Chapter 47
Marcus stepped out of the elevator and onto the rooftop with a professionally wrapped gift tucked under one arm and the weight of unfinished business pressing hard against his chest.
He inhaled deeply, catching the sharp scent of summer citrus and that intangible mix of ambition and possibility that defined this city after dark. The exhale came slowly, as if reluctant to leave.
He swept his gaze over his surroundings: string lights, flowers, and guests clustered in carefully curated groups with their calculated charm and expensive champagne flutes.
He’d called Ms. Birdie this morning, begged for advice on how to approach Frankie with an apology wrapped up in anything but apology paper.
Her solution? Show up at a black-tie event she was hosting tonight, bring a grovel gift, and dress like regret had a designer label. That was it. No details. Just a cryptic promise that if he played along, he’d see Frankie tonight.
It wasn’t until a knot of guests shifted that he spotted the marquee beneath a canopy of Edison bulbs.
A Night of Second Chances
Honoring
Lola, the Future of Fashion
&
Georgianna, the Architect of Do-Overs
All proceeds benefit The Georgianna Birdie Center for At-Risk Youth
His chest tightened and the noise fell to a murmur.
An event for Lola and for Gi Gi, not apologies but a celebration.
Pride climbed his throat. Pride in Lola, who refused to disappear.
Pride in Ms. Birdie, who made second chances look effortless.
And pride in Gi Gi, who never believed rescue ended with them, who kept feeding, mentoring, and championing a dozen other strays until they stood on their own.
He’d come for Frankie, but he was not the only one being handed a second chance tonight. This was also Lola’s, and it was a way to honor Gi Gi.
His gaze drifted to the marquee stand again. The Georgianna Birdie Center for At-Risk Youth.
It had always been the GB Center. Quiet. Anonymous. Just two women who saw a need and filled it.
Now Gi Gi’s full name was spelled out in lights.
A rush of emotion hit him like whiskey against an open wound.
Gi Gi stepping into the light with her boys made the lump in his throat impossible to breathe past.
Glancing around as he tried to gather the frayed edges of his composure, Marcus caught sight of Ms. Birdie gliding across the rooftop.
She wore a black silk jumpsuit, and a cape fluttered dramatically behind her.
“Marcus, darling.” Ms. Birdie air-kissed both of his cheeks. “You made it.”
He gave her a dry look. “You knew I would.”
“Correct,” she agreed sweetly.
“What makes you think this will work?” He gestured to the rooftop.
Ms. Birdie tilted her chin, clearly pleased. “Darling, I was not crowned the Queen of Love by watching people crash and burn while I sift through the ashes.”
He sighed. “That bad?”
“Indeed, it is. I’ve done what I can.” Her gaze slid to the gift box in his hand. “You brought one. Good. Tell me it’s not something generic.” She arched a brow. “If it doesn’t shout Frankie, keep the ribbon on.”
“It’s not generic.” Marcus glanced down at the gift box in his hand. If what was inside didn’t work, nothing would.
“Excellent.”
“Are you sure it’s safe to have Frankie anywhere near this event?”
Ms. Birdie waved a jeweled hand like she was swatting away a gnat. “Don’t worry. She’s under strict orders to throw nothing. Not even a tantrum.”
He tensed. “Is she here?” How had he missed her?
“I may have given her a very last-minute invitation,” Ms. Birdie said, her eyes the picture of feigned innocence. “She’s arriving fashionably late. Heavy on the fashionable.”
Suspicion bloomed like a stress rash. “Last-minute, as in you didn’t give her enough time to stage a dramatic exit when she saw my face?”
“You’re a quick study. I knew there was a reason I liked you.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “She’ll be front row. Direct line of sight.”
He tugged at his collar, already overheated. What in the hell was he thinking, showing up with a bow-tied bribe like this was a romcom movie? Frankie hated cheesy love stories.
Before Marcus could say more, a flash of attitude and a pop of color interrupted them.
“Well,” came a voice bright as a thousand paparazzi bulbs. “If it isn’t Broody McSuit.”
Ziggy arrived in a swirl of velvet, demanding attention.
“Darling,” he purred, his gaze zeroing in on Marcus. “You’re looking…” He paused, tilting his head. “Deliciously tortured. How delightful.”
