31. Margot
31
MARGOT
T he invitations are out. The dress is altered. The cake is chosen, though Madeline nearly murdered someone over the buttercream tier, and the venue is locked, and I am officially five days away from becoming Margot King.
The office smells like lavender tea and printer ink, the late afternoon sunlight slanting through the tall windows of Perfectly Matched HQ , painting warm gold across the hardwood floors. The wedding binder sits open on the conference table beside my laptop, a collage of swatches, guest lists, and seating diagrams designed to test the limits of my mental stamina. Olivia stands by the window, a digital goddess in black, her tablet flashing with RSVPs, venue specs, and a horrifying spreadsheet labeled “Madeline’s Flower Timeline.”
“Catering?” she asks, eyes not leaving the screen.
“Confirmed. Lobster ravioli and filet. I caved to Grayson’s obsession with truffle foam.”
“Photographer?”
“Madeline threatened to fire me from my own wedding if I didn’t hire her preferred Vogue freelancer.”
“Cake?”
I pause. “You do not want to reopen the cake conversation.”
Olivia gives me a dry smile. “Copy that.”
The atmosphere in the room feels charged, like the final calm before takeoff. For the first time, I’m not overwhelmed, I’m ready. Not just for the ceremony, or the first dance, or the ten thousand photos. But for the after. The real stuff.
“I think I’m actually excited,” I say quietly.
Olivia glances up, surprised. “For the wedding?”
“For the marriage,” I admit. “I didn’t think I’d ever say that.”
She arches a brow. “You mean to tell me Margot Evans, the woman who once called marriage a ‘socially reinforced merger of co-dependent behaviors’—is voluntarily entering into a romantic contract?”
I give her a flat look. “That quote was taken out of context.”
“You said it into a microphone.”
“I was talking about other people’s marriages.”
She smirks, scrolling through her tablet. “And now here you are. Besotted. Wearing linen. Picking flatware.”
I groan. “I swear, if I hear the word ‘tablescape’ one more time…”
“Oh, you mean the one Madeline used 43 times yesterday?”
I point at her. “Don’t. Start.”
She doesn’t. But her eyes sparkle. I lean back in my chair, shaking my head. “It’s wild, right? This time last year, I thought love was a distraction. I thought this company, Perfectly Matched, was everything.”
“And now?” Olivia asks, her voice gentler.
“Now,” I say, glancing toward the hallway where Grayson usually appears right around tea or crisis time, “I think I built it so I could find him.”
Olivia doesn’t respond right away. Just smiles that rare, real smile of hers. “You still terrify me sometimes.”
“That’s how you know it’s working.”
As if on cue, Grayson walks in with two mugs and his usual soft smirk. “What are we terrifying Olivia about today?”
“Our wedding,” I say, taking my mug.
He sips his tea, eyes dancing. “Tell her about the thing Madeline said about centerpieces.”
I cover my face. “No.”
“Oh, come on,” he says. “It involved taxidermy and a French vineyard.”
Olivia blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
Grayson grins. “You had to be there.”
Before I can get teary, a ping from my inbox announces our elite client updates.
“Perfect,” I say, sitting straighter. “Let’s check in on our most dangerous pairs.”
***
The restaurant is tucked behind a discreet bronze door on a quiet Tribeca block, hidden between a vintage bookshop and a speakeasy with no sign. Inside, it’s all soft amber lighting and rich textures, mahogany walls, velvet banquettes, the low hum of jazz filtering through a vintage speaker in the corner.
Alexandra sits at a small table in the back, facing the room. She’s in a midnight-blue dress with a plunging back and sharp gold earrings that glint like tiny weapons. Her hair’s in a soft twist, one strand deliberately out of place. Her wine glass is untouched, her gaze cool.
Mason arrives five minutes late in a fitted charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled, expression unreadable but undeniably focused, on her. Always on her.
“You’re late,” she says as he slides into the booth.
“I had to talk myself out of bailing,” he says. “Figured you might ghost me.”
“I don’t ghost,” she replies, sipping her wine. “I disappoint slowly.”
The air between them is taut, electric. They order shared plates: lamb lollipops, burrata, something with truffle oil. The conversation crackles, veering from literature to ethics to bad exes. Mason surprises her by quoting a poem. She surprises herself by laughing, actually laughing. After dessert, they linger. Neither moves to check their phone. When they step out into the street, the cold night air wraps around them, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from a nearby cart.
He brushes his hand against hers. She doesn’t pull away.
He says, “Do this again with me?”
She nods. “Maybe.”
But the smile she tries, and fails, to suppress tells him what he already knows.
***
The Met Gala for Modern Influence is held on the rooftop of the Neue Galerie, an art-deco jewel box perched above Central Park. Fairy lights snake along the railings, live piano hums from beneath the cocktail chatter, and waiters in white jackets glide between donors and dignitaries like chess pieces.
Senator Claudia Mallory arrives in black velvet, her neckline sharp, her heels lethal. Her diamond cuff catches the light like a signal flare. Every inch of her is curated, powerful, undeniable.
étienne Marcelle is waiting near the champagne fountain. He’s in a perfectly cut tuxedo, casually undone bowtie resting at his collar. He hands her a glass without speaking.
“You clean up well,” she says, accepting it.
“I do everything well,” he murmurs, eyes locked on hers.
They move through the room like opposing royalty. When a tech billionaire tries to interrupt their conversation to pitch a blockchain-backed political platform, Mallory’s smile could slice glass. étienne simply says, “We’ll have to circle back.”
She watches him with something resembling amusement. “Do you always rescue women from conversations they could destroy themselves?”
“I’m not rescuing,” he says. “I’m redirecting firepower.”
Later, on the balcony, she leans against the railing as city lights flicker below. He joins her silently.
“You study power,” she says.
“I study people who think they don’t need anyone,” he replies. “They always fascinate me most.”
She turns her head, brows lifted. “And you think that’s me?”
“I think you’re extraordinary,” he says. “And also completely human.”
She doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t walk away either. When he kisses her hand at the end of the night, she holds his gaze for a beat too long.
“You’re dangerous,” she says softly.
“So are you,” he replies.
And she doesn’t correct him.
***
Back at Perfectly Matched, I close my laptop and lean back in my chair. Outside, the skyline is dipped in gold and navy. The soft glow of the Empire State Building flickers in the distance. Inside, the air hums with readiness. Mason and Alexandra are inching closer. Mallory might be cracking. And me? I’m five days from everything changing.
Grayson enters without knocking, two mugs of chamomile tea in hand, and that half-smile that still manages to undo me.
“Wedding CEO,” he says, setting the mug beside me. “Looking very type-A and stunning.”
I smirk. “How do you feel about becoming Mr. Evans-King?”
He perches on the arm of my chair and leans in. “I feel like I’m getting away with something.”
I sip the tea. “We’re really doing this.”
“We already are,” he says, kissing my temple.
And for a moment, in the middle of a thousand moving pieces, I let it all go, because sometimes, building a life doesn’t feel like climbing a mountain. Sometimes it feels like finally coming home.