52. Margot
52
MARGOT
T he elevator doors open into a soft burst of florals and laughter. I step out into the rooftop garden of the St. Lucien Club, our baby shower venue for the day, and am immediately overwhelmed by color. Blush pink and sage green balloons float beneath a glass-paneled ceiling, and every table is wrapped in linen and crowned with fresh peonies. There’s a mimosa bar, a non-alcoholic cocktail station, and a three-tiered cake so elegant it could double as modern art.
Olivia waves me over from across the terrace, her usually crisp bun replaced by waves and soft curls. She’s holding a clipboard in one hand and a glass of sparkling juice in the other, looking suspiciously proud of herself.
“You did this?” I ask, stepping into her orbit.
“Please,” she says, brushing invisible lint off her pastel dress. “I had help. Priya did the logistics, Sophie did the playlist, and I gave orders like a benevolent tyrant.”
“I love it,” I whisper. And I mean it.
There are a dozen people already here, our closest circle. No influencers. No reporters. No one with a hidden agenda. Just laughter, soft jazz playing, and enough cookies shaped like baby bottles to feed a small army.
Sophie walks by carrying a tray of cucumber sandwiches and gives me a knowing glance. “You’re glowing. Is that the pregnancy or the free pastries?”
“Both,” I deadpan.
“Respect.”
The afternoon sun filters through the glass roof in slanted beams, making the blush balloons look like they’re glowing from within. A harpist plays something vaguely classical from the far corner, but Sophie’s already asked if she can swap the playlist for 2000s girl power hits.
“No Beyoncé?” she says with a dramatic gasp. “You’re telling me this is a feminist baby shower and not one track from Destiny’s Child has played?”
“I was trying to cultivate ambiance,” Olivia says, crossing her arms. “You know. Subtle. Sophisticated.”
“I respect that,” Sophie replies. “But also: we’re celebrating a woman pushing a tiny human out of her body. I think we’ve earned some Spice Girls.”
“Touché,” Priya says, sipping a sparkling pear mocktail. “I second that motion.”
The playlist switches. The harpist, with an exhausted smile, shrugs and takes a break while “Say My Name” starts up in the background. The entire room cheers.
“I swear to God,” I murmur to Olivia as I unwrap a gift, “this is the weirdest but most perfect baby shower I could’ve imagined.”
She leans in. “Wait until you see what Cassian sent.”
“Oh no,” I say.
“Oh yes.”
I open the large, heavy box with faux-gold filigree and pull out… a miniature tuxedo. Silk lapels. Cufflinks. The whole nine. There’s a note attached: In case your daughter prefers black-tie brunches. Start early. —C.L.
Sophie leans over my shoulder. “That’s… intense.”
Priya nods solemnly. “It’s couture. Probably costs more than my rent.”
“I love it,” I say, laughing as I hold it up. “This kid’s going to look like she’s closing deals by age three.”
“She’ll need a power bob,” Olivia says, deadpan. “Or at least baby heels.”
“No,” I say quickly, “please, for the love of all things sane, no baby heels.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Sophie murmurs, typing something into her phone. “I know a guy.”
“You would,” Olivia mutters, hiding a grin.
Margot’s laughter flows easily now, especially when she opens a gift from Priya that turns out to be a tiny pair of high-top sneakers, rose gold, sequined, and absurd.
“I found them on a ‘boss baby’ Pinterest board,” Priya says. “No regrets.”
“None deserved,” I reply, wiping a tear from my cheek.
“Wait,” Sophie says, digging in a small bag. “Mine’s last. But it’s very ‘me.’”
She hands over a tiny T-shirt. In bold black letters, it reads: I was born because two people couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
The room loses it. I nearly drop the shirt in a fit of laughter. Olivia’s choking on her mocktail.
“Oh my God,” I wheeze. “You’re evil.”
Sophie raises her glass. “I’m also accurate.”
Grayson isn’t here, he wanted today to be mine, but he sent a gift. The entire room leans in as I open the neatly wrapped box with dark green ribbon. Inside is a hardcover book, old and bound in leather. It’s an original edition of Little Women . Inside the cover, there’s a note in his handwriting: To our daughter, who will be strong, stubborn, and extraordinary. Just like her mother. Something tightens in my throat.
“Okay,” Olivia says, clapping. “Who brought tissues? Anyone?”
I’m about to reply when Sophie nudges me, holding out a small cream-colored envelope.
“This came with Grayson’s gift,” she says, a rare softness in her voice.
I open it carefully: Margot, I wasn’t the kind of father who showed up when it counted. But I’m learning that late doesn’t mean never. You are building something more enduring than a company. You’re building a family, and you’ve brought my son home to it. Thank you. I don’t expect to be grandfather of the year. But I’ll be there, whenever you’ll have me. —Crane
I stare at the words until they blur. The room quiets.
“Who’s it from?” Priya asks.
I smile, holding it close. “An apology. And a promise.”
***
The afternoon drifts in a haze of sugar and sun. We eat too much cake. Sophie forces me into a photo booth with a flower crown three sizes too large. Priya makes everyone write their guesses for the baby’s name on pastel cards, Olivia writes CEO . Of course she does. And for a few hours, it feels like joy without condition.
But just as Olivia lifts her glass for a toast, her phone buzzes sharply. She glances at it, then freezes. Her expression shifts.
I catch her eye. “What is it?”
She hesitates, then steps closer. “Nothing for now. I’ve got it.”
But I know that look. I’ve worn it.
Later, as the guests filter out, I find Olivia near the hydrangea arch, typing furiously on her phone.
“Spill,” I say.
She sighs, showing me the screen. “Eleanor just dropped a video. Edited montage. It’s bad. She’s spinning herself as the victim of a coordinated smear. Says she was trying to expose us before ‘they weaponized a pregnancy to deflect.’”
A slow breath escapes me.
“I can handle it,” Olivia says.
“No,” I reply. “We’re not hiding. Not anymore.”
I slip into a quiet corner of the venue, a little alcove draped with vines and white roses. I pull out my phone and call Grayson.
He answers on the first ring. “Everything okay?”
“She did it again,” I say. “She twisted the truth before we could release ours.”
A pause. Then: “Then we release it now.”
“I want to say something,” I add. “Not just you. Us.”
His voice is steady. “Then let’s do it together.”
By the time I return to the main terrace, the sun is starting to dip, casting the whole rooftop in gold. Olivia’s already briefing the digital team. Sophie has commandeered the lighting for a soft, natural glow. And I’m stepping in front of the camera, still in my baby shower dress, no script, no filter. Just me. Just us. And it’s finally our turn to speak.