Real Regrets (Kensingtons Book 2)

Pierre, my doorman, nods as I walk past him. “Good morning, Mr. Kensington. Have a wonderful day.”

“Thanks, Pierre.” I inject some warmth into my tone, knowing my voice will come out flat otherwise. The glass front of my building’s lobby reveals a gray morning. The flinty sky matches my mood.

I landed back in New York late yesterday afternoon. The rest of my trip to Vegas was far less eventful than the first night.

I mostly gambled, wishing I could throw an unwanted marriage into the pot. Annoyingly, I won almost every game, so none of the guys understood why I was scowling.

And I spent last night perusing law firm websites and reading blogs about how to obtain a quick divorce.

I know plenty of lawyers. Kensington Consolidated has a veritable army of them. Half my college classmates continued on to law school.

The problem is, I have no idea who to trust. People will care I’m married, even—especially—that it’s a short-lived one. And realistically, not only do I need to proceed carefully, I also need to go on the offensive.

I looked the Garners up last night, too. Hannah’s family is wealthy. Her father represents some of the biggest names in sports, and he even held shares in a professional team at one point. She probably has a trust fund and isn’t desperate for money.

But her personal wealth can’t come close to representing a fraction of my net worth. In addition to my trust fund and sizable salary, the stock I own in Kensington Consolidated is worth a hundred million, easily.

I hate negotiating from an inferior position. And that’s exactly where I am with Hannah. Based on my basic research last night, she has a legal claim to half of my financial assets. In addition to that, her involvement with Crew obviously didn’t end well. I’ve just handed her a golden opportunity for revenge.

I hate thinking that way. I like Hannah. Under very different circumstances, I could see myself dating her. I saw her reaction to the license, and it was legitimate distress. But my cynicism has gotten me as far in the business world as my last name has. I would be a fool to bank on her expecting nothing when she has the opportunity to become a billionaire because I signed above her signature.

That’s the main reason I’m leaving for the office even earlier than usual. I’ve slept terribly ever since I woke up married. Tossing and turning and thinking.

Unsurprisingly, traffic is light at this hour. My twenty-minute commute to the office only takes fifteen.

When I enter the lobby, the security guard is yawning. It’s still the night attendant, waiting to be relieved for the day shift. He gives me a respectful nod that I return before scanning my access key and stepping into the elevator.

There’s no front desk on the executive floor. All the desks are empty and offices dark as I walk down the carpeted hallway.

I stop in the kitchen to brew a second cappuccino, the first one doing little to combat my exhaustion. The fancy machine whistles to life as soon as I hit the button, grinding and brewing and frothing until the cup is filled.

I continue down the hall, enjoying how quiet the floor is. I avoid leaving my office unless it’s necessary for this exact reason. People act oddly when I do. They react the same way around my father and Crew, but they both handle it better than I do. My father revels in how his employees find him intimidating. Crew is excellent at pretending not to notice. I’m just uncomfortable.

Walking into my office after days away is strange. Normally, I’m here on Saturday or Sunday. Sometimes both.

I’m reminded why when I unlock my computer and discover I have fifteen hundred unread emails.

Most of them are threads I was cc’d on that don’t require any direct attention. But some of them do. By the time the number of unread emails has dwindled down to a reasonable number, I can hear activity out in the hall as everyone else arrives.

At five of ten I stand, button my suit jacket, and open my door.

Alicia glances up from her computer and smiles. “Good morning, Mr. Kensington.”

“Good morning, Alicia.”

“Did you have a good weekend?”

It’s the same question she asks me every Monday, but I know I’m not imagining the extra scrutiny in the question. For once, she knows I wasn’t here. So it’s a little harder to force out a “Fine” than it usually is. “How about you?”

“It was good. Thanks for asking, sir.”

I nod and continue down the hallway, keeping my gaze aimed straight ahead. I dread these meetings for many reasons, but the worst part is everyone knows about them. They’re all wondering what Crew, my father, and I are discussing. Who we’re promoting or firing or hiring.

There’s no sign of Crew when I step inside the main conference room. But my father is already sitting at the table, tapping a pen against the dark wood impatiently.

