48. Margot
48
MARGOT
T he penthouse is unusually still, the kind of quiet that makes every sound feel louder than it should, the hum of the fridge, the faint tap of water in the pipes, the low rumble of the city pressing in just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Morning light spills across the polished hardwood floors in wide golden strokes, illuminating the clean lines of the living room, the modern art on the walls, the soft folds of the gray throw draped across the sectional.
Grayson moves around the kitchen with a careful, deliberate calm, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to admit he’s on edge. He’s pouring coffee into a thick black mug, methodical in every motion, but I’ve seen the tightness in his shoulders, the way he’s been avoiding his phone like it holds something radioactive. It’s face-down on the counter. It hasn’t buzzed in twenty minutes, but that feels more like a threat than a relief.
I sit at the dining table, curled into one of the sleek leather chairs, nursing a lukewarm mug of decaf tea and wearing one of Grayson’s oversized sweaters because mine all seem to fit differently every day. The silence stretches between us, companionable on the surface but pulsing with everything we’re not saying.
“You’re quiet,” he says, not looking at me.
“I’m deciding whether to ruin our fragile illusion of peace,” I answer.
He finally glances over his shoulder. “Might as well go big if you’re going to do it.”
I wrap both hands around my mug. “Then tell me what Olivia meant. About the month. You having less than one.”
His expression doesn’t change, not really, but I’ve spent enough time watching him to catch the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers tighten slightly around the mug before he sets it down.
“It’s not urgent.”
“Grayson.”
He exhales and leans against the kitchen island, arms folding across his chest. “It’s a deadline I gave myself. Before all of this blew up. A potential investor, he wants an answer on the expansion offer by the end of the quarter.”
My gaze sharpens. “Crane?”
He doesn’t confirm. But he doesn’t deny it either. And that’s enough. The name hangs there, heavy as stone. I shift in my seat, resting a hand low on my belly as our daughter stirs beneath my skin.
“You don’t have to shield me from this.”
He crosses the room and crouches in front of me. “I know.”
“Then stop doing it.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
He presses a kiss to my knee, his eyes closing briefly, and I let the silence hold us for a moment longer before standing to refill my tea. Everything is shifting beneath us. But we’re still standing. For now.
***
By late morning, I’ve turned a section of the living room into a war zone of paper, screens, and caffeinated ambition. There are press briefings and client contracts spread across the marble table, a series of color-coded Post-it notes fanned around my laptop like a halo of barely restrained chaos. I’ve been on and off calls since nine, my feet up on a velvet ottoman, one hand rubbing the persistent ache in my lower back while the other types furiously.
Olivia appears on my screen like a tactical commander in a high-stakes war room. Behind her, the office glows with soft light and the blur of motion, staff moving briskly, coffee cups in hand, eyes alert. Her hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, her tone as clipped and surgical as ever.
“We’re holding,” she says without preamble. “Barely. PulseMatch launched a new campaign last night. They’re capitalizing on Eleanor’s comments, calling themselves the more ethical and transparent option.”
I scoff. “Because nothing says integrity like exploiting someone else’s scandal.”
“They’re not naming names,” Olivia says. “But the implication is clear. And it’s spreading.”
“What about clients?”
“Mallory hasn’t responded to our last two emails. Mason postponed his next session without rescheduling. Priya’s keeping an eye on them both.”
“And the media?”
“A few headlines resurfaced about the Vegas wedding. Light shade, mostly speculation. But the tone is turning snide.”
I lean back, resting my hand on my belly again. My daughter kicks, hard enough to make me wince.
“She’s not thrilled,” I mutter.
Olivia lifts an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Just pregnant. And possibly becoming cinnamon roll–shaped.”
“You’re not allowed to spiral until at least next week,” she says. “I already scheduled my breakdown for Thursday.”
I laugh despite myself, then go quiet. “I think it’s time I speak. Publicly.”
Olivia doesn’t react right away. “You’re sure?”
“I need to control the story. Not react to it.”
She nods, slowly. “We’ll do it carefully. A formal interview, tightly edited. You write your own script. We vet everything.”
“I want it real,” I say. “People need to remember I’m human.”
“And pregnant,” Olivia adds dryly. “That helps.”
“We use what we’ve got,” I say, smiling.
And then we both go quiet. Because we know this isn’t just about spin anymore. It’s about survival.
***
That afternoon, Grayson returns from a call, his sleeves pushed up, his hair slightly rumpled. He looks good in crisis, frustratingly good, but his eyes are tired. He finds me cross-legged on the sectional, the remains of a third decaf tea in front of me and a glowing iPad balanced on my knees.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he says.
“I’m multitasking. It’s different.”
“You’re eight months pregnant and coordinating a media defense strategy.”
“Which makes me extremely efficient.”
He sighs and sits beside me, gently pulling my feet into his lap. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”
I blink at him. “Where did that come from?”
“Just… watching you. Carry all this. Still lead. Still fight.”
I smile softly, my heart squeezing in my chest. “I had a good teacher.”
He lifts my foot and kisses my ankle. “She’s going to be unstoppable.”
“She already is,” I whisper.
***
Night falls slowly, the city lights below flickering to life in scattered clusters. From the penthouse, the view is endless, skyscrapers like frozen fire, the Hudson River catching the last embers of daylight, the world stretched wide and waiting.
I’m drafting the beginning of a public statement, something that might work as an open letter or a monologue. Something true. Something raw. Something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m trying to sell love while forgetting how to hold onto it myself.
I don’t know how to end it yet, and I don’t have to, because just then, my phone buzzes with a message from Olivia: We may have another leak.
The air around me shifts, cooler, tighter, sharper. Because even from the top of the world, the walls are never quite high enough.