25. Margot
25
MARGOT
T here’s something deeply satisfying about planning an event that isn’t your wedding. Don’t get me wrong, our wedding is going to be beautiful, chaotic, and slightly over budget thanks to Madeline’s obsession with artisan gelato carts, but orchestrating a professional mixer for two extremely high-profile clients? That’s where I thrive.
Grayson and I sit on the couch, laptop open between us. He’s reading Alexandra and Mason’s profiles again like he’s prepping for the SATs. I sip my tea and scroll through the list of handpicked guests we’ve pulled from our elite roster.
“So you’re telling me,” I say, tapping the screen, “that this woman hiked the Andes solo and still ghosted her last match because he didn’t know how to pronounce ‘Machiavellian.’”
“She has standards,” Grayson says.
“She has murder mystery dinner party energy,” I reply.
The venue I select is a private rooftop garden in SoHo, elegant without being ostentatious. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, strings of soft white lights, and an open bar with craft cocktails tailored to client personalities: a bourbon-based ‘Wolfe Bite’ and a sleek, gin-forward ‘Devaux Standard.’ There’s a string quartet for ambiance and a discreet photographer who signs more NDAs than most hedge fund managers.
I coordinate with Olivia for logistics, which mostly involves her sending me concise bullet points and me texting back heart emojis while stress-eating chocolate almonds. By mid-afternoon, we’ve confirmed valet service, passed security sweeps, and finalized a floral installation that won’t cause allergic reactions or obscure facial expressions.
By the time I slip into my black silk dress and adjust my lipstick, the venue is glowing. Grayson meets me at the entrance, looking devastatingly put together in a navy suit with no tie and the kind of smile that makes me forget why we were ever enemies.
“Ready to unleash the wolves?” I murmur.
He grins. “Only if you promise to throw Alexandra into the deep end.”
“She can swim,” I say.
We exchange a nod, step into the curated mayhem, and watch as our two wildcards begin to orbit the room. Game on.
***
It’s the kind of night where everything feels too smooth, too staged. The lighting hits just right, the guest list mingles with practiced ease, and even the canapés arrive at perfect room temperature. It should be comforting. Instead, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck lift.
I chalk it up to nerves, or intuition. Or maybe just the voice in the back of my mind reminding me that perfection, real, cinematic perfection, is always the first scene in a disaster movie, but I shake it off. For now.
The rooftop garden glows like something out of a curated dream. String lights crisscross above us, casting a soft golden shimmer across the ivy-covered trellises and elegant lounge seating. The skyline of lower Manhattan rises beyond the glass railing, a glittering backdrop to what looks like a very refined jungle gym for the emotionally elite.
Servers glide by with trays of miniature canapés—tuna tartare on lotus crisps, bite-sized truffle sliders, and edible flowers I can’t pronounce. A bartender in a crisp vest mixes cocktails with surgical precision, pouring a Wolfe Bite over a perfectly cut ice sphere while someone else garnishes a Devaux Standard with a curl of lemon and two frozen grapes.
Alexandra arrives first. She’s in a slate-gray dress that somehow manages to be both minimalist and devastating. Her hair is pinned back in a twist so sharp it could cut glass. She scans the space, already cataloging the exits and wine pairings, no doubt.
“Ms. Devaux,” I say, stepping forward with a smile. “Welcome. You look lethal.”
She offers a small nod. “You chose a good venue. Understated, well-ventilated, no red wine carpets.”
“I live to serve.”
“Where’s my drink?”
Grayson appears beside me like a magician with a glass in hand. “Gin-forward. A hint of lavender. And zero compromises.”
She accepts it with a look of amused suspicion. “You remembered.”
Then Mason Wolfe walks in, looking like he just stepped out of a fragrance campaign. Black on black. Charcoal suit, no tie, devil-may-care smirk.
“I brought my best manners,” he says, holding up two fingers in a mock scout’s honor salute. “And my worst intentions.”
“You’ll need both,” I say sweetly.
He spots Alexandra and saunters over, drink already in hand. “Nice to see you again. Try not to elbow anyone tonight. We’re trying to make friends.”
“No promises,” she replies, sipping her cocktail. “Especially if someone brings up cryptocurrency again.”
