Chapter 7
Margot
The guest suite swallows me whole.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, pressing my palms flat against the cool wood. My breath comes shallow, quick. The room spins - or maybe I spin. It’s hard to tell anymore.
This is insane. All of this.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Central Park, the city lights twinkling like scattered diamonds across black velvet. The bed could sleep four people. The bathroom has heated marble floors and a rainfall shower the size of my entire kitchen back home.
Home. My actual home.
I cross to the window, wrapping my arms around myself.
My reflection stares back, pale and wide-eyed.
The girl who collided with a billionaire in an elevator days ago.
The girl who signed a contract to be arm candy for events.
The girl who now lives in a mansion because she got mugged outside a children's theater.
My phone rings. Talia.
I answer on the second ring, sinking onto the edge of the bed. "Hey."
"How's the palace?" Her voice is warm, familiar. Safe and needed right now.
"Weird. Beautiful. Terrifying." I pull my knees up, wrapping one arm around them. "All of it."
"Want me to come get you?"
My throat tightens. "I signed a contract."
"Contracts can be broken, babe."
Can they? The advance check clears tomorrow. The theater deposit is partially down, but the balance is coming. The children's workshop needs supplies. If I walk away now, I lose everything.
No. Not everything. I lose money. Cold, impersonal money that was never really mine to begin with.
But my pride? My self-respect? Those I get to keep.
I press my palm against my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids.
"What am I doing, T?" My voice cracks. "What the hell am I doing?"
"Tell me what's really going on."
Where do I even start? With the way he looked at me tonight when I said I wouldn't be alone, like he genuinely cared?
With how his hand felt on my back in the car, last night, steady and warm?
With the moment in the elevator when our eyes met and something shifted, something I can't name and don't want to examine?
Or maybe I start with the truth.
"I feel like I'm selling myself." The words tumble out. "Not just my time or my presence. Myself. Like I'm pretending to be something I'm not and the worst part is -" I stop. Breathe. "The worst part is I don't even know who I am anymore."
"You're Margot. You're the same person you were on Monday."
"Am I?" I stand, pacing to the window. The trees line the streets outside.
"Monday Margot wore thrift store blazers and ate ramen for dinner. She took the subway when her car wouldn’t start and printed scripts on recycled paper.
This Margot lives in a mansion with heated bathroom floors and Egyptian cotton sheets. "
"Enjoying nice things doesn't change who you are."
"It feels like it does. It feels like I'm disappearing into his world piece by piece."
"Then don't disappear. Hold onto yourself. Set boundaries."
I laugh, sharp and bitter. "How? I'm living in his house. Taking his money. Playing his fake girlfriend for the cameras. Where exactly do I draw the line?"
"Wherever you need to." Talia's voice softens. "Margot, listen to me. You're not selling yourself. You're taking an opportunity. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes. One makes you a victim. The other makes you smart."
I want to believe her. Want to wrap those words around myself like armor.
"What if I'm not strong enough for this?" I whisper. "What if I lose myself and can't find my way back?"
"You're one of the strongest people I know.
You survived three years of terrible day jobs while writing a full-length play.
You run a children's theater workshop on fumes and determination.
You stood up to a billionaire in his own office and made demands.
" She pauses. "You're not going to lose yourself. You're just scared."
Tears prick my eyes. "Maybe scared is smart."
"Maybe. But scared doesn't pay the theater deposit."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "You're terrible at pep talks."
"I'm excellent at pep talks. You're just terrible at listening." I hear her shift, probably curling up on her couch with her nightly glass of wine. "Real talk - are you safe there?"
"Physically? Yes. He's been..." I search for the word. "Careful. Respectful. He gave me my own suite on a different floor."
"But?"
"But when he looks at me, I feel like he actually sees me. And I don't know what to do with that."
Talia is quiet for a beat. "That's not a bad thing, babe."
"It's terrifying."
"Most good things are."
I lean my forehead against the window. The glass is cool against my skin. "This isn't a romance novel, T. This is a contract. A very clear business arrangement."
"Relationships start all kinds of ways. Some people meet at bars. Some meet on apps. You met him by throwing papers at his face. Romance is chaos."
"This is different."
"How?"
I don't have an answer. Or maybe I do, and it's too honest to speak out loud. This is different because when he looked at me tonight - really looked at me, not through me or past me - I felt seen. And being seen is dangerous.
Being seen means being known. And being known means being vulnerable. And being vulnerable means being hurt.
"I should go," I say quietly. "It's late."
"Margot -"
"I'm okay. I promise. Just tired."
"Call me tomorrow?"
"Always."
"Love you. Don't spiral."
Too late.
I end the call and set my phone on the nightstand. Change into the oversized Juilliard t-shirt I sleep in - the one with the hole near the hem that I should throw away but can't - and wash my face with products from the bathroom that I would never buy.
The bed is too soft. The room is too quiet. The air smells like expensive nothing, clean and sterile and wrong. It’s just not home.
