Chapter 27
Margot
I drift back out onto the terrace with a fresh glass, having spent the last half hour hiding in the kitchen catching up with Celeste and Isabelle, who's catering the whole thing with Alex and plated tray after gorgeous tray while we talked.
The fundraiser's in full swing out here, a few hundred guests clustered under the string lights with glasses of wine, the vineyards rolling away behind them in the low sun.
It's a Solstice event, so I'm technically on the clock, which mostly means smiling and making the rounds until enough time has passed that I can slip away to the game without it looking rude.
The reprieve of the kitchen was short-lived, though, because out here I can't get ten feet without someone asking about my hockey boyfriend. How did we meet? Is it serious? How did I get a player like that to settle down? The last one is asked with a little laugh, like I performed a magic trick.
It's all perfectly friendly, and it's all starting to feel less like small talk and more like a press conference I never agreed to.
I scan the terrace, fiddling with the stem of my glass, and spot Dot. She's a familiar anchor in the chaos, stationed at a high-top in the dappled shade of the old oaks, with a vantage point that gives her a perfect view of the entire party. I make my way toward her like she's a life raft.
Today she's got her usual lime-green glasses on, the ones that magnify her eyes to owlish proportions, and a big pair of bright ladybug earrings, which are cheerfully lopsided.
"There you are," she says, patting the stool beside her. "Sit. I'm people-watching, and the main attraction is over there."
I slide onto the stool and follow her gaze to Diane and José, who are down by the flowering wall having what appears to be an actual conversation, no visible bloodshed.
"They've been at it twenty minutes," Dot reports, sipping her wine. "No insults, no storming off. He showed her something on the roses and she touched his arm. His arm, Margot. I've watched that woman insult a man's entire lineage over a pruning schedule, and now she's touching his arm."
I laugh. "I keep hoping they'll just admit how badly they want each other."
"They’d sooner die in a shouting match than surrender that pride," she says, her tone full of affection. "Speaking of, are you getting to your young man's game?"
There it is again, that spike of nerves, and I hate that even Dot asking lands wrong now.
It isn't the game itself. It isn't even being public; I always knew that day would come.
It's that going public came with opinions and articles and comment sections, and I've spent the week reading all of it when I know better.
Normally I'd take something like this straight to Cillian, but he's got the biggest games of his career starting tonight and needs every ounce of his focus on the ice. So I'm keeping my head down, getting through these next few weeks, and not letting this shit get to me.
"Soon. I have to stay another little while, then it's the drive over." I take a sip. "It's my first game as The Official Girlfriend. And it's a hugely important one for him, so I’m just hoping it all goes well."
"You'll be marvelous," Dot says. "You're prettier than a peony in full bloom, sharper than a bag of tacks, and a total pro at working a tough crowd. And if anyone does boo you, me and the Fright Club girls will put a hex on the lot of them."
"A hex?" I arch an eyebrow. "Is that a plot point from the latest novel, or just a general service you're providing?"
"A general service, though funny you should ask. Alice announced at our last meeting that she's Wiccan now, and she's been walking us all through it." She sniffs. "I'll admit I love the notion of a well-placed curse. I've a short list, mind you."
"Anyone who kills one of your beloved plants, like a fiddle leaf fig?" I ask, letting out a soft laugh into my wine.
"Oh, they're at the very top of the list." She points a finger at me, her owl eyes widening behind her neon frames. "Which is exactly why I won't let you buy one. You're not fig-ready yet, and I refuse to hex a friend."
"Don't you worry." I tip my glass toward her in a little salute. "I'll prove my worth to the plant queen eventually."
"I've no doubt. But for now, you make a marvelous cactus and succulent mother," she says, winking at me.
I laugh, already preparing a witty defense of my flourishing snake plant, but the sound dies in my throat. My entire body goes rigid, a sudden, icy jolt of recognition slamming into me.
Across the crowded terrace, weaving through the guests in a perfectly tailored suit, is my ex-husband.
Jason.
He's scanning the terrace as he moves, looking a touch hesitant, as if part of him was bracing for the possibility of this encounter. Which he certainly should have been, considering he's well aware I work here.