“Ziggy, angel,” Ms. Birdie said. “Thank you for putting this together at the last moment.”
Ziggy preened, the tips of his fingers splayed on his chest. “Anything for my favorite boss’s boss.”
A crisp voice over the PA system cut through the air. “Ladies and gentlemen, please find your seats. The show will begin momentarily.”
Ziggy offered Marcus an elbow. “Come with me, darling. Our seats are closer than scandal is to a headline.”
Marcus declined the elbow and followed Ziggy to the front row, the gift box on his lap suddenly ticking in his mind like a countdown clock.
And then the elevator chimed.
His spine straightened on instinct.
Frankie stepped out.
Everything inside him stopped.
Tonight, she was Frankie Peterson. Sharp, stunning, unapologetically herself. No wig in sight. Her dress shimmered under the moonlight, every curve perfectly devastating. Her chin lifted with lethal elegance, her gaze sweeping the crowd with the ease of someone born to own the stage.
Ms. Birdie appeared beside her, guiding her forward with the commanding grace of a CEO closing a high-stakes deal.
Within seconds of Frankie taking a seat, her gaze met Marcus’s. The danger in her eyes was sharp enough to leave a scar. But before she could erupt, the house lights dimmed.
Marcus blinked and shifted his focus to the stage—to Lola’s debut.
Over the next thirty minutes, spotlights tracked a procession of models down a minimalist runway, each clad in streetwear transformed by sharp tailoring and Lola’s reclaimed glam.
Every look was anchored by a pair of stilettos, rescued, repainted, and reborn into wearable art.
The crowd’s buzz of approval crackled with electricity.
The final model emerged in a floor-length gown, the fabric catching the light with every step. Fragments of broken heels trailed down the back, a spine of defiance.
During all of it, Marcus felt Frankie’s presence burning against his skin, dragging every thought toward her. But he didn’t dare look her way.
And then, like the final flourish in a magician’s act, Lola stepped onto the runway and took the mic.
“Thank you for coming,” she began. “And thank you, Ms. Birdie, for giving us this space. Tonight’s show is about reclamation: not just of shoes, but of identity, of safety, of story.
A few months ago, I didn’t get to showcase my new line.
Frankie Peterson threw a stiletto—and I say that with love—so that I wouldn’t have to throw away my career. ”
A collective gasp swept through the crowd.
Marcus’s brows drew together, a flicker of confusion slicing through him. Had he heard right?
Frankie hadn’t thrown the stiletto in a fit of rage or ego. She’d done it for Lola. For her career.
Shame scraped through his chest like sandpaper.
“While I have no desire to go deep into details on what was the worst time of my life, I will say my former sponsor was tied to questionable practices that I had failed to see. It wasn’t until Frankie spotted him backstage at my debut and recognized him as a man who’d ruined the career of another designer that I discovered his dark side.
Frankie urged me to cancel the show, but he overheard and threatened lawsuits.
In that moment, I thought for sure I was doomed to forever tie myself to him.
But Frankie, bless her women-support-women heart, didn’t go down without a fight.
“She allowed him to think he’d won.
“Of course she did. That was Frankie…strategic, sharp, and so much braver than he’d ever given her credit for.
“All while plotting another way to buy me the time I needed to rid myself of him,” Lola continued. “Frankie did this by creating a scene so bizarre, so chaos-causing, that the program was canceled.”
Marcus stared at the stage, the truth knocking the wind out of him.
Frankie hadn’t been the saboteur. She’d been the shield.
His throat tightened, guilt clawing up like a thousand paper cuts from inside.
Onstage, Lola turned her gaze to the front row, her warm brown skin glowing beneath the lights.
“Frankie, thank you. And thank you to the Georgianna Birdie Center for believing in me from the beginning. Back then, my brother and I spent afternoons at what we called the GB Center in Harlem. It was the only place that felt safe. Thanks to them, I received a full scholarship to the Fashion Institute of Technology. And my brother received a scholarship to attend the School of Visual Arts.”
Applause swelled. Marcus could barely hear it.
His focus drifted to Frankie. She was watching him. A dare in her eyes. Reconcile this, asshole.