My dread grows. No buffer, and he’s irritated I kept him waiting. If I’d beaten him here, he would have commented I must be having a slow morning.

With my father, there’s no winning. Only varying degrees of defeat.

“Dad.”

“Oliver.”

I take a seat across from him, wishing I’d brought the mug with an inch of coffee remaining. Varnished mahogany stretches between us, as sparse and depressing as our relationship. There’s no paper record of these meetings. They exist without notes and never include anyone besides the three of us.

A long time ago, I thought they were my father’s way of connecting family and company in some small way. He guided Crew and I toward working here with all the subtlety of a shove, yet rarely acknowledges we’re his sons within the walls of this building.

Now, I see these meetings as having little to do with me or Crew.

They’re a power play.

My father is all about perception. He wants it to appear as if we’re a tight unit, whatever the truth might be. Wants his employees to spread word the Kensington leadership is united and infallible.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I lean back in my chair and hold my father’s gaze.

I’m expecting him to look away. Ever since he found out what happened between me and Candace, he’s alternated between ignoring me in private and heaping adulations on Crew in public.

There’s petty, and then there’s my father. He’s never met a grudge he hasn’t held.

But he holds my gaze now, something simmering in eyes the same color as mine. Crew looks more like our mom. I resemble him.

Surprising me further, he speaks first. “Thompson & Thompson should go through today.”

“I know.” That’s what half the emails I just sorted through were about.

“That deal closed faster than expected.”

“I know,” I repeat, knowing that comment is the closest to good job I’ll get.

“Crew isn’t coming.”

I hide my surprise. Crew has never missed a Monday meeting.

“I told him I wanted to talk to you alone.”

Automatically, I tense.

“While you were away on vacation…”

I grind my molars at the characterization of a weekend but don’t otherwise react.

“I met with Leonardo Branson.”

I nod once, familiar with the name. Leonardo Branson founded an investment management fund a couple of decades ago that catapulted his own wealth and made him a lot of powerful friends, including my father.

“His daughter Quinn just moved back to New York. She was living in London, where her mother is from. She works in public relations.” My father waves a dismissive hand. “More of a hobby than a career, based on what Leonardo says. She’s twenty-five. Ready to settle down and start a family.”

My shoulders stiffen. Dread uncoils in my gut.

I can see exactly where this is going.

Years.

I spent years expecting to marry a woman of my father’s choosing. To be used as a bargaining chip that ensured some deal or aided an important merger.

Then my father told me Crew would be marrying Scarlett Ellsworth, not me. That I should focus on the company, while Crew would be the all-important link to the Ellsworth empire.

It took me weeks to adjust to the idea. Not because of any attachment to Scarlett—I barely knew her. But because I knew what other implications it would have.

“She’s amenable to the match,” my father continues. His tone is relaxed. We might as well be discussing the weather. “Recalled you as a perfect gentleman.” He scoffs. “Although we both know that’s hardly the case, that’s the impression Miss Branson will keep. You’ll get married this summer. I’ll leave the proposal to you. Surely, you can manage that much.”

It takes effort to hold in the incredulous laugh that wants to escape.

Years of waiting and wondering about how my father will dictate my future, and he chooses to do so right after I drunkenly married a woman my father would never approve of.

There’s no hesitance in his expression. He thinks I’ll do this. He’s expecting me to fall right into line, the way I’ve done every single time he’s asked me to do something.

I’ve always carried that same confidence. I’ve known I would do exactly what he asked.

But this time is different. That blind allegiance to my father has shifted right along with our frosty relationship.

Do I regret what happened between me and Candace? Yes.

Do I resent my father for how he’s treated me since? Also yes.

And this time is different for another reason.

I can’t do what he’s asking.

Literally can’t. I’m legally married to someone else.

“I’ll think about it.”

Not much surprises my father. But that response did. I catch it in his stilted blinks. The flex of his jaw. There’s a weighted pause, as he adjusts whatever he was planning to say next.

“The Bransons are coming over for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll expect you at six sharp.”

“I’m busy.”

