Chapter 3
Margot
HR's office smells like burned coffee and fear. My fear.
Fired. I'm getting fired.
The elevator incident this morning was humiliating enough - papers everywhere, his cold accusation hanging in the air like smoke. But now HR has summoned me. Official summons. That only happens when someone's done something wrong.
The theater deposit is due Friday. My rent is overdue by a week. I have $342 in my checking account and half a tank of gas.
I can't lose this job.
"Ms. Bennett?" A woman in a crisp navy suit appears in the doorway. Her smile is professional, unreadable. "Mr. Lockwood will see you now."
My stomach drops. "Mr. Lockwood?"
"His office. 17th floor. You know that floor. His office is at the end, on your left."
I stand on legs that don't quite work. Follow her directions through corridors lined with glass walls and views of Manhattan stretching toward the horizon - money and power made visible.
His office door stands open. Inside, Everett Lockwood sits at the head of a glossy table, a single folder in front of him. He wears the same suit from this morning, but his tie is looser. His jaw is sharper still. I knock.
He doesn't look up. "Sit."
I sit. I clutch my binder tighter. The leather chair costs is sumptuous. Pricey. Another reminder I’m out of my limits.
"You're not being fired," he says. Still not looking at me.
I exhale. "Then why - "
"I have a proposition for you." He opens the folder. He slides a document across the table. "A business arrangement."
I stare at the paper. Bold letters across the top: TEMPORARY COMPANION SERVICES AGREEMENT.
"Companion services?" My voice cracks. Heat floods my face. "You think I'm - I don't - "
"Read it." His tone allows no argument.
I scan the first paragraph. My vision blurs. Refocuses.
The Employee agrees to accompany the Employer to public and professional events as his official date for the duration of this agreement, which shall commence immediately and terminate upon successful completion of the Lockwood Industries merger.
Beginning effective immediately with an anticipated complete date within six (6) months.
Payment for services will be during the active time of the contract, with a minimum of three (3) months guaranteed.
"You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend."
"I want you to be my date." He leans back, fingers steepled. "For events. Public appearances. Board functions. Until the merger closes."
"Why?"
"The board has concerns about my… reputation. They want stability. Respectability. Someone consistent." His gaze flicks to me, sharp and assessing. "You fit the profile."
I almost laugh. "I spilled coffee on you this morning. I crashed into you in the elevator. I'm not exactly…"
"You're not a starlet. You're not in the tabloids. You're employed here, which means you're vetted." He taps the contract. "And you're disposable."
The word lands like a slap. I meet his eyes. Cold. Gray. Unreadable.
"Disposable," I repeat.
"Replaceable." He corrects himself, but the damage is done. "This is temporary. When the merger closes, the arrangement ends. Clean break. No complications."
I look down at the contract. My hands are still shaking.
Compensation: $15,000 per month, paid bi-weekly. This is separate from current employment status. Additional wardrobe and styling expenses covered. Transportation provided.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
I do the math. Six months. That could be ninety thousand dollars.
The theater deposit is $12,000. A full production run costs another $30,000. With ninety thousand, I could pay my rent for a year. Quit my day job. Focus on writing full-time.
I could produce my play. Finally. After three years of scraping and saving and printing scripts on stolen paper.
"What's the catch?" I hear myself ask.
"No scandal. No leaks to the press. Complete discretion." He rattles off terms like he's reading stock prices. "You attend events as directed. Maintain the appearance of a relationship. Smile. Small talk. Basic social competence."
"And when it's over?"
"You walk away. Richer. We both get what we need."
I flip through the pages. Clauses about confidentiality. Termination conditions. There's even a section on acceptable public displays of affection - hand-holding is permitted, kissing for photographs only.
It's insane. Clinical. Transactional.
It's also more money than I've ever seen in my life.
"I need to think about it," I say.
"You have until tomorrow morning." He stands. Conversation over. "Bring the signed contract to my office by nine a.m., or the offer expires."
I gather the papers. My binder. Stand on unsteady feet.
At the door, I pause. Turn back.
"Why me?" I ask. "There are dozens of assistants here. Some of them would probably do this for free."
For the first time, something flickers across his face. Not quite a smile. Not quite human.
"You have fire," he says quietly. "This morning. When I accused you. You didn't back down."
"I was terrified."
