Chapter 9
Margot
The sidewalk blurs. People stream past me. Couples with shopping bags, a woman in running gear, a man shouting into his phone - and none of them see me. None of them heard what I heard. I grip my bag against my ribs and walk.
Cold air bites through my sweater. I left my coat. The realization surfaces somewhere distant, unimportant. What matters is movement. Distance. The space between myself and that fitting room, between the woman who found a dress she loved and the girl who got reminded what she actually is.
An assistant bought for the night.
My heels click against concrete. I turn a corner. Another. The buildings tower, indifferent. Traffic hums. A vendor calls out something about pretzels. The city swallows me, and I let it.
Footsteps behind me. Fast. Determined.
I don't turn.
"Margot."
His voice cuts through the noise, rough and breathless. Not the controlled CEO tone. Something rawer.
I stop. My shoulders tense. He'll be angry. I walked out. Left him standing in Bergdorf Goodman like I'm some flighty, emotional -
"Margot, please."
The word "please" catches me. I turn.
Everett stands three feet away, my coat draped over his arm. His chest rises and falls. He's not composed. He’s not the tyrant from the executive floor or the smooth date from the imaginary gala prep.
He's rattled.
"Did I - " He stops. Starts again. "What happened? Did I do something?"
The question catches me off guard. I brace for accusations - you're being dramatic, you embarrassed me, you're costing me time - but instead he's asking what he did wrong.
"No," I manage. "You didn't -"
"Then what?" His gaze searches my face, desperate. "One minute you're getting the dress tailored, and the next you're gone. I don't -" He drags a hand through his hair, messing the perfect styling. "Talk to me. Please."
I wrap my arms around myself against the cold.
"I overheard some really ugly things," I say quietly.
His entire body goes still. "What things?"
I shake my head. "It doesn't matter."
"It does." His voice drops, dangerous. "What did someone say to you?"
"Not to me. About me." My throat tightens. "I was in the fitting room, and there were women outside. One of them - " I stop. Breathe. "She made it very clear what she thinks I am."
Understanding floods his face, followed immediately by fury. His hands curl into fists. The knuckles go white.
"Who?"
"Everett -"
"Who said it, Margot?"
The protective edge in his tone sends warmth through my chest even as I shake my head. "It doesn't change anything. She's not wrong. I took money to -"
"Stop." The command isn't harsh. It's pleading. He steps closer. "Whatever she said, whatever she implied - she's wrong."
He extends my coat, then his arm. Not reaching to grip my hand. Not taking. Offering. His elbow bent, old-fashioned and respectful.
"Will you walk with me?" he asks. "Let me -" He stops. His throat works as he swallows. "Let me try to salvage what was actually a really nice morning. Before everything went to hell."
The vulnerability in his request undoes me. I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow.
His arm flexes beneath my palm. Solid. Warm through the fabric of his shirt. He drapes my coat over my shoulders with careful hands, and we walk.
***
We don't head back toward Bergdorf's. He steers us east, then south, his pace matching mine. The silence stretches, but it doesn't press. My fingers rest against his forearm, and I feel the subtle shift of muscle as he moves, the controlled strength beneath his composure.
After two blocks, he clears his throat. "I'm sorry."
I glance at him. "For what?"
"For putting you in a position where someone could say ugly things." His jaw sets. "For not thinking through how this arrangement might expose you to -" He stops. "Cruelty."
"You didn't say them."
"No. But I created the circumstance." He's quiet for a moment. "This whole situation - the contract, the fake dating, dragging you to designer boutiques - it's bizarre. I know that. And I'm sorry you're bearing the cost of my bizarre solution to a business problem."
We reach a corner. A small bistro sits tucked between taller buildings, its windows fogged, a chalkboard menu propped outside. The smell of roasted garlic and fresh bread drifts out.
"Are you hungry?" he asks.
I realize I am. Starving, actually. We skipped breakfast. My stomach chose this moment to remind me.
"Yes."
He opens the door. The bistro interior glows warm - exposed brick, mismatched chairs, tables draped in butcher paper. A server waves us toward a corner booth. Everett waits until I slide in, then settles across from me.
The table between us feels smaller than it should. I'm aware of his knees near mine beneath it, the way his hands rest palm-down on the butcher paper, fingers spread.
He orders my coat hung. The server brings water, bread, and menus. I reach for my glass.
"You don't have to tell me what she said," he offers quietly. "But I want you to know, whatever it was, it's not true."
I pull a piece of bread apart. The crust crackles. Steam rises from the soft interior.
"She called me a paid escort," I say. "Implied I'm no better than the starlets you used to bring to events. Except at least they got press. I'm just doing it for money."
The words land between us like stones.
The server appears. We order without much thought - soup, sandwiches, something warm. She refills water and vanishes.
Everett's gaze hasn't left mine.
"I don't want you to feel like a convenience," he says carefully. "Or anything less than - " He stops. His jaw works. "You're not a transaction to me, Margot. That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
The question comes out smaller than I intend. Vulnerable.
He's quiet for a beat. His thumb traces the rim of his water glass.
"I don't know yet," he admits. "But I'd like it to be more than a contract."
Something shifts in my chest. A lock turning. A door cracking open.
"More how?" I ask.
"Friends, at least." He meets my eyes. "People who actually know each other. Who talk about things that matter, not just gala schedules and media training."
Friends. The word feels both safe and dangerous. Safe because it's not a transaction. Dangerous because somewhere in the past week, I started wanting more than friendship from this complicated, guarded man across from me.
"I'd like that," I say.
His shoulders ease slightly. "Good."
Our food arrives. The server sets down bowls of French onion soup, cheese bubbling at the edges. The scent of caramelized onions fills the space between us.
I pick up my spoon. Everett does the same.
We eat in silence for a moment. The soup warms me from the inside. Melted Gruyère stretches between spoon and bowl. I savor the rich, sweet depth of onions cooked low and slow.
"Tell me about the children's theater," he says after a while. "You’ve mentioned it before."
The subject shift steadies me. Familiar ground.
"It's small. The kids are from seven to twelve." I tear a piece of bread, dip it into melted cheese. "Some come because their parents work late. Some come because school's hard and theater's where they shine."
"What do you do with them?"
"Improv. Scene work. We build sets from donated materials." I smile despite myself. "Last spring we did Where the Wild Things Are. We made costumes from cardboard and paint."
His expression warms. "You directed?"
"Directed. Painted. Wrangled ten-year-olds high on opening night nerves.
" The memory surfaces, vivid. "One kid—Mark—barely spoke the first month.
Selective mutism, his mom said. But he'd watch.
Absorb. Then one day during warm-ups, he volunteered for a scene.
Played a tree. Didn't say a word, but he moved. Swayed. Became the forest."
Everett sets down his spoon, giving me his full attention.
"By the final show, he had lines," I continue. "He spoke them. His mom cried." My chest swells. "That's why the workshop matters. It's not about creating actors. It's about giving kids a place to be seen."
"That's why you said yes," he says. "To my offer. The money funds that."
"Partially." I meet his eyes. "The workshop, the center raised fees. Without funding, we lose the space. The kids lose their place."
He nods slowly. "So you traded discomfort for their safety."
"I traded pride for purpose," I correct.
Something shifts in his expression. Respect, maybe. Understanding.
"I get that," he says quietly. "I've made choices I hated for outcomes I needed."
"Like hiring a fake girlfriend?"
A wry smile tugs at his mouth. "Like hiring a fake girlfriend who turned out to be someone I actually want to spend time with."
Heat climbs my neck. I focus on my soup.