Chapter 5
Margot
The children erupt into excitement and noise the second I hold up the purple construction paper dragon.
"I want to be the dragon!" Tyler shouts, bouncing on his toes.
"No fair, I called it first!" Emma crosses her arms, bottom lip jutting out in a pout worthy of Broadway.
I crouch down between them, the dragon wobbling in my grip. "What if we have two dragons? A mommy dragon and a baby dragon?"
Two pairs of eyes go wide. Crisis averted.
Friday afternoons at the Hamilton Community Theater smell like crayons and hope.
Seventeen kids between ages six and eleven crowd into the basement rehearsal room, their voices bouncing off the cinder block walls painted cheerful yellow.
Props scatter across folding tables - paper crowns, foam swords, a cardboard castle that leans slightly to the left.
We're three weeks into rehearsals for The Paper Bag Princess. Opening night will be when they are ready, and not before. The chaos feels glorious.
"Miss Margot?" Aisha tugs on my sleeve. "Can I practice my princess speech?"
"Absolutely." I settle cross-legged on the floor, and she stands before me with exaggerated royal posture. The other kids quiet down to watch.
Aisha clears her throat. "Prince Ronald, you are supposed to be my true love, but you're a bum!"
Perfect delivery. I grin. "Beautiful. Can you make 'bum' even bigger?"
She nods, serious as a judge. "I'll practice at home."
Parents start arriving around five. I help kids gather their backpacks, hand out revised instructions and scripts for next week, remind them to practice their lines. Mrs. Chen thanks me for working with Aisha. Mr. Rodriguez asks if I need help carrying anything to my car.
"I'm fine, thank you." I wave him off, already mentally cataloging what needs to get done tonight. Lock up the theater. Drive home. Maybe finally respond to the email from the costume designer about fabric swatches for my play.
My play. The thought sends a thrill through my chest every single time.
The last parent leaves at 5:30. I gather scattered props into the storage bin, stack chairs against the wall, sweep up glitter that will definitely haunt this room forever. The building settles into silence around me, that particular empty-space quiet that makes every sound echo.
I grab my purse and the theater keys from the desk. Lock the rehearsal room door and head down the dim hallway toward the back exit.
The alley behind the theater smells like rain and garbage, a place no one lingers. The streetlights are ancient and flicker on and off. My car waits for me, three spaces down, wedged between a delivery van and someone's equally ancient sedan.
I start to dig for my car keys, my purse strap hanging from my shoulder. Friday traffic hums a block over. A siren wails in the distance.
Normal. Everything perfectly normal.
The footsteps register half a second before the hands do.
Someone grabs my purse strap and yanks hard.
I stumble sideways, the pull wrenching my shoulder. "Hey - "
He's fast. His hoodie’s pulled low, face hidden. Strong. He was strong. He tore my purse off my shoulder before I could tighten my grip, and is already running away.
"Wait!" The word shouts out of me, useless and desperate.
He's gone. Around the corner. Disappeared into the evening like smoke.
I stand in the alley, empty-handed, heart hammering against my ribs. My keys. My wallet. My phone. All of it gone.
The panic hits in waves.
First wave: practical. How do I get home? How do I get into my apartment?
Second wave: visceral. Someone touched me. Grabbed me. I can still feel the pressure as the purse strap fought against my body.
Third wave: absurd. I have to call Everett Lockwood about the latest wardrobe consultation – or whatever it is he’s calling it - and I don't have a phone.
My legs shake. I lean against the brick wall, pressing my palm flat against the rough surface to ground myself. Breathe. Think. Handle this.
The theater has a landline in the office.
I unlock the back door with the building keys still in my hand and make my way back inside. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. My hands tremble as I dial Talia's number from memory on the office land line.
She answers on the third ring. "Hello?"
"It's me." My voice sounds strange. "Someone stole my purse."
"What? Margot, where are you?"
"Hamilton Theater. I'm okay. I'm fine. I just, I need a ride. And I have to file a police report, and I'm supposed to meet Lockwood at seven for wardrobe stuff, and -"
"Slow down. Breathe. I'm coming to get you right now. Stay inside. Lock the doors. Do not go outside alone."
"Okay." I sink into the desk chair, legs finally giving out. "Okay."
"I mean it, Margot. Lock. The. Doors."
She hangs up and I sit in the empty office, surrounded by children's artwork taped to the walls, and try to stop shaking.
The landline rings ten minutes later. I snatch it up. "Talia?"
"Ms. Bennett?" Not Talia. The voice is male, clipped, unfamiliar. "This is Everett Lockwood."
My stomach drops. "Mr. Lockwood, I'm so sorry. I was going to call…"
I pause, catch my breath. “There was an incident. Someone took my purse, and I -"
"Are you hurt?"
The question stops me cold. Not angry. Not annoyed about the inconvenience. Are you hurt?
"No. I'm fine. Shaken up. But fine."
Silence on the line. Then: "Stay there. I'm coming to you."
"You don't have to - "
"What's the address?"
I sit in the office chair, staring at the phone, trying to process what happened. Talia's coming. Everett Lockwood is apparently also coming. The police still need to be called. My purse is gone. My house keys, my car keys are gone.
Everything is spinning out of control.
The knock on the front door comes twenty minutes later. I peer through the window and see Talia's face. Relief floods through me.
I unlock the door. She pulls me into a hug immediately.
