sort of magazine?”

“Fashion.”

His eyes run over my dress. “Not surprising. You look stunning.”

“Thank you.” Shiny, my ass. If I weren’t personally appalled by the idea, I’d order a sequined wedding dress just to spite Crew. I take a fresh stab at conversation. “What do you do, Evan?”

That question prompts a weird look from Sophie that makes me think the answer might have been covered while I was “listening” earlier. Evan launches into a spiel about his job as a tax attorney. It’s wholly unfamiliar, so I either blocked it out resoundingly enough or Sophie was frowning about something else. I try to pay attention at first. But I feel my attention drift, even before Crew leaves the bar and approaches our booth, followed by a different blonde than the one from earlier. Once he does, Evan could be belting Beyonce and I wouldn’t notice.

My whole body tenses. Preparing for what, I don’t know. We’ve swerved so far off script I can’t remember what our lines are.

Crew doesn’t stop walking until he reaches the edge of our booth. He crowds the space like he has every right to be here. Evan glances up at him mid-sentence, clearly confused by what is happening. There’s a long pause where everyone is silent.

Then, Crew holds a hand out. “Crew Kensington.”

Recognition washes over Evan’s face, quickly followed by reverence. “I—oh. Wow. It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Evan—Evan Goldsmith.”

Crew glances to me as Evan babbles, amusement obvious in his expression. I imagine Evan is fanboying in hopes he’ll be able to announce to a managing partner he snagged Kensington business for his firm. It’s wasted time—Kensington Consolidated has an in-house legal team. Evan is mid-sentence when Crew leans down and whispers something to him I am certain involves me.

Crew straightens with a self-satisfied smirk that makes me pray a punch will mess up his perfect bone structure. If not for me, on behalf of average-looking men everywhere. That sort of symmetry is an unfair standard to be held to. I thought Evan was attractive…until I saw him next to the table’s uninvited guest.

Whatever Crew said to Evan leaves him pale. “Enjoy your night, ladies.” Crew winks and walks away, with the blonde trailing right behind him.

“Nice talking to you.” Evan grabs his drink and disappears.

“Well…that was interesting,” Sophie muses. Nadia looks like she was just spun around in circles: wide-eyed and off-kilter. Exactly how I’d appear—if I weren’t excellent at schooling my emotions.

I shouldn’t look over my shoulder, but I do. Crew is standing right next to the glass doors that lead out onto the street. The blonde is nowhere in sight; he either ditched her or she’s waiting outside. Crew doesn’t move or react when he sees me staring at him. He holds my stare for a few seconds before turning and disappearing out into the night. It’s unnerving—because it’s exactly what I would do.

We’re similar, me and Crew Kensington.

Guarded.

Proud.

Stubborn.

Cynical.

We’ve grown up with the same privilege and expectations. We know what’s expected. What it takes to thrive in this world, not just survive.

That’s the reason I agreed to marry him.

And the reason I shouldn’t.