"You were angry." He tilts his head, studying me like I'm a puzzle. "Your immediate reactions were honest and true. That tells me something about you."
I leave his office and outside, lean against the wall. Opposite me, the mirrored wall stares back. Who am I?
Disposable? Replaceable? Honest.
My phone buzzes with a text from Talia: Drinks tonight? You sounded like you need them.
I laugh. A strangled sound.
I text back: Yes. Desperately.
***
Talia meets me at our usual dive bar in the East Village. The kind of place where the beer is cheap and the lighting hides the stains on the floor. She takes one look at my face and orders us both tequila.
"Spill," she commands.
I pull out the contract and slide it across the sticky table.
She reads. Her eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Holy shit."
"Yeah."
"He wants you to be his fake girlfriend for ninety thousand dollars?"
"Companion. Not girlfriend." I drain half my shot. It burns. "It's a business arrangement."
"Margot. This is insane."
"I know."
"Also?" She taps the compensation clause. "This is also your play. Fully funded. With money left over."
"I know."
Talia leans back, crosses her arms. She's wearing her work clothes – a pencil skirt, silk blouse, the uniform of someone who fights corporate battles for a living. "What does your gut say?"
"My gut says this is a terrible idea." I trace the rim of my glass. "But my bank account says I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice."
"Do I?" The words come out sharper than I intend.
"I'm a month behind on rent. My landlord already threatened eviction.
The theater needs a deposit by Friday or they're giving the slot to someone else.
Someone with actual money. Someone who didn't have to print their script revisions on recycle paper. "
Talia's expression softens. "Babe—"
"I'm tired, Tal." My voice cracks. "I'm tired of being broke. I'm tired of choosing between groceries and printer ink. I'm tired of watching other people's dreams come true while mine sits in a binder."
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "What are the terms beyond the money?"
I flip to page three. "Public events only. No private expectations. It ends when the merger closes. Maximum six months."
"Wardrobe?"
"Covered."
"Transportation?"
"Provided."
"Scandal clause?"
"Standard NDA. No leaks. No tabloids."
Talia drums her fingers on the table. Her nails are perfect, French tips, professionally done. Everything about her is polished and put together. She made it out of our shitty neighborhood and into a corner office. If anyone knows how to negotiate with powerful men, it's her.
"Here's what you do," she says. "You go back tomorrow. You tell him you'll sign. But first, you add your own terms."
"My own terms?"
"You're not some starving artist he can push around. You're a professional entering a business agreement." She pulls a pen from her purse. Clicks it. "What do you need to make this work?"
I blink. "I… I don't know."
"Start with the basics. What commitments do you have that can't move?"
"The children's theater workshop on Friday afternoons. I run it. The kids depend on me."
"Good." She writes it down. "What else?"
"I'm directing a reading of my play next month. Evening rehearsals. Two weeknights."
"Add it." Another note. "Boundaries. What are you absolutely not doing?"
I think about the contract's language. Public displays of affection for photographs only.
"I'm not sleeping with him," I say firmly.
"Obviously." Talia's look is withering. "But you need to spell it out. In writing. No private expectations. No bedroom requirements. You're his date, not his escort."
Heat crawls up my neck. "Right."
"And transportation." She taps the contract. "If he's dragging you to events, he provides a car. Both ways. You're not taking the subway home at midnight in a ballgown."
"I don't own a ballgown."
"You will after this." She slides the contract back. "Add these terms. More if you think of them tonight. Sign it. Walk in there tomorrow and make him agree."
"What if he says no?"
"Then he's not serious." Talia finishes her tequila. Signals for another round. "Powerful men respect strength, Margot. You showed him fire this morning. Show him steel tomorrow."
I look down at the contract. The elegant legal language. The obscene dollar amount.
You're disposable, he'd said.
Fine. If I'm disposable, I might as well get paid for it.
"Okay." I pick up Talia's pen. "Let's negotiate."
***
I spend the night drafting my terms in the margins of the contract. Crossing out clauses. Adding conditions.
This is insane.
I'm negotiating with a billionaire like I have leverage.
But Talia's right. If I'm entering this arrangement, I'm entering it on my terms. Not his. Not as someone disposable.
At 2 a.m., I lean back against my chair and stare at the marked-up document. The language feels weird. Stilted. Not how people talk. My handwriting looks small next to the printed text, messy and human.