Chapter 10
Everett
Monday morning she drives herself to work.
Her car – a dented Civic, at least fifteen years old, pulls into the garage. She emerges carrying that battered script binder, hair twisted into the messy knot I'm learning means she woke late. Sensible heels that have seen better decades.
My jaw tightens.
She could take the car service. I offered. She declined with that polite smile that means absolutely not, citing something about maintaining normalcy, keeping boundaries clear, not wanting people to see her arrive