Chapter 4
4
I stare after Charles Marlborough’s retreating back, an unpleasant prickling sensation starting in my stomach and crawling around until the pins and needles spread to my extremities.
What was he doing here?
I want to kick off my heels, sprint down the hallway, corner him by the elevators, and ask. The audacity , to insult me and then show up at my family’s company.
I haven’t seen him in a year. Eleven months, to be exact, and I’m annoyed that I can be so accurate. That I even remember it was an August afternoon when we first met and that I was wearing a blue dress, and he had on a navy suit.
Gossip about Britain’s youngest duke visiting the Hamptons made quick rounds around Atlantic Crest Country Club. By sunset, it’d spread about the entire peninsula, becoming the favorite topic at the cocktail party I attended with my grandparents that evening.
While I thought, Who cares that he’s a duke?
Everyone cared, even though I’d thought any love affair with aristocracy ended around the start of the American Revolution.
“Lili? Lili!”
I blink rapidly, refocusing on Asher. “Sorry. I was thinking about … work.”
Asher smiles, then glances at Mom. “Apple sure fell far from you and Crew,” he tells her.
My gaze travels to the windows that boast an impressive view of Manhattan. If I had a dollar for every time someone compared me to my parents, I’d be … richer than I already am.
I’m not just a Kensington. I’m the oldest child and only daughter of Crew and Scarlett Kensington. In addition to coming from wealthy, well-connected families, my parents happen to be the most powerful, driven, and successful people I’ve ever met. They turned two kingdoms into a dominant empire, and that’s a lot of legacy to live up to. Unless I cure cancer or broker world peace, the bar is pretty unachievable. And considering I flunked junior-year Biology and more people would categorize me as an instigator than a neutral party, neither of those achievements is likely to ever happen.
“I was asking if I could have Indy get you anything,” Asher says.
“Oh, no. I’m fine, thanks.” I give Asher’s secretary a warm smile, which she returns, then hand Mom the glass bottle of sparkling water I just grabbed for her.
“I wanted a latte, but this is better for me anyway,” Mom explains.
Asher’s forehead furrows. “The machine should be?—”
“What was Charles Marlborough doing here?” I blurt.
The espresso machine in the executive lounge is working fine. But I’ve seen Mom chug two coffees since she and Dad landed a few hours ago, and I’m positive her flawless makeup is hiding dark circles. She needs to stop tackling marathon days like they’re sprints and slow down a little.
Also, I’ve wanted to say that since the second I spotted Charlie. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking in front of him, which was one of the reasons I pretended not to know him. Again.
“We were discussing an investment opportunity in London,” Asher says, which essentially tells me nothing. He moves on before I can question him further— What’s the investment opportunity? Are you going to pursue it? —entirely oblivious to my burning curiosity. “Are you ladies stopping by Oliver’s office? I have a file to drop off to him.”
“We are,” Mom replies. “I wanted to invite him and Hannah to dinner tonight, and I was hoping you and Sophie could join us too.”
Asher sighs. “We’d love to, but Millie has her agility class tonight. I told Soph we’re switching back to Saturday mornings as soon as this session ends. But Beckett’s been talking about it all week.”
“Sounds fun,” Mom says, fighting a smile.
Every time we catch up with Asher and his family, they’ve started some new activity. Last visit, it was pottery classes. They’ve since moved on to training their Shetland Sheepdog apparently.
“Oh, yeah. We’re starting competitions in the fall. If any coincide while you’re here on a visit, I’ll let Crew know.”
“Please do. And we’ll miss you guys tonight, but I get it.” Mom glances at me. “My kids are all too busy to come as well.”
I roll my eyes. “This dinner has been planned for weeks, Mom. I was going to come over tomorrow night, when you were supposed to arrive. And I already rearranged my afternoon to pick you and Dad up from the airport, which Bash and Kit did not do.”
Mom heaves a long-suffering sigh. “It doesn’t get easier as they get older, Asher.”
My godfather grins. “Yeah, I noticed. And you should have known that. Remember what you and Crew were like at twenty-five? Because I sure do.”
Asher mutters something else under his breath. All I catch is rock climbing .
“Where is Crew, by the way?” he asks at a normal volume.
“He had to jump on a conference call,” Mom answers.
“Of course he did.” Asher is as familiar with my parents’ workaholic tendencies as I am.
