Chapter 8
Everett
She appears in my kitchen doorway, damp hair twisted into something that defies gravity, wearing jeans that fit in ways my brain has no business cataloging. Sunday morning. Coffee steams between us. The conversation we had through a door hours ago hangs in the air, unfinished.
"Morning." Her voice carries a careful note. Testing.
"Morning." I gesture to the French press. "Help yourself."
She crosses to the counter, barefoot on marble, and pours. Steam rises between her palms. I track the motion of her hands, the curve of her wrist, the way she cradles warmth.
"Sleep?" I ask.
"Some." She leans against the counter, puts distance and granite between us. "You?"
"Enough."
Lie. I worked until dawn, drowning in merger projections I couldn't focus on because every third minute I replayed her voice through the door. I can't. Two words that gutted me. Two words I have no right to feel gutted by.
She sips. Studies me over the rim. Those sharp eyes see too much, always have. "So. Sunday."
"Sunday," I confirm.
"Do you work on Sundays?"
"Usually." I pause. "Not today."
Her eyebrow lifts. "Taking the day off? You?"
"Don't sound so shocked. I'm capable of rest."
"Are you, though?" The corner of her mouth quirks. There. A hint of the woman who told me she didn't crawl out of a dumpster. The one I keep underestimating.
"Occasionally." I set my cup down, decision made. "Actually, I have a proposal."
"Another contract?" Her tone sharpens.
"Not quite." I meet her gaze, hold it. "The gala is Friday. You'll need -"
"I told you I have appropriate clothing." Ice creeps into her voice.
"I remember. And I believe you." I do. "But this event is black-tie. Design houses. Major donors. Photographers who zoom in on labels and post them by midnight."
She goes still. "So you want to dress me like a doll after all."
"No." The word comes out harder than I intend. "I want to offer resources. What you do with them is your call. Entirely."
Silence stretches. She turns the cup in her hands, thinking. Weighing.
"What kind of resources?"
"The kind that come with a personal shopper at Bergdorf's and a platinum card with no limit."
Her laugh cracks through the kitchen, sharp and humorless. "Of course. Bergdorf's. Where else?"
"Margot …"
"No, it's perfect." She sets the cup down with a click. "Very My Fair Lady. Do I get an accent coach too? Posture training? How to hold a fork among the elite?"
Heat flares in my chest. Not anger. Frustration. At her. At myself. At this entire situation that keeps twisting into knots I can't untie.
"That's not what this is."
"Isn't it?" She crosses her arms. "You, the sophisticated CEO. Me, the scruffy assistant who needs upgrading. It's a tale as old as time, Everett. Literally. Pygmalion vibes."
"I said resources. I didn't say you needed upgrading." I step closer. Not crowding. Offering. "You walked into my office and held your own. You've handled every single thing I've thrown at you without flinching. You don't need upgrading, Margot. You need armor."
She blinks. "Armor."
"Armor," I repeat. "The kind that makes photographers focus on the dress instead of digging into who you are. The kind that makes donors ask about your theater work instead of why you're with me. The kind that lets you walk into that ballroom and own it."
Her throat works. "I can own a room without a designer label."
"I know." I've seen it. The way she commanded my attention from the moment papers scattered in an elevator. The fire in her eyes when she defended herself against accusations. "But why fight in civilian clothes when you can wear Kevlar?"
The metaphor lands. I see it in the way her shoulders drop half an inch.
"This is about survival," she says slowly. "Not transformation."
"Exactly."
She chews her bottom lip. A tell I'm learning. Deciding.
"What if I don't find anything I can tolerate at Bergdorf's? What if their idea of appropriate and mine don't align?"
"Then we leave. Go somewhere else. Or nowhere. You show up Friday in whatever you want and I'll stand next to you and dare anyone to comment."
Her eyes widen. Searching mine.
"You mean that."
"Every word."
The air shifts. Charges. She draws a breath, and I'm aware - suddenly, uncomfortably aware - of details I have no business noticing. The hollow of her throat. The way her fingers twist together. How close we're standing in this quiet kitchen.
Something stirs beneath my ribs. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.
I step back. Clear my throat.
"Okay." The word breaks whatever tension gathered between us. "I'll go. On one condition."
"Name it."
"If I hate everything, we raid the sale rack at Bloomingdale's on the way home."
A laugh surprises me. Genuine. Rough. "Deal."
The car glides through Sunday-quiet streets. Morning light slants through windows, catches in her hair. She sits beside me in the back seat, silent, fingers worrying the strap of her bag.
"Nervous?" I ask.