It’s immensely satisfying to watch my father struggle not to react to that response. To keep emotion from breaking through his stoic expression. He thought I’d agree without hesitating, and I can’t decide if that’s more sad or infuriating.

Evidently, me not agreeing never occurred to him. And I suddenly resent my marriage to Hannah a little less, knowing it’s the source of my sudden stubbornness. It’s freeing. Like I took one step away from expectations and now it’s easier to take a second.

“Leonardo is expecting you to be there. So is Quinn.”

“I didn’t make them any promises. Enjoy your evening, Dad.”

I stand and turn my back to my father.

“It’s the least you owe me, Oliver,” he calls after me.

My nails dig into my palms. I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste the metallic tang of blood. “Kensingtons collect debts. They don’t acknowledge them. Isn’t that what you taught me? You’ll never forgive me for what happened.”

“If you marry Quinn Branson, I will.”

I turn to look at him. “What?”

“If you marry Quinn Branson, Candace will be completely forgotten. Gone for good.”

“You think I’m that desperate for your approval?” I shake my head. “I fucked up, Dad. I apologized. I’m not going to marry a total stranger in some twisted penance.”

“I’m not inflicting you with some hardship, Oliver. Quinn is bright, wealthy, and beautiful. She’ll make a perfect Kensington.”

“Then why don’t you marry her?” I snap.

A cruel smile spreads across my father’s face. I have a good idea of exactly what he’ll say before the words leave his lips. “You’d be interested in her then?”

I shake my head. “Thirty seconds ago, you said Candace would be forgotten.”

“Agree, and she will be.”

“No.”

I keep walking. I’m almost out the door when he speaks again. “I’ll name you the next CEO of Kensington Consolidated. Effective in five years.”

I freeze, my instant reaction giving too much away. I should keep walking, but my muscles won’t cooperate. Those words run on a relentless loop in my head.

I’ll name you the next CEO of Kensington Consolidated.

I’ll name you the next CEO of Kensington Consolidated.

I’ll name you the next CEO of Kensington Consolidated.

A sentence I never, ever thought I’d hear my father say to me. My goal. My birthright. My dream.

I turn again, not missing the triumphant smirk on my father’s face. He knows what this means to me. Knows what he’s dangling. It’s what has separated me and Crew when it comes to this company. Crew would make an excellent CEO. He’d step into the role and thrive under the pressure. But he’s never wanted it, the way I did. Do.

“What about Crew?”

“He’ll understand. You’re the oldest. You’ve given a lot more to this company than he has. And he has other responsibilities.”

“You’re asking me to take those same responsibilities on.”

“A family man is good optics, Oliver. Leonardo doesn’t offer the same assets Hanson did. But Quinn doesn’t share in Scarlett’s ambitions either. You won’t have to worry about her jetting off to Paris instead of on a honeymoon.”

I understand exactly what he’s saying.

Quinn will take on the traditional wife role that Scarlett shuns, allowing me to focus on business. I can picture the image he’s painting perfectly. A separate life from my spouse. Playing the happy couple only when we’re in public.

It’s what I always expected my marriage would look like, and for some reason all I can think about is sitting with Hannah on a hard floor wearing a sheet, laughing. My life already has plenty of cold, pretend relationships, and I hate the idea of adding another. For optics.

“Why would you step down in five years?”

“The board—and company—deserve fresh blood. New ideas. It was always my intention to hand CEO over to you or Crew as soon as you were ready to take over. I’ll still have a role on the board, of course. But I’ll also explore other opportunities I can’t as CEO. Start a foundation, perhaps. Or look into politics.”

I don’t believe a word he’s saying. He’s pivoting the same way he taught me to do, homing in on exactly what it will take to close the deal. And he has the advantage of knowing me better than a business associate. CEO of Kensington Consolidated in five years is an incredible offer.

He’s waving the one thing I want—the one thing I’ve always wanted—right in front of me.

And he’s pairing it with the elusive allure of forgiveness. Something I’m not sure he is capable of. But at least I’ll have this to throw back in his face whenever he brings Candace up.

And for all his many faults, my father is a man of his word. He’s never reneged on a deal. Our relationship will never be the same, and that’s a regret I’ll have to live with. But it could be better, and that sparks a hope I thought I’d given up on.