"Honey?" Dot touches my hand, following my stare. "You've gone the color of a sheet."
"Sorry, it's just." I nod toward the crowd, my voice coming out thinner than I'd like. "That man over there. In the grey. That's my ex-husband. I haven't seen him in a few years."
Dot's owl eyes track across the party and land on him with the focus of a hawk sighting a field mouse. "The wannabe-golfer cheating bastard you told the gals about?"
"That would be the one."
"Say the word," she says, entirely calm, already setting down her wine, "and I'll deck him. I may be in my sixties, but I've a mean right hook and absolutely nothing to lose."
I huff a laugh despite the roar building in my ears, and that's the exact moment his gaze sweeps the terrace and catches on mine. His steps falter, and something awkward flickers across his face, that same jolt of oh-god-there-she-is I can feel written all over my own.
He gives a small, stiff wave. There's no avoiding it now. We're going to have to do the thing, the polite, excruciating hello, and get it over with.
"Shit," I breathe. "He's seen me. No, don't deck anyone, Dot, I'll handle it. I'll just... I'll be right back."
I abandon my glass on the table and navigate the sea of guests toward him, my legs feeling like they belong to a complete stranger. He's tall and wiry, the physical antithesis of Cillian.
Where Cillian radiates an effortless, extroverted confidence and a warmth that feels like a physical embrace, Jason has always relied on a calculated charm, a thin veneer of smugness that tricks the world into seeing him as friendly and fun, when the reality is far more hollow.
I mistook that veneer for depth once. I married it.
"Margot." He closes the distance, scratching the back of his head. "I, ah... I'm sorry I didn't give you a heads-up about tonight. I figured you'd be occupied at your... boyfriend's game or something."
I suppose he's been keeping tabs on the news cycles lately, or perhaps the gossip mill in town is simply that efficient. He doesn't live in Solstice Ridge, but he does pass through on occasion.
"Yes, well, I'm heading over there shortly," I say, the words sounding brittle even to my own ears.
"Oh, right. I'm sure it'll be a great event." He shifts his weight awkwardly, then gestures vaguely toward my dress. "You look really beautiful, Margot."
"Please don't do that," I say, rubbing my temple as the familiar, heavy pressure of a headache begins to bloom. "Just... don't."
"Oh, come on, Margot," he says, a small smile playing at his lips. "I know things are a bit strained, but we never actually hated each other. I'm not flirting, I promise, I just think you look lovely. I'm sure the hockey star realizes how lucky he is."
A cold, sharp flare of rage ignites in my chest. Never hated each other. No, the truth is he never hated me, and I was too much of a coward to ever voice exactly how much his betrayal cost me, so I just stood there and let him walk all over me while I drafted his excuses for him.
"I saw the write-up on the new label, by the way. That's all you, isn't it?" His head tilts. "I always knew you'd do something big. You were the smartest person in any room."
"Yeah, thanks. It's been a real labor of love." I give him a thin smile, unwilling to offer more than politeness. My thumb finds the bare spot on my left hand where his ring used to sit, an old tic I thought I'd retired years ago.
He nods. "Well, good for you on all of it. The job, the success, dating the hockey guy. Not the kind of man I'd have pictured for you, but hey."
"He is wonderful to me," I say, "which is a nice change of pace."
He lifts his hands defensively. "Babe, I..."
"Do not call me babe," I hiss. "What is wrong with you?"
"I'm sorry, force of habit." He winces, looking momentarily ashamed. "Look, I didn't mean anything by it. It's just... you know how much I regret what happened. And seeing you with a man like that, with his kind of reputation, I worry. I'd hate to see you get hurt again."
"Like the way you hurt me?" I ask, the audacity of it stealing my breath.
"It's why I feel this protective instinct," he says, his voice dropping into something low and confiding. "Because I know the damage that causes and I've lived with that regret every single day. You're everything, Margot. If I could just go back and change the choices I made so we were still?—"
"Stop. Just stop," I whisper. The party has gone strange and far away, like I'm hearing it through water. "I need to leave. We really don't need to do this."
"There you are!"