"No." Pause. "Maybe. I don't know."
Honesty. I appreciate that about her. She doesn't perform ease she doesn't possess.
"It's shopping, not surgery."
"Easy for you to say. You probably have people who shop for you."
"I did. Once." I glance at her. "Fired them."
"Why?"
"They kept buying what they thought I should wear instead of what I wanted."
She processes that. "So you shop for yourself now?"
"When necessary. Mostly I wear suits. Variations on a theme. Simplifies things."
"Must be nice. Male uniform. Show up, look competent, go home."
"You think it's that simple?"
"Isn't it?"
I consider. "I wear Tom Ford because my father wore Brooks Brothers. I choose ties that don't match his palette. I skip cufflinks because he wore them religiously. Every choice is a statement, Margot. Even the simple ones."
She turns to face me fully. "You're trying to tell me clothes are political."
"I'm telling you they're language. And right now, you get to decide what you're saying."
Her expression softens. "That's unexpectedly philosophical for ten-forty-five on a Sunday."
"Never underestimate the suit."
"Apparently not."
The car pulls to the curb. Bergdorf's rises before us, all glass and elegance and old money. I watch her take it in. See the momentary hesitation before she squares her shoulders.
Armor, I think. She already wears it. She carries it inside herself.
I step out, offer my hand. She looks at it. At me. Takes it.
Her palm fits against mine. Warm. Small. Strong.
I don't let go until we reach the doors.
The third floor swallows us in cream and gold and hushed voices. A woman appears immediately, sleek, mid-forties, smile sharp as a blade.
"Mr. Lockwood. A pleasure, as always." Her eyes flick to Margot. Assess. Catalog. Dismiss. All in two seconds. "And you've brought a guest."
"This is Margot Bennett." I rest my hand at the small of her back. Proprietary. Deliberate. "She needs a gown for Friday's gala."
"Of course." The smile widens, thins. "We have several pieces that would be… suitable. If you'll follow me to the fourth floor salon?"
Margot goes rigid beneath my palm. I feel it. The retreat.
We follow Elena as her nameplate reads, through rooms of silk and beading, past mannequins draped in creations each more elaborate than the last. Margot's gaze moves over everything.
Elena gestures to a private suite. Champagne waits on a table. A tufted sofa faces a three-way mirror. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. I'll pull options."
She disappears. Margot stands in the center of the room, hands clasped.
"You don't have to drink the champagne," I offer.
"I know."
She crosses to the mirror, studies her reflection. "This is your world, Everett. You navigate it without thinking. I'm… translating as I go."
I move behind her. Not touching. Close enough she can feel me there.
"You think I was born knowing how to navigate this?"
"Weren't you?"
"No." I meet her eyes in the glass. "I was born into money. That's genetics. Navigation is survival. I learned because I had to. Same as you're learning now."
"Except I'm learning because you're paying me."
The words sting. Meant to.
"You're learning because you're brilliant and adaptable and you refuse to be underestimated twice." I pause. "The money is incidental."
Her reflection's expression shifts. Uncertain. Wanting to believe me.
Elena returns before she can respond, arms laden with garment bags. "Shall we begin?"
Dress one: black, high-necked, architectural. Margot emerges from the dressing room and I forget how to process oxygen. The fabric molds to her. Every curve. Every line. She moves like she's not sure she's allowed to take up this much space.
"Well?" She turns for the mirror, and I see her face. Uncomfortable. Trapped.
"It's stunning," Elena says. "Very editorial. Very now."
Margot's eyes find mine. Help.
"It's not her," I say.
Elena blinks. "I beg your pardon?"
"The dress is beautiful. She's not comfortable. Next."
Relief flickers across Margot's face. She retreats to the dressing room.
Dress two: emerald, plunging neckline, slit to mid-thigh. She appears and my brain short-circuits. Everything below my belt tightens. She's devastating. And miserable.
"Too much," she says before anyone speaks. "Way too much."
"It's very glamorous," Elena tries. "Very red carpet."
"It's very not me." Margot's voice firms. "Next."
Three more dresses. Four. Five. Each beautiful. Each wrong. Margot grows quieter with each attempt. I watch her folding inward, apologizing with her posture.
"I'm sorry," she says after the sixth. "I don't mean to be difficult."
"You're not difficult." I stand.
Elena's smile has frozen into something plastic. "Perhaps if you described what you're looking for, Miss Bennett? I can pull more targeted options."
Margot hesitates. "I don't know how to describe it."
"Try."
"Something that doesn't make me feel like I'm pretending to be someone else." Her voice drops. "Something that doesn't feel like a costume."