The phone next to Indy begins ringing. She answers with a polite, “Asher Cotes’s office, Indy speaking. How may I help you?” She listens to the response for a minute, then hits a button on the phone and looks at Asher. “Lucas Donovan is on the line. What should I tell him?”
“Tell him I’m available,” Asher decides. “I’ll meet you two in Oliver’s office. This shouldn’t take long.”
Without waiting for a response, he heads back into his office and closes the door.
I follow Mom down the carpeted hallway in what I assume is the direction of my uncle’s office. I don’t know the floor layout very well. The few times I’ve been here has always been with one or both of my parents or my grandfather.
I’m trailing after Mom aimlessly, trusting her to guide us the right way, so it takes me a few extra steps to realize she’s stopped. I backtrack, glancing between Mom and the empty office she’s staring at.
A few steps and a few seconds of peering at the plaque affixed next to the door tell me it reads Christopher Kensington .
An unpleasant combination of dread and surprise settles in my stomach. I’ve known Kit was going to work here for years. Assumed he would for decades. Seeing it is something else.
“Prime location,” I comment.
You don’t have to know the layout of this floor to tell that.
“This was your dad’s office.”
When I look over, Mom’s smile is soft and sentimental. She heads inside.
After a beat of hesitation, I do too. “Corner on the executive floor. Perfect for an entry-level twenty-two-year-old employee.”
“Elizabeth,” she chides gently, continuing to scan around the large office.
I look, too, minus the nostalgia Mom is clearly experiencing. My dad left Kensington Consolidated when I was a toddler. My recollections of his office are all of the sleek, glass-front structure that has a prime view of the Hollywood sign. Not this space—with its paneled walls, custom bookshelves, and leather chairs.
But I can picture him here. I actually think it fits Dad better than his current office does. Maybe because he’s a native New Yorker, and this office—this city—has an aura of established history I’ve never experienced on LA’s freeways or palm tree–lined shores.
I wonder if Kit has seen this yet. He isn’t supposed to start working until the end of August, so probably not.
“Looks like he’ll have a secretary,” I state, gesturing to the desk stationed outside.
Mom hums an agreement, running her fingers along the spines on the shelves. She’s lost in memories I don’t have of this place.
And all I can think about is how this might have been my office.
Not that I wanted to work here necessarily. I just wanted it to be an option. To know that I chose against it, but could have chosen it.
Mom glances out the window, then walks back toward the doorway. “Sorry. Got distracted. Let’s go.”
We continue down the hallway. Most of the offices we pass are currently unoccupied. Personalized, with diplomas on the walls and unsorted papers stacked on the desk, but with empty chairs. Saturday is the Fourth of July, and a good portion of the people on this floor have relocated to their summer homes ahead of the holiday weekend.
There are two types of powerful people in this world, I’ve discovered. Those who inherit status and enjoy it—lift their foot off the gas, lean back, and coast. Or those who earn success and use it as fuel to strive for more—dig deeper and press harder, searching for the next opportunity.
Most of my friends, acquaintances, classmates, exes are powerful people who fall into the first category. It doesn’t mean they’re not thoughtful or kind. It means they’re content, not hungry.
I’m related to a lot of powerful people who define the second category. My grandfathers, my uncle, my parents. There’s a reason the Kensington name is worth hundreds of billions, and it has nothing to do with luck. It’s common knowledge that my family works rather than simply collects sizable paychecks.
My parents were there for me, growing up. I have memories of my dad driving me to swim practice and my mom baking cakes for my birthday parties. But they also worked full-time. We had nannies. Chefs who cooked dinner most nights. Drivers who shuttled us to and from school most days. Family vacations were a regular occurrence, but they weren’t frequent. Mom and Dad didn’t let parenthood derail their careers or diminish their determination.
I have it too—that drive. There was a time when I was worried I didn’t, back when I was struggling in school and with a handicap no one else in my family had. At some point, I realized that struggle was proof of ambition. If you’re not trying to get somewhere, you don’t worry about being behind.
Mom says hello to the few secretaries working as we pass them, and they all greet her by name.
She’s probably the most recognizable Kensington, thanks to the magazine covers and full-sized advertisements common in the fashion industry. Mom owns one of those magazines, Haute , and her fashion line, rouge, is featured everywhere. Dad wanted to use the photo of me and my brothers posing in front of her umpteenth Times Square billboard for our family holiday card last December.
