Chapter 4
Everett
My townhouse smells like lemon polish and old money, comforting in ways I stopped noticing years ago. Reminders of my childhood.
"This is where you live?" Her voice carries an edge I haven't heard before. Not quite judgment. Assessment.
"Yes." I step back, letting her into the foyer. Black and white marble floor in a herringbone pattern. Restored crown molding. A contemporary Rothko hanging above an antique console table - a collision of old world and new money defining everything I've built. "We have work to do."
"You said media training." She shifts the binder to her other arm, eyes sweeping the curved staircase rising toward the upper floors. "I thought we'd meet at your office."
"Too many eyes." I gesture toward the parlor floor, what was once a formal entertaining space now serves as my home office and private meeting area. The tall windows frame a view of the tree-lined street. "This way."
She follows, footsteps quiet on the restored hardwood. I catch the scent of her as she passes - nothing designer. Nothing expensive. Real.
Young. She can't be more than twenty-six, twenty-seven at most. Fifteen or so years younger than me, give or take. The board will notice. The press will devour it.
The parlor floor opens up before us, the high ceilings with original plasterwork, walls painted a cool gray making the space feel both historic and contemporary.
My desk dominates one end, walnut and steel, positioned to face the garden doors leading to the private courtyard below street level.
A white leather sofa and chairs occupy the other end, arranged around a glass coffee table.
I motion to the sofa. "Sit."
"I'm not a dog." Her words come out sharp, reflexive. Color floods her face. "Sorry. I mean -"
"Don't apologize." I loosen my tie, unbutton my cuffs. Roll up my sleeves. "You negotiated hard yesterday. I respect it."
Her chin lifts. "I have a spine."
"Good." I pull my phone from my pocket, open the camera. "You'll need it for our first event. The Blackwell Foundation Gala draws every media outlet in the city. Cameras, reporters, society bloggers hunting for fresh meat."
Margot pales. "Fresh meat."
"Their words, not mine." I tap the screen, pulling up photos from last year's event. The red carpet. Flash bulbs. Women in gowns purchased and planned from runway shows months ago. "You'll walk the carpet on my arm. They'll photograph us. Ask questions. We need our story straight."
"What story?" She leans forward, squinting at my phone. Close enough I can see the ink stains on her fingers. Writer's hands. "I thought we were attending together."
"There's no 'just' with these people." I swipe to another photo. "They'll dig. Speculate. Better to give them something true than let them invent something worse."
"True." She echoes the word, tasting it. "What part of this is true?"
Both. Neither. The answer won't help either of us.
I stand instead. "Let's practice. Up."
She rises slowly and I cross to her, stopping an arm's length away. Close enough for demonstration. Not close enough to crowd her.
"First rule," I say. "Posture. You're used to making yourself small. Stop."
"I don't-"
"You do." I circle her, assessing. "Shoulders back. Chin level. Eyes forward. You belong anywhere I take you."
Margot straightens. Her spine goes rigid, chin jutting at a defiant angle. The transformation is immediate - she gains two inches of presence without moving her feet.
"Good." I step closer. "Now. The photographers will want us touching. Hand at your waist." I demonstrate, my palm settling against the curve of her hip. She goes still under my hand. Completely still. "They'll want proof we're together."
"We're not." The words come out tight. "Together."
"They don't need to know." I keep my voice businesslike. "They need to see a convincing couple. Can you do this?"
Her jaw sets. "I'm standing here, aren't I?"
"You're standing here pressed against a wall at gunpoint." I drop my hand. "Relax."
"I am relaxed."
I step back, giving her space. "I get it. This is uncomfortable. You don't know me. I don't know you. By next Friday, we need to sell this. So either tell me now if you can't do it, or figure out how to appear comfortable."
She exhales slowly. Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. "I can do it."
"You sure?"
"I've been on stages since I was twelve." Her voice steadies. "I know how to play a part."
"I have clothes," she says abruptly. "You asked yesterday if you should make arrangements. I have appropriate clothes. I've made arrangements."
The subject change is deliberate. Creating distance. I allow it. "For a five-thousand-dollar-a-plate charity gala?"
"I didn't crawl out of a dumpster." Fire in her voice now. Real temper. "Tell me the event, the location. If you need clothing approval, fine. Send me requirements. Don't assume I'm some pathetic -"
"I don't assume anything about you." I cut her off. "Except you're obviously smarter than you let people see. You don't back down when pushed."
She blinks, recalculating.
I continue. "Whatever you wear, expect cameras from every angle." I pause. "No clothing approval needed. I trust your judgment."
"You... trust me."
"Did I stutter?"
A smile ghosts across her mouth. Gone before I can catch it fully. "No. You didn't."
I move to the bar cart, pour two fingers of scotch. Hold up the decanter in silent question. She shakes her head.
"I don't drink."
"Ever?"
"Not with strangers who pay me to be here."
The barb lands. Fair enough. I drink the scotch myself, let it slide down my throat. "Point taken."
She shifts her weight, pulling her phone from her pocket to check the time. "Is there anything else? I have somewhere I need to be."
"Your commitments." I remember her negotiation terms from yesterday. "The ones you're not giving up for this arrangement."
"Right." Her chin lifts slightly. "I have a life outside this contract, Mr. Lockwood."
Mr. Lockwood. Back to surnames. Keeping distance.
"Anything else?"
"No."
Margot goes quiet, staring at something on the credenza. She turns, studies me.
"She's beautiful." Margot tilts her head, studying the photo. "Your sister?"
"Leave it."
"Girlfriend? Wife?" She glances at my left hand. Bare. "Ex-wife?"
"I said leave it." Ice in my voice now. The kind making board members back down. Margot doesn't move. "None of your business."
"Right." She straightens. "None of my business. I'm the hired help."
"I didn't say-"
"I should go." She tucks her binder under her arm. "I assume someone will be emailing the full schedule."
The door closes behind her with a solid, serious click.
I stand in the empty townhouse, scotch glass warming in my hand, staring at the space where she stood.
The silence feels different than it usually does.
I cross to the credenza, studying the photographs I've kept here. Alicia laughing on a beach. Alicia at a gala, wearing sapphires I bought her. Alicia frozen in time, twenty-seven forever.
Margot asked who they were.
None of your business, I told her.
My phone buzzes. Rowan's name lights the screen. I answer.
"Well?" His voice carries an edge of amusement. "How'd the media training go?"
"Fine."
"She negotiated her own contract terms. Pushed back when I tried to manage details. Asked about the photos on my desk."
Silence. When Rowan speaks again, his voice is careful: "Which photos?"
"You know which ones."
I hear him shift, probably leaning back in whatever overpriced chair he's lounging in. "What did you tell her?"
"Nothing."
"Everett…"
"Why would I, Rowan? She’s a temporary solution to a temporary problem." I drain the rest of the scotch. "The merger closes in six months. The board backs off. She gets her money. Done."
"Pretty?"
"Not relevant."
"So yes." Amusement colors his tone. "How old?"
"Mid-twenties, maybe. Late twenties." Young. Too young to have the wariness in her eyes. "Why does it matter?"
"Lenora Harrow will have opinions about the age difference. Be prepared."
"Lenora can keep her opinions to herself." I set down the empty glass. "This is a business arrangement. Nothing more."
"Right," Rowan says. "Pay attention to what you're doing here. Next Friday night? Keep it professional.
Nine days until the gala. Six months until the merger closes.
A simple business arrangement.
Nothing more complicated.