My play sits in my head, unfinished. The third act needs work. The heroine's motivation in Scene 4 feels muddy. The love interest's arc doesn't quite -
Tears prick my eyes.
Who am I kidding? I'm not a playwright. I'm an assistant who scribbles stories on recycled paper. I'm a girl playing dress-up in a world that will chew her up and spit her out the second she stops being useful.
I'm disposable.
The thought aches within me. Hot tears spill down my temples, into my hair. I press my face into the pillow - luxurious, indescribably soft high-thread count cotton, and let myself cry.
For the contract. For the money. For the look on Everett's face when he thought those papers were stolen company secrets. For every time I've apologized for taking up space. For the version of myself that walked into that elevator on Monday morning, blissfully unaware of what was coming.
For the girl I might lose if I stay here.
A knock startles me upright.
I swipe at my face, heart hammering. "Yes?"
"It's Everett." His voice is muffled through the door. "Are you... can we talk?"
Panic floods my system. He can't see me like this. Red-eyed, snotty, wearing a shirt with a hole in it. Not when he's all pressed suits and controlled elegance.
"I'm fine," I call out, voice thick. "Just tired."
Silence. Then: "You're crying."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm not -"
"Margot." My name sounds different in his mouth. Softer. "Please."
I close my eyes. Take a breath. Another.
Then I stand and cross to the door.
I don't open it. Can't. Not yet.
"What do you want?" The words come out sharper than I mean them to.
Another pause. When he speaks again, his voice is closer, like he's leaning against the door too.
"I heard you on the phone. Not the words. Just... the sound. And I thought-" He stops. Starts again. "I wanted to make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar."
That pulls a wet laugh from my chest. "Yeah, well. Add it to the list of things I'm bad at."
"What list?"
"Being a proper date. Knowing which fork to use. Not colliding with CEOs in elevators." I press my forehead against the door. "Pretending this doesn't feel like the worst decision I've ever made."
The words hang in the air between us. Through two inches of wood and a lifetime of different worlds.
"Do you want out?" His voice is careful. Controlled. "If you want out, say it. I'll tear up the contract. Tonight."
My breath catches. "What about the merger?"
"I'll figure it out."
"The board -"
"I don't care about the board." Something raw edges into his tone. "I care that you're in there crying and I put you there. That's not... I don't want that."
I close my eyes. Tears slip free again, silent this time.
"Why?" I whisper.
"Why what?"
"Why do you care? I'm just an assistant you hired to make yourself look good."
"No." The word is immediate. Firm. "You're not."
"Then what am I?"
Silence stretches. I can hear him breathing on the other side of the door. Can almost feel the weight of whatever he's not saying.
"I don't know," he finally admits. "But you're not just anything."
My heart does something complicated in my chest. Something dangerous.
"I can't," I say. The words scrape my throat raw. "I can't walk away. The money - I need it. The theater, the workshop, all of it. I signed up for this. I agreed."
"That doesn't mean you're trapped."
"Doesn't it?" I turn, sliding down until I'm sitting with my back against the door. "I took your check. I'm living in your house. I'm wearing clothes you probably paid for - "
"I didn't pay for that shirt."
I glance down at my ratty Juilliard tee and almost laugh. Almost.
"No. This one's all mine. Authentic struggling artist chic."
"I’m sure it suits you."
The unexpected compliment steals my breath.
"You can't even see me."
"Don't have to. I'm sure it's perfect."
I press my palm flat against the door, wondering if he's doing the same on his side. Wondering if he can feel this pull the way I can. This awful, terrifying gravity between us.
"I'm not good at this," I admit. "Any of this. I'm good at writing dialogue for imaginary people. At teaching kids to project their voices. At making coffee and filing paperwork and staying invisible."
"You're terrible at staying invisible."
"I've been invisible my whole life."
"Well, not to me. Not anymore."
The words land like a punch. Soft and devastating.
I pull my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them. "You scare me."
"I know."
"Not because you're mean or demanding. Because..." I swallow hard. "Because when you look at me, I feel like you actually see me. And I don't know what to do with that."
More silence. Then, so quiet I almost miss it:
"I don't know what to do with it either."
My breath shudders out. We sit there, separated by wood and money and a thousand unspoken things. The clock on the nightstand reads 2:47 a.m.
"I should let you sleep," he says finally.
"Yeah."
Neither of us moves.
"Everett?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For checking on me."
"Margot?"
"Yeah?"
"Tomorrow, if you want to talk - really talk - I'll listen. No contracts. No merger. No board. Just... us."
Us. Like we're a unit. Like we're something beyond paper and signatures.
"Okay," I whisper.
I hear him shift. Fabric rustling. Footsteps retreating down the hall.
I stay on the floor long after he's gone, staring at the door. At the space between what is and what could be.
My phone buzzes one last time. Talia.
Still spiraling?
I type back three words.
I can't leave.
Her response is immediate.
Because of the money?
I stare at the screen. At the cursor blinking. Waiting for truth.
I don't know anymore.
And that, more than anything else tonight, terrifies me most of all.