Since I look a lot like her, I’m pretty recognizable too. I inherited my dad’s eyes and his height, but my hair and my face are basically a carbon copy of my mom’s.
Uncle Oliver’s assistant is on the phone. She waves us past, mouthing, He’s expecting you .
“You told Uncle Oliver the right arrival date?” I ask.
Mom laughs. “Your father talked to him this morning. I tried to call you, too, but you didn’t answer.”
“It was seven a.m. here,” I grumble.
Uncle Oliver stands as soon as we walk into his office, tossing a pen onto the desk and walking this way, wearing a wide smile.
“So good to see you,” Oliver tells Mom, giving her a hug first.
I glance around. There’s a new portrait hanging since I was last in here—Uncle Oliver with his wife, Hannah, and their two daughters. A new couch nestled in the attached sitting area. A presentation projected on-screen in the private conference room from a meeting that must have just happened.
“Lili. Nice of you to stop by for a visit.” My uncle’s smile is wry.
I smile back as I give my uncle a hug. My lack of interest in the family company is well known. Or lack of involvement, I guess. That makes my trips here rare.
“In my defense, I’ve been mostly living in Chicago.”
“I know; I know. You’re a busy bee. Hannah is headed there in September for a conference. I’m going to try to tag along so I can see Claremont Park in person.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I mutter, embarrassed.
“I want to.” The corners of Oliver’s eyes crinkle as he squeezes my shoulder. “We’re very proud of you.”
I clear my throat. “Thanks. It wasn’t that big of a deal.”
Mom and Oliver exchange an amused look.
“She takes compliments like a Kensington,” Oliver says.
“She does,” Mom agrees. “And the park is incredible, by the way. Well worth a visit.”
She and Dad came to the official opening ceremony of my most recent project a couple of weeks ago.
“I have no doubt,” Oliver replies. “Can I get you ladies anything to eat or drink?”
Mom holds her water up. “I’m all set. But speaking of eating and drinking, I was hoping you and Hannah were free for dinner tonight.”
“We’ll be there,” Oliver replies, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll text Hannah right now. Can we bring anything?”
“Just yourselves.”
“Okay. But we’re going to bring something , so any preferences?”
Mom laughs. “Wine.”
“Got it.” He types something. “Hannah said she’ll be home by six.”
“Perfect. Come over whenever.”
“Is it just the four of us?”
“Yes. My kids all have plans, and Asher and Sophie are busy.”
“Bowling league?” Oliver guesses.
“Dog agility class.”
Oliver smirks, then shakes his head.
“We passed … Kit’s office,” Mom says.
Oliver sobers, slipping his phone away and then straightening his tie. “It felt right.”
I look out the windows. It’s still raining, tiny rivers streaking the glass and blurring the view.
“It’ll mean a lot to him,” Mom tells Oliver. “To both of them.”
The office door opens again.
Asher appears, a folder in one hand, which he holds out to Oliver. “Take a look at this when you have a chance. Let me know your thoughts.”
Oliver nods, walking over to his desk and setting it down.
“How much longer are you ladies gracing us with your presence?” Asher asks.
Mom checks her watch. “Not long. I promised Celeste I’d stop by Haute ’s office to sign off on a couple of things in person. And give Lili a chance to raid the closet before her big Europe trip.” She smiles at me.
“I didn’t hear you were headed to Europe this summer, Lili,” Asher says.
I nod. “My best friend is getting married in Wales next week. Her fiancé is British.”
“ Married . Wow. When did you get old enough to have friends who are old enough to get married?” Oliver asks, shaking his head.
“You’re telling me,” Mom says. “I’ll see you tonight.” She looks at Oliver. “And you and Sophie soon,” she says to Asher.
“Definitely,” Asher confirms. “She’ll be ecstatic you’re in town.”
We say goodbye to Oliver and Asher, then head toward the elevators.
Mom’s staring at Kensington Consolidated , affixed to the wall in silver letters between the two banks. I don’t even have to look to know what it says.
“Is it weird for you, being back here?” I ask.
My family split time between coasts because of her job, not Dad’s. But I know Dad worked here at one point, and it made enough of an impression on Mom that she remembers his office two decades later.
“A little,” she replies, still looking thoughtful.
“Because Dad stopped working here or because Kit is about to?”
“Both.”
We step into the elevator.
“Both,” she repeats as the doors slide shut.