“Already crossed that off my list,” he says. “But I am considering a dramatic reading of my latest investor pitch.”
“I’ll bring the exit survey,” she says.
Grayson and I watch them drift into the crowd, circling, pausing, engaging, testing. They speak with other guests but keep glancing back at each other like they’re subconsciously measuring distance. The energy is sharp. Controlled.
“You think this will work?” I ask Grayson quietly.
He slides a hand to the small of my back. “If it doesn’t, it won’t be because they weren’t compatible. It’ll be because they didn’t surrender to it.”
I glance around at the perfectly arranged flowers, the curated crowd, the quietly pulsing jazz trio in the corner.
“God, I love it when a plan comes together.”
“Even if the plan is chaos?”
“Especially then.”
The mingling begins in earnest. A woman named Daphne, venture capitalist, full-body laughter, allergic to bullshit, corners Mason near the bar.
“So,” she says, swirling her drink, “are you the Wolfe everyone keeps whispering about?”
“Depends,” Mason says. “What are they whispering?”
“That you race cars, drink bourbon, and once got dumped for quoting Keats during brunch.”
He laughs. “That’s only half true. It was Byron.”
Daphne grins. “Figures.”
Across the garden, Alexandra is deep in conversation with a man wearing a linen suit and the expression of someone who just discovered her résumé.
“You hike solo?” he asks, clearly impressed. “Isn’t that... risky?”
“Only if you’re unprepared,” she replies, sipping her drink. “Which is why I wouldn’t bring you.”
He blinks. “I—uh—love that.”
Grayson leans over to me, amused. “That poor man is going to cancel his Equinox membership tomorrow.”
Another guest, a charming, nervous ceramicist named Theo—accidentally spills a champagne flute down his own shirt while trying to compliment Alexandra’s shoes. She just tilts her head and says, “You need a tailor more than you need a match.”
Meanwhile, Mason helps the bartender carry a tray of drinks back to a corner table. He delivers them with flair, tipping a pretend hat to the guests like he’s in a noir film.
“I think Mason just seduced the entire catering staff,” I whisper.
“I think Alexandra just scared someone into changing careers,” Grayson counters.
It’s not chaos, not quite. But it’s definitely a performance, each interaction pulling a thread, unraveling expectations, stitching new impressions. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Mason and Alexandra brush past each other again. A pause. A smirk. No words exchanged. But the electricity? Palpable. My fingers tighten around my glass. They may not know it yet, but they’re already orbiting something bigger than themselves.
Then I see her.
Senator Claudia Mallory. In a crisp white suit, bold red lipstick, and the kind of expression that turns gala fundraisers into televised showdowns. She’s standing near the entrance, one hand on her hip, the other holding a champagne flute like it’s part of a silent threat. I blink. Olivia, halfway across the room, sees her too, and her posture goes ramrod straight.
“She wasn’t invited,” I mutter to Grayson, who turns just in time to catch Mallory scanning the crowd like she’s building an enemies list.
“Do you think she’s here to flirt, sabotage, or legislate?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I whisper.
Mallory starts walking toward us with the slow, deliberate confidence of a woman who knows she’s the twist in the final act.
Grayson’s hand slips discreetly into mine.
“Smile,” I say through clenched teeth. “Here comes the cliffhanger.”
She stops three feet from us, her expression unreadable beneath perfect contouring and political calculation.
“Senator,” I say tightly. “To what do we owe the surprise appearance?”
She lifts her glass. “I came for the gin. Stayed for the tension.”
Grayson’s jaw tightens. “I assume this isn’t just social curiosity.”
Mallory smiles. “Actually, it is. I'm in the market. For a match. Something long-term. Substantial. Televised, perhaps.”
My mouth opens. Closes. “You want us to find you a match?”
“Unless you’d prefer I go to PulseMatch . But they’re still recovering from that therapist-ex crossover disaster.”
Grayson and I exchange a look. We’re not sure whether we’ve been propositioned or blackmailed.
“Or,” Mallory continues, swirling her champagne, “you can say no. And I’ll simply redirect my focus to... oh, I don’t know. That unsanctioned ultrasound visit I heard whispers about?”
I freeze. My pulse skips. “You wouldn’t.”
She grins. “Try me.”