But I can’t say yes. Not only because there’s no way I’m committing to marrying a woman I’ve never met but because I’ve never reneged on a deal, either. I’m currently married, and I have to sort that mess out first.

I exhale. “I’m not agreeing to anything. But I’ll be at dinner.”

My father nods. “Fine.” Then he leaves the conference room without another word, leaving me reeling.

Instead of returning to my own office, I head to Asher’s.

“Come in,” he calls out, after I knock.

His usual grin is replaced by confusion as I walk into his office. I’ve been here once before, and it was when I couldn’t find Crew and was trying to hunt down a signature.

“Do you have a minute?” I ask.

“I—yeah, sure.” Asher clears his throat and closes the open folder on his desk.

I close the door behind me and walk deeper into his office, glancing at the leopard-print armchair and potted plant in the corner of the office before I take a seat in one of the standard leather chairs opposite his desk.

“Joke?”

“Huh?”

“The leopard print chair. Is that a joke?”

Asher grins. “Nah. I just like it.”

“Oh.”

He leans back in his desk chair, folding his hands behind his head. “How was Vegas?” he asks.

Instead of answering, I ask, “Does Kensington Consolidated have a nonfraternization policy between employees?”

Confusion, then excitement cross his face. The first I’m expecting. The second, not so much.

“Damn, Oliver. You’re hooking up with an employee?”

“Not me. You.”

Asher’s expression freezes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone about Isabel.”

I lean back in my chair, then look out the window. The sky is still a foreboding shade of gray, dark and menacing against the outline of the skyscrapers that make up New York’s distinctive skyline. Asher is silent, but I can feel his eyes on me.

“What do you know about Hannah Garner?” I ask.

Silence.

When I glance at him, Asher’s eyebrows are furrowed together. “Hannah Garner? Crew’s ex-fuck buddy?”

If Hannah hadn’t said anything about Crew, this would have been a hell of a way to find out. “Yes.”

Asher is obviously waiting for more of a response from me. When it never comes, he shrugs. “Not much. She’s hot. Blonde. Her father owns Garner Sports Agency. They’re bigtime. She’s worked there for a while, doing what I’m not exactly sure…”

“All you know about her is she works for her father?”

Asher shrugs as he picks up a pen and spins it around his finger. “Basically. I only met her a couple of times and both times were at a bar. We weren’t exactly discussing her political positions and credit score.”

I exhale and stand. Talk about a waste of time.

“Wait.” Asher flies to his feet and hurries around his desk. “Why are you asking about her?”

I smooth the front of my suit jacket. “Because I married her.” It’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud. They linger in the air with an uncomfortable presence.

“You—married—what?” Asher shakes his head back and forth wildly.

“I hired a private investigator who’s running a background check on her.” It was the one action I took from Vegas, even if making the call made me feel like my father. “I thought you might be useful in the interim, but obviously, I was wrong.”

“You married Hannah Garner?” Asher still looks comically stunned.

“That’s what I just said, yes.”

“I—you—how—does Crew know?”

“No.”

“Christ, Oliver.” Asher runs a hand through his hair, the motion jerky and uneven. “When are you going to tell him? I’d like to be out of town.”

“Hopefully, never.”

“Never?”

“Again, that’s what I just said.”

“You can’t expect me to keep this a secret!”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re asking me to lie to him!”

“If you have a problem lying to Crew, you must have told him you’re sleeping with Isabel?”

The remaining color drains from Asher’s face.

“Look, I don’t care what you do with your dick, Asher. But we both know Crew will. You’re putting him in a hell of a position.”

Asher groans. “I know. It was only supposed to be one time. And then—”

“I don’t want any details. Just keep your mouth shut and I will too.”

Asher nods once.

I nod back, then turn to leave.

“Hey, Oliver. I’m assuming this was a drunk in Vegas thing?”

“Yes.”

“So, no prenup.”

I don’t answer, which is one.

Asher whistles, long and low. “Things didn’t end well between her and Crew.”

“I know.”

“Get a good attorney.”

I nod again, then walk out of his office.