Chapter 8 #2
Elena nods, professional mask intact. "I'll see what else we have."
She leaves.
"This is exhausting," she mutters.
"We can leave."
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meaning it."
She looks at me. "What if nothing here works? What if I'm the problem?"
"You're not the problem." I sit beside her. Close. "The clothes are the problem. They're designed for a fantasy. You're real."
Her breath catches. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a year."
"Then you need better people in your life."
"Working on it." A smile ghosts her lips. "Current company excluded."
Something warm moves through my chest. Foreign. I don't examine it too closely.
I'm aware of her thigh inches from mine. The way she leans slightly in my direction.
"Everett." My name in her mouth sounds different than when anyone else says it. Softer. More uncertain. "Last night. What I said —"
"You don't owe me explanations."
"I know. But I want…"
The suite door opens. Elena returns empty-handed.
"I apologize, but we seem to be out of options in your size on this floor." Her tone suggests this is somehow Margot's fault. "I could order pieces, but with Friday's timeline..."
Margot stands. "Thank you for your time."
Elena's eyebrows lift. "You're leaving?"
"I'm exploring other options." Margot's voice steadies. Sharpens. There. The woman who negotiated contract terms. "This floor clearly isn't the right fit."
She walks out. Spine straight. Shoulders back.
I follow, fighting a smile.
I lose her somewhere between Designer Shoes and Contemporary Sportswear. One minute she's beside me, the next - gone.
Panic flares, brief and irrational. She walked out. She left. She -
No. Her coat is over my arm. Her bag caught my wrist when she handed it to me with a "hold this" twenty seconds ago.
She's here. Somewhere.
I find her on the fifth floor, half-hidden in a rack of jewel tones, fabric swishing as she moves hangers. A younger saleswoman hovers nearby, helpful, not hovering.
"That one's gorgeous," the woman says as Margot pulls a dress. "Just came in yesterday."
"Can I try it?" Margot asks.
"Absolutely. Dressing rooms are - oh." The saleswoman spots me. "Sir, if you'd like to wait, there's a lounge…"
"I'll wait here." I'm not letting her out of my sight again.
Margot glances back, sees me, grins. "Stalking me through departments now?"
"You vanished."
"I escaped." She holds up the dress. "What do you think?"
Deep blue. Simple lines. Nothing like the architectural creations before.
"I think you should try it."
She disappears into the dressing room. I lean against a column, hands in pockets, aware I look ridiculous. A man lurking outside a communal dressing room.
The saleswoman approaches. "Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?"
"I'm fine."
"She's lovely, by the way. Your girlfriend."
The word catches me off-guard. "She's… we're…"
What are we? What am I allowed to claim?
"Lucky man," the saleswoman says, saving me from finishing.
The curtain pulls back. Margot steps out.
The world narrows to her.
The dress is midnight blue, almost black, with a neckline that skims her collarbones and sleeves that end at her wrists. It fits like it was designed for her body. Elegant. Understated. Completely, devastatingly her.
She turns for the mirror, and I watch her face transform. Recognition. Rightness.
"Oh," she breathes.
"Yeah," I manage. "Oh."
She meets my eyes in the mirror. Color rises in her cheeks. "You like it."
"I like you in it." The truth. Raw. I should soften it. I don't. "You look like yourself. Only more."
Her smile breaks like sunrise. "It has pockets."
Of course. Of course that's what seals the deal.
"Does it fit?" the saleswoman asks.
"Almost perfectly. I might need the hem adjusted."
"We have tailoring available. I can call ahead, get you right in."
Margot hesitates. Glances at me.
I nod. "Do it."
The tailoring suite is quieter than the salon. Private. A different energy. Margot stands on a platform, the tailor, a tiny woman with sharp eyes and nimble fingers, circling her with pins.
"Turn, please."
Margot rotates. The dress moves with her. I sit on a cream settee, watching, cataloging details I tell myself are purely observational. The curve of her neck. The line of her spine. The way she holds herself differently now that she's found armor that fits.
My phone buzzes. Rowan.
How's the shopping expedition?
I type back: Complicated.
You take her to Bergdorf's?
How did you know?
Because you're predictable. She hate it?
The fifth floor. Fourth? Not the third.
There's a metaphor there.
There is. I pocket the phone.
"All set," the tailor announces. "Let me just mark these pins. You can change, and we'll have this ready for pickup Wednesday."
"Wednesday?" Margot asks.
"Rush service. For Mr. Lockwood's account." The tailor smiles. "We take care of our preferred clients."
Margot nods, thanks her, retreats to the changing area.
The tailor busies herself with paperwork. I check email. Respond to Rowan with a thumbs-up emoji I'll regret later.
Minutes pass. Five. Seven.
The dressing area curtain pulls back. Margot emerges, back in her jeans, face white.
Sheet white. Bloodless.
"Margot - "
"I need air." Her voice cracks. "I need - I have to go."
"What happened?"
"Nothing. I'm fine. I…" She passes by her coat on the chair. Her movements sharp. Jerky.
"You've been performing discomfort since we walked in." I stand. "Talk to me."
"I can't. Not here. Not…" Her eyes dart to the tailor, who's watching with polite concern.
"Then let's go somewhere …"
"No." The word comes out strangled. Her voice cracks. "I have to go."
"Wait …"
But she's already moving, grabbing her bag from the settee, leaving her coat. Fast. Desperate.
"Margot, stop. Let me…"
She doesn't stop. Doesn't look back. Out of the salon. Toward the elevators.
I follow at a distance. Helpless. Watching her push through the doors onto Fifth Avenue. Into cold November air.
I have no idea what is happening.