Before he could move, Lola’s brother, Tyler, stepped out from the wings and took the mic. “I don’t have my sister’s talent for fashion, but thanks to the Center, I found my own path. I’m proud to match whatever is raised tonight.”
Pride swelled in Marcus for the success of Tyler and Lola. In the hopes Frankie would be able to read the gratitude in his eyes, he turned back toward her seat and found it empty.
She’d vanished. Her message clear. Fuck off!
Jaw tight, Marcus shoved the hurt aside and pushed through the crowd to approach the siblings. “A little heads-up about what really happened at Lola’s debut would have been appreciated.”
Tyler’s easy smile faltered. In its place came something older, heavier. “Lola’s lawyer advised her not to speak about it until her contract was officially severed. And I couldn’t say anything without risking everything she’d worked for.”
Marcus blew out a breath, scrubbing a hand down his jaw, reminding himself not to make this moment about himself. “Thank God for good lawyers.”
“Great lawyers,” Tyler corrected. “Ms. Birdie made sure we had the best. And now? We’re free.”
“I’ll match whatever’s raised tonight,” Marcus said, trying not to feel anything but happy in this moment for his friend.
“And I’ll cover your match, too.” He raised his hand when Tyler started to protest. “I know you’re doing well.
But my finances are more…aggressively boring.
Let me do this. It’s the least I can do. ”
Before Tyler could respond, the house lights flared back on, and Ms. Birdie appeared center stage, arms wide like the curtain call queen she was. “Show’s over! Now scram, all of you. The ghosts need the room.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Marcus didn’t laugh. Was this Ms. Birdie’s way of giving him space to unravel in private?
Ms. Birdie clapped twice, the sound sharp as a gunshot. “I mean it. Skedaddle!”
The crowd continued to stare in confusion.
She sighed. “The rooftop bar is now closed, darlings. But an open bar awaits you in the Blue Room. Tip your bartenders generously!”
Only then did the exodus begin. Guests filed out, some with wide eyes and others whispering among themselves, as if the night’s revelations had left them stunned.
Marcus stayed still as the roof emptied. There were worse places one could be left to sit with their demons and come to terms with their future. A future that wouldn’t include Frankie Peterson.
As the last of the crowd trickled out, Ms. Birdie swept past him in a breeze of silk and smug satisfaction. She paused long enough to murmur, “All is not lost. Stay put.”
Hope bloomed as she left him there alone.
Within seconds, the lights dimmed.
And then—
A shuffle. Soft but unmistakable.
He turned.
Frankie stepped out from a side door, backlit by the exit light, her face unreadable and fierce. The moment her gaze landed on him, the mask faltered.
She clearly hadn’t expected the rooftop to still be occupied.
Ms. Birdie must have sent her back up with some line about a forgotten wrap or bangle.
For one taut beat, they just stared at each other.
Then Marcus quietly said, “Hey.”
He braced for a flying stiletto, half-certain she kept a spare in her purse for emergencies, like running into him.
Seconds passed, slow and deliberate, as she stepped forward, each heel strike a warning.
He owed her apologies. Real ones, not the corporate PR kind he’d mastered. But he also knew she wouldn’t accept the words. Not even if they were coated in his blood.
She stopped just short of striking distance, her expression cool enough to curdle champagne. “It’s customary to bring the designer flowers, not gifts. Didn’t anyone teach you debut etiquette?”
He held up the box he’d been clutching. “I didn’t know about the show. I came to see you. This is for you.”
A bitter laugh curled her lips. “Darling, I gave you a grand gesture. You gave me a cold shoulder. So…why now?”
“In my defense,” he said carefully, “my reasons were legitimate at the time.”
“Were?” The word sliced clean, leaving him raw.
He held out the box. “This doesn’t fix anything. It’s not a peace offering. It’s just…yours. No strings. You can throw it at me, and I’ll probably stand still and let it hit me.”
As if on cue, soft music drifted in from somewhere behind them. They turned toward the far corner of the rooftop, toward a velvet loveseat under a halo of fairy lights. A bottle of champagne waited on a low table beside it, chilled and glistening in an ice bucket.
“It looks like someone left us a truce zone over there,” Marcus said, voice low. “How about we take this and sit for a minute.” He did not trust the champagne to do all the talking, but it could buy them a respite.