Real Regrets (Kensingtons Book 2)
Real Regrets: Chapter 10

I hate this house.

If I had any positive memories of the mansion where I grew up, they’re long gone.

One finger taps against the side of the glass set next to me. I haven’t taken a sip of the cognac handed to me when I arrived. The nutty, fruity aftertaste has never been my favorite. And I also want to keep a clear head.

I don’t know how long it will take until I’m declared legally single. I’ve been purposefully vague with all the attorneys I’ve talked to, not wanting to provide any specific or damning details until I’ve decided on one. Hannah hasn’t sent me the name of who is representing her. She never responded to my text, either.

The one I wrote and deleted dozens of follow-ups to. Which is stupid in and of itself. I never second-guess myself this much. But I think the complete silence means I offended her, which wasn’t what I meant to do at all.

I’m fumbling through the dark on how to navigate this situation. And the only person who knows about this mess is Asher, and I’m not sure he’ll be of any help in drafting texts.

“Wow, what a party.”

I glance up at the sound of Scarlett’s voice, surprised to see her and Crew walking into the sitting room where I’m seated, alone.

The Bransons haven’t arrived yet. The butler showed me in when I arrived, handed me a glass of cognac, and informed me my father was on the phone.

They make a striking pair, Crew in a tuxedo and Scarlett in a floor-length black dress that has silver threaded into hidden folds, flashing with every step she takes. I’m sure she designed it herself.

I stand, offering a hand to Crew and then kissing Scarlett’s cheek. She smiles at me. This is how we typically greet each other in public, not private. I wasn’t sure if it would be welcome, and Scarlett’s response is reassuring.

Crew is looking around the sitting room. A massive stone fireplace takes up most of one wall, a portrait of our great-grandfather, Charles Kensington, who founded Kensington Consolidated, hangs above the mantle. Even though it’s almost spring, a lit log crackles in the fireplace. All the furnishings in here are unchanged from when we were young. The velvet rolled arm sofa I was just sitting on is the same one nannies chided me for jumping on as a kid.

“I didn’t know you guys were coming tonight,” I state, sitting back down.

An intentional decision on my father’s part. He could have told me he had or was planning to invite Crew and Scarlett to dinner tonight.

And a reminder Crew and I don’t talk. Not regularly. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since I returned from Vegas.

“Dad said it was an important night,” Crew says, taking a seat on the matching sofa across from me. Scarlett sinks down beside him.

I know exactly why my father invited them. He wants to show off for Leonardo Branson. Make it obvious what he’s marrying into and why he would be a fool not to encourage this arrangement.

“Can I get you a glass of cognac, Mr. Kensington?” The same butler who served me reappears.

“Sure,” Crew replies.

“Can I get you anything to drink, Mrs. Kensington?”

Scarlett shakes her head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

Voices filter in from the hallway, low and polite.

My father appears in the doorway first, nodding approvingly when he sees Scarlett and Crew seated. No glance is spared in my direction.

Mr. and Mrs. Branson follow him. Nothing about either of them is especially remarkable, but I must have met them both before. In her heels, Mrs. Branson is a couple of inches taller than her husband. He’s an agreeable, serious-looking man dressed in a navy suit that matches the blue shade of his wife’s dress. Surprisingly, Leonardo’s second wife looks close in age to him. It’s much more common for men to remarry younger versions like my father did with Candace.

Quinn walks in behind them. Even before she speaks, remarking on the size of the house in a crisp British accent, I’m reminded that was her upbringing. Her posture is straight and proper, her expression polite and alert. The pale pink dress she’s wearing stands out against the darker colors of the room.

When she turns toward me, there’s a flicker of warmth—of interest—on her face. “Hello, Oliver.”

“Hello, Quinn.” I take her offered hand, fingers long and delicate.

Her small smile grows as our eyes connect. Hers are a darker shade of brown than her hair, which is almost copper.

I like that she greeted me first without waiting for our fathers to arrange the introductions. It suggests a confidence I wouldn’t have guessed at, based on her pastel outfit and demure demeanor.

I don’t know if I can picture a life with this woman. I can’t imagine her walking down the aisle toward me or kids with the same unusual hue of hair.

