Chapter 3 #2
My phone glows on my nightstand. A text from an unknown number: Ms. Bennett. My office. 9 a.m. sharp. E. Lockwood
I stare at the message. The presumption. The command.
He's already assuming I'll say yes.
I type back: See you then.
No confirmation. No enthusiasm. Just acknowledgment that you sent a text in the middle of the night like this is a normal business hour. Or a normal business transaction.
Let him wonder.
***
I arrive at Lockwood Industries wearing my best professional dress, my navy one I bought on sale three years ago. It's plain, and boring, but it fits.
The security guard recognizes me from yesterday’s uproar and waves me through without checking my ID.
Small victories.
The executive floor is quieter this morning. The assistants move through the corridors with coffee and files, no one looks at me. Yesterday's scandal is already forgotten.
I reach Everett's office. The door is open.
He sits at his desk, phone to his ear, gaze fixed on his computer screen. His shirt is crisp white. His tie is already perfect. He looks like he's been here for hours.
He gestures me in without breaking his conversation. "Tell Harrow we're not moving the timeline. The merger happens in six months or not at all."
I sit. I place the contract on his desk and I wait.
He hangs up. Looks at me. Then at the contract.
His eyebrows lift slightly. "You made edits."
"Terms." I keep my voice steady. "My terms."
He picks up the document and scans my handwriting. His expression doesn't change.
"Friday afternoons," he reads aloud. "Unavailable. Children's theater workshop."
"Non-negotiable."
"Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Rehearsal commitments."
"Also non-negotiable."
His gaze flicks to me. Sharp. Assessing. "You're in some production?"
"I am more than just an assistant."
"I see." He keeps reading. He reaches the clause about private expectations. His mouth twitches with almost a smile. "This was already implied, Ms. Bennett."
"I wanted it explicit."
"Fair enough." He sets down the contract. Leans back. "Anything else?"
"Car service. Round-trip. For all events."
"Already covered."
"It wasn't specified in writing."
"It is now." He pulls a pen from his desk drawer. Makes a note in the margin. Signs his initials next to mine. "Acceptable."
I blink. "That's it?"
"You have commitments. I respect commitments." He enters the new terms into the doc, hits print and produces a revised pristine copy. "These terms are fine. Sign the clean version."
My heart hammers. This is happening. This is actually happening.
I pick up the pen. It's heavy. Expensive. The kind of pen that people look at but never buy.
I sign my name at the bottom of page seven.
Margot Anne Bennett.
Everett countersigns, sliding one copy to me. Keeps the other.
"Congratulations, Ms. Bennett." He stands. Extends his hand. "You start as of now."
I shake his hand. His grip is firm and warm. And brief.
"First event is next Friday evening," he continues. "Charity gala, black-tie event. The car service will pick you up."
"Media training tomorrow. My assistant will send you the details." He checks his watch. "We're done here."
I gather my things, the contract. My binder. I stand on legs that feel disconnected from my body.
At the door, I pause.
"Mr. Lockwood?"
He looks up. Impatient. Already moving on to the next task.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For agreeing to my terms."
His expression shifts. Something almost human flickers across his face.
"You negotiated, Ms. Bennett. I respect that." He returns his attention to his computer. "Don't be late. Tomorrow. Friday. Or any of the appointments."
Forty-five guaranteed. Ninety thousand dollars if it goes six months. Either way, a play fully funded.
I'm doing this.
I'm actually doing this.
My phone buzzes. A notification from the bank. Direct deposit pending: $7,500.00. Lockwood Industries.
The first payment. Half a month. Already in my account.
I stare at the number. At the zeros.
Then I text Talia: I signed.
Her response comes immediately: YOU WHAT
I signed. He agreed to everything.
MARGOT ANNE BENNETT YOU ABSOLUTE BADASS
The money just hit my account.
GO PUT DOWN THAT THEATER DEPOSIT RIGHT NOW
I laugh. A real laugh. The first one in days.
I navigate to the theater company's website. Fill out the reservation form. Enter my credit card information.
Production slot: March 15-April 2. Eight weeks. Twenty-four performances.
Deposit amount: $5,000.
I hit submit.
The confirmation email arrives thirty seconds later. RESERVATION CONFIRMED.
I stand in the elevator, alone, holding my phone.
My play. My dream. Finally real.
The doors open onto the lobby. Manhattan spreads out before me through floor-to-ceiling windows. Bright. Ruthless. Full of people who take what they want and apologize for nothing.
I step out into the air.
Disposable. Replaceable. Temporary.
Fine. I'll be all those things.
But I'll also be a produced playwright.
And that's worth six months of anything.