A woman materializes at his shoulder, young and stylish, carrying two glasses of champagne. She hands him one, and his arm automatically settles at the small of her back, and my breath hitches in my throat.
"Sorry, am I interrupting a moment?" she asks, looking genuinely sweet and entirely oblivious.
"Not at all." He looks down at her with the same charming smile he just used on me. "Chelsea, this is Margot. Margot, meet Chelsea."
"It’s a delight to meet you," Chelsea chirps, her face radiating a genuine sweetness that acts as the absolute final straw for my frayed nerves.
I study her, so youthful and entirely oblivious to the reality of the man beside her.
Because men like him don't change; infidelity is written into their DNA. She’s blind to the truth of what’s standing right there, beaming at her as if she’s the center of the universe.
It’s a performance I once fell for hook, line, and sinker.
Is history about to repeat itself with me?
The thought hits me like a physical blow, sudden and toxic. Cillian, the NHL’s most notorious bachelor. The gossip columns, the scandalous reputation, the exhausting rotation of women who occupied my spot before I arrived—not to mention the thousands who are currently desperate to take it from me.
He wouldn't. I believe that with every fiber of my being. Yet the terrace is suddenly too small, the air too thin, as the old poison begins to seep into my thoughts, questioning every certain thing I have, pulling me toward a darkness I know far too well.
I have to find an exit before my composure shatters completely, but I can already feel the cold, frantic pulse of a panic attack climbing my throat. And I actually thought I was handling this week well. How stupid of me.
"I have to go." The words barely make it out before I'm spinning on my heel and cutting through the crowd.
Somewhere behind me Dot calls my name, but my feet keep moving, the weight of the entire week landing all at once. Panic climbs my throat, cold and fast, and there's no stopping it now.
Celeste is by the door, alarm taking over her face as I approach. "Margot? Margot, wait—are you okay?"
She reaches for me and I wave her off, bolting through the entryway and making a run for the parking lot. My keys refuse to cooperate, and by the time the car door slams shut behind me, I'm gasping like I sprinted a mile.
Tears are threatening to spill over, and I honestly couldn't say whether it's the fury or the overwhelm driving them. Both, probably. When I pull down the visor, the woman staring back from the mirror looks like a stranger.
Mascara has started to run, so I dig my kit out of my bag and dab at my eyes, reapplying concealer with unsteady hands while I drag in one jagged breath after another, trying to regulate. My phone pings with a notification from the group chat with Isabelle and Celeste, then another from Dot.
I manage a fractured reply, my fingers trembling as I fight the mounting static in my mind.
Then, like a fresh bruise, a news alert pings at the top of my screen—the same one I'd been obsessing over, that breathless piece about Cillian and his scandalous new romance.
Is the NHL's most notorious bachelor finally settling down?
The ghost of Jason's betrayal, the vicious public scrutiny, and the crushing weight of expectation are all bleeding into a single, suffocating spiral. I force the engine to life, my breath coming in shallow hitches.
I know Cillian is nothing like my ex, but the rational part of my brain is currently losing the war. Why can't I just shut these thoughts out? I want to beg my own mind to stop, to keep from dragging me back into the dark.
The terror of Cillian seeing me this unraveled hits next, a spike of adrenaline that makes my head spin.
What if he leaves too? What if you’re just too much work for a man like him? Hide it; tuck the panic away if you want any hope of keeping him.
Poison, that's all it is, poison in my head filling me with doubt.
Relationships aren't built on hiding your struggles, I know that.
But what if I do need to get a better handle on it?
Clearly I've been lax, letting it build all week instead of dealing with it, and now it's dealing with me at the worst possible moment. I glance at the clock.
Cillian's game starts in an hour, the opening night of the Final and his first chance to face Brennan, the beginning of the two hardest weeks of his career.
I have to be there. I need to fucking get myself together.
The drive to the city takes sixty minutes, which gives me exactly one hour to find my center and pull the mask back into place.
The charming, cottage-lined streets of Solstice Ridge are a blur of color through my windshield. Ahead, the junction for the highway looms—a right turn toward the city, the flashing cameras, and the man who has completely remade my world.
I take the left instead.