But I’m intrigued by her, and it’s honestly expected. I may want what my father is offering, but I don’t want to get married—again—to a stranger. I thought that distaste would color meeting Quinn. Make it impossible to like her. But there’s no resentment as our hands shake.

“Oliver, you remember Leonardo? And his wife, Zara?”

I drop Quinn’s hand and take her father’s, nodding respectfully. “Of course. Wonderful to see you, Leonardo.”

“You too, Oliver.”

“I was disappointed you weren’t able to join us at dinner on Saturday. I’m glad we were able to set this up.”

I nod. “Me too.”

“Did you have a nice time in Vegas?”

My smile doesn’t falter. “I did.”

I’m not surprised my father mentioned where I was last weekend. He would have wanted to brag about my friendship with Garrett.

“Must have been quite the trip.”

I keep smiling and nod before shaking Zara’s hand. A butler enters the room to serve everyone drinks, followed by a couple of maids with trays of appetizers: fancy cheese served with toasted bread, freshly shucked oysters, and caviar with crackers.

Leonardo takes the seat next to me, immediately striking up a conversation about business. The Thompson & Thompson deal was announced today, so I field mostly questions about that, straining to listen to what Quinn is saying to Crew during the pauses.

It sounds like she’s telling Crew about an English soccer team her company worked for.

Crew has always been more interested in sports than I am. He even owns part of an Italian team, which I hear him telling Quinn about.

I wonder if he and Hannah talked about sports.

The thought is sudden and unwelcome. The phone in my pocket feels heavier, like the message with no response is adding to its weight.

I excuse myself about twenty minutes later to use the restroom but end up on the back patio instead. The chill in the air feels like winter, the flicker of outside lights almost ghostlike on the grass and stone pavers. The pool is covered, not that it gets much use in the summer months either. Aside from the staff, my dad lives here alone.

I take a seat on the metal bench that faces a row of bushes that will bloom into blue hydrangeas, tipping my head back and staring at the dark sky. I finally sip at my cognac, the warm alcohol a little more palatable in the evening air.

“Spent part of my engagement party hiding away too.”

Scarlett lifts the hem of her dress as she walks across the stones toward me, her approach nearly silent, even in heels.

She takes a seat on the bench beside me, kicking off her shoes.

My gaze returns to the bushes. “This isn’t my engagement party.”

I wondered how much about this evening my father shared with Crew. It sounds like he didn’t withhold details, which surprises me. He hates to tip his hand early. Make a move before all the pieces are in place. I’m the same way.

Scarlett hums. “I thought you’d do anything to snag CEO. Quinn is pretty, and she seems nice. You could do worse. You have done worse, actually.”

I look over at her, ignoring the dig about Candace. “I don’t care about being CEO,” I lie.

Scarlett smiles. “I told my father I wouldn’t marry you, you know.”

I shake my head. I hadn’t known that. My father was the one who told me; I assumed he was the one who’d made the decision to swap grooms.

“I made him amend the agreement with Arthur so it was between me and Crew. We would have been miserable together. We’re too alike, Oliver. CEO is your birthright, as the oldest. Of course you want it. You were born and raised and trained to want it.”

“It’s not up to me or Crew who becomes CEO. It’s my father’s decision.”

“I know. And Arthur is giving you the chance to have it. Maybe it’s his way of admitting he made a mistake, taking it from you in the first place. If he asks for something in exchange, he can preserve his pride.”

“It shouldn’t have to be a trade.”

Scarlett laughs. “Of course it does. That’s how the world—our world—works. You were going to marry me to be CEO, right? How is this any different? It’s all about how you look at it.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“It doesn’t have to be. I’ve been the person convinced an arranged marriage will just be a business relationship. I wish I’d opened up to Crew sooner. Been less cynical from the start. If he hadn’t been so…stubborn—” She smiles. “—my life would look very different. Would be worse. You don’t have to force anything. Just be open to it and start tonight. If you brood out here all night, Quinn will feel like she has to ignore you next time you see each other. Next thing you know, you’ll be making up affairs and spying on each other through security footage.”