"I'm okay," I mumble against her shoulder.
"You're not okay. But you will be." She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, scanning me head to toe. "Did he hurt you?"
"No. Just grabbed the purse and ran."
"Did you see his face?"
I shake my head. "Hoodie. Couldn't see anything."
She curses under her breath. "Did you call the cops? We're calling the cops. Right now."
Another car pulls up outside, sleek, black, and expensive. My heart kicks against my ribs.
Everett Lockwood unfolds from the driver's seat like violence barely contained. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw. He moves toward the theater with purpose, scanning the street, the alley, every shadow.
Talia whistles low. "That's him?"
"That's him."
"Girl. He looks ready to murder someone."
He does. The look on his face as he reaches the door makes something twist in my chest - fury and worry warring for dominance.
I open the door before he can knock.
His eyes sweep over me, cataloging details. "You're sure you're not hurt?"
"I'm fine. Really."
"Where did it happen?"
I point toward the alley. He moves past me, Talia, everything, heading straight for the back exit. We follow.
In the alley, he stops where I was standing. Studies the ground, the street, the escape route. His hands curl into fists at his sides.
"He was fast," I offer quietly. "I couldn't stop him."
Everett turns to face me. Something in his expression cracks, just for a second, just enough to glimpse the rawness underneath. "You shouldn't have been out here alone."
The words sting more than they should. "I've been locking up this theater every Friday for two years."
"That was before you signed a contract with me." His voice drops, cold and controlled again. All business. "Before you became a target."
"A target for what? Petty theft? This neighborhood. - "
"This neighborhood has nothing to do with it." He steps closer. "You're associated with me now. That makes you visible. Vulnerable."
Talia clears her throat. "Maybe we should call the police? File the report?"
Everett pulls out his phone. Three taps, then he's speaking in low tones to someone on the other end. Arrangements are being made. Strings being pulled. Within minutes, he hangs up and turns back to us.
"Officers will be here in ten minutes. They'll take your statement. I've also contacted my security team. They'll review footage from nearby cameras."
I blink. "You have a security team?"
"I have resources." He meets my eyes, something unreadable flickering there. "You'll stay at my place tonight."
The words land like a command, not a suggestion.
"Excuse me?"
"You don't have keys. You don't have a phone. You're shaken up." His expression doesn't soften. "You shouldn't be alone. That's not a request."
Heat flashes through me - embarrassment, anger, annoyance. "I can stay with Talia."
"I already texted my roommate," Talia says apologetically. "Seeing if she can go to her boyfriend’s. It's... awkward timing. We can figure it out."
I turn to glare at her. She shrugs, unapologetic.
Everett waits, patient and immovable as stone.
My shoulders sag. "Fine. One night."
"Good." He gestures toward his car. "We'll deal with everything else tomorrow. New keys. New phone. Locks changed if necessary."
The police arrive. I give my statement standing in the alley while Everett hovers three feet away, radiating controlled fury. The officers take notes, promise to follow up, offer platitudes about neighborhood crime.
When they leave, Everett opens the passenger door of his car.
I hesitate. Talia gives me a gentle push.
"Go. Text me tomorrow when you have a phone again." She leans in, whispers in my ear. "He's wound tighter than a spring. Whatever's happening in that head of his, it's not about the purse."
I slip into the passenger seat. Leather interior. Everything pristine and expensive and smelling like a brand new expensive leather purse. Familiar and money.
He slides behind the wheel. Starts the engine. Doesn't speak.
We pull away from the theater, and I watch it disappear in the side mirror. The silence in the car grows heavier with each block.
Finally, I can't take it anymore. "I really am ok."
His jaw tightens. "Your hands are shaking."
I look down. He's right. I press them flat against my thighs.
"You were alone in an alley." His voice is rough, barely controlled. "Someone put their hands on you. Took your things. You think that's fine?"
"It was random. Wrong place, wrong time."
"Maybe." He doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe someone's watching. Testing."
The thought sends ice down my spine. "Testing what?"
He doesn't answer. We drive in silence the rest of the way to his townhouse.
***
Inside, the space feels even larger than before. More expensive. More foreign. He sets the alarm, locks the door, then turns to face me.
"The guest suite you’ll use is upstairs on the second floor. First door to the left. Everything you need should be there. The kitchen is the floor above. Please help yourself to whatever you would like."
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate. "For coming. For helping."
Something shifts in his expression, the tension easing by a fraction. "You're under contract to me now. That means you're my responsibility."
Not "I was worried." Not "I care." My responsibility.
The distinction shouldn't hurt. It does anyway.
He watches me for a long moment, then seems to shake himself. "Get some rest. We'll deal with everything else in the morning."
I nod. Head for the stairs. Make it halfway up before his voice stops me.
"Margot?"
I turn.
He's standing at the bottom of the stairs, backlit by the foyer chandelier, hands in his pockets. For once, he looks uncertain.
"I'm glad you're okay," he says quietly. "That's all."
The words wrap around my chest and squeeze.
I manage a small smile. "Goodnight, Everett."
"Goodnight."
I climb the rest of the stairs to the guest suite, close the door behind me, and finally let myself fall apart.
Tomorrow I'll be fine. Tomorrow I'll handle everything with competence and control.
Tonight, I sit on the edge of a bed that is larger than my room at home and begin to cry into my hands - relief and fear and exhaustion all tangled together.