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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 Ishouldn’t.
CHAPTERTWO
CREW
People scatter as I step off the elevator on Monday morning. Kensington Consolidated employs a workforce upwards of five hundred, not to mention the many companies we serve as the parent entity of. Less than fifty employees have offices on the executive floor. Men and women twice my age scurry away like skittish mice as I stride down the carpeted hall toward the main conference room. One perk of having your name displayed on the side of the skyscraper. It commands respect, even when you haven’t earned it.
My father and brother are sitting at the centered table when I enter the conference room. The three of us start every Monday with a “chat.” That’s what my father likes to call them, at least. Lectures would be a more fitting descriptor. He uses them as an intimidation tactic toward everyone else with an office on this floor. Forcing them to be in on time and fueling speculation about what we’re talking about. Promotions. Acquisitions. Firings.
“You’re late,” my father announces as I take a seat across from him. I resist the urge to direct his attention to the clock above the projector screen used for presentations.
It’s ten seconds past eight a.m.
Instead, I say, “Sorry. Hope you two had some golf stories to swap.”
My father’s eyes narrow, trying to decide if I’m being glib or genuine. The fact he can’t tell is a source of pride.
He and Oliver love flying investors and potential partners around to different courses, hashing out business over eighteen holes. Those outings often involve polo shirts and bets. I prefer to do business in a stiff suit inside a boardroom.
“The paperwork is all set?” he questions, letting the jab slide.
“Yes,” I answer. “I went to Richard’s office on Sunday.” Just how I wanted to spend my one day off in two weeks, signing a two-hundred-page document explicitly laying out how each asset will be distributed in the event my upcoming union ends in a divorce.
My father hums, which is the closest to a sound of approval he gets. “The Ellsworths will be over for dinner on Friday night. Make sure you have a ring by then.”
“I want Mom’s.”
Not much gets to my father anymore. A mention of the woman he buried two decades ago seems to be the one thing that always does. The glimmer of surprise in his eyes disappears quickly. “It’s in the safe.”
I nod.
“Can we move on from the marriage talk?” Oliver requests. The snide way he saysmarriageanswers any questions about how he’s handling the upcoming addition to the family.
Two years older than me, he should be the one embarking on the archaic tradition of an arranged marriage. Probably to Scarlett Ellsworth, a prospect that didn’t bother me at all before I exchanged more than a few dozen words with her. Her sharp tongue would be lost on my stalworth brother. Before, our engagement was a hypothetical. A probable outcome, but far from certain. That’s changed, and the tick in Oliver’s jaw says it bothers him.
Our father decided I was going to be the one who married Scarlett years ago, and Oliver and I learned far earlier than that not to question his decisions. What Arthur Kensington says, goes.
The muscle above my father’s right eye twitches, a surefire sign he’s displeased. “This marriage is crucial for the future of this family, Oliver. You know that.”
No matter how old you get, I don’t think the perverse satisfaction of a sibling getting scolded for a slight against you ever fades. It hasn’t after twenty-five years, at least.
“I do, Dad,” is Oliver’s hasty answer.