I frown at the random examples, then exhale. “I can’t marry her, Scarlett.”

She nods and leans down to pull her heels back on. “Okay. I tried.”

I swallow the rest of my cognac in one massive gulp. “You don’t understand. I literally can’t.”

Scarlett frowns as she looks over at me. “What? Why?”

“I went to Vegas last weekend for Garrett Anderson’s bachelor party.”

She nods. “Yeah, I know.”

“Well, while I was there, I got married.”

Scarlett’s expression doesn’t even twitch. I’m suddenly overwhelmingly grateful she’s who Crew married. She’s the person you want when there’s a crisis. I’ve never seen her composure rattled.

She leans back and slips her heels back off. “God, I wish I could drink.”

A surprised laugh leaves me.

“Does Crew know?”

I shake my head. “No. But he knows her. My, um, wife.”

Scarlett’s head tilts, eyebrows rising. “Knows her how?”

“Her name is Hannah Garner.”

Her lips tighten into a thin, straight line. “Dammit, Oliver.”

“She mentioned you two were…acquainted.”

“We ran into her a few times, shortly after we got married. They were…unpleasant. I don’t know exactly what happened between them, and I’ve never asked Crew. At the company party that year, Hannah told me Crew was cheating. Described their liaisons rather graphically.”

I’m surprised Hannah was at a Kensington Consolidated party, that she attended society events on her trips here. Hundreds of people are invited, but it’s still an exclusive list.

“She was lying,” I tell her. “He’s never cheated on you.”

Scarlett half-smiles. “I know.”

“I believe she regrets it, if it makes any difference. But if I’d known she’d said that to you, I never would have touched her. Let alone married her.”

Scarlett’s lips twist wryly. “You aren’t the first guy to get distracted by a pretty face, Oliver.”

I scoff, staring at my empty glass. “I didn’t marry her just because she got my dick hard, Scarlett. I was drunk, and don’t remember most of it. But there was something… I don’t know. She was different than any other woman I’d met.”

“By different, do you mean bitchier?”

I glance over at her.

Scarlett rolls her eyes. “Sorry. I’m a grudge holder. And, I’m hormonal.” She touches her flat stomach.

“Congratulations, by the way. Crew mentioned it when he…”

“Showed up drunk to your apartment?”

I chuckle. “Yeah. I’m happy for you guys.”

“Thanks. The best baby gift you could give me is taking CEO. I’m sick of Crew getting home a minute before eight just to hole up in his home office all night.”

I sigh. “Look, aside from the fact pissing my dad off by not agreeing to it has been fun, I would consider marrying Quinn. The problem is…”

“Hannah.”

“Yeah.”

“What are your options?”

“What do you mean?”

“From a legal perspective. Didn’t you go to law school?”

I laugh. “What? No.”

“Oh.” We’re both silent, realizing how little we really know each other. My fault. Hers. Crew’s. This world’s. “Then, do you have a divorce attorney?”

“Not yet. And…we don’t have a prenup.”

Scarlett shakes her head. “Jesus, Oliver. When you decide to fuck up, you don’t fool around.”

“She won’t fight me on this. She wants it over and done as much as I do.”

“Are you sure about that? Hannah could have planned this entire thing.”

“How?”

“Plenty of people knew you’d be in Vegas for Garrett’s bachelor party. She could have shown up and seduced you.”

I shake my head. “No. She didn’t plan it.”

“How do you know?”

“I was…after we met at a bar, I was the one who asked her to meet me later.”

Scarlett rolls her eyes. “If she got your interest, of course you’d try to meet up with her later. That means nothing, Oliver.”

Logically, I know what Scarlett is saying makes sense. But I’m certain she’s wrong, that marrying me was nothing Hannah planned. I can’t explain it beyond that—I’m certain.

Scarlett sighs when I don’t budge. “Who knows?”

“Just you. And…Asher.”

“You told Asher?”

I shrug. “I was trying to learn more about Hannah. I thought he might know something.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

Scarlett stands. I watch as she holds the side of the bench, stepping into her heels. “We should get back.”

Before I can say anything else, she’s gone in a swish of skirts. I stand reluctantly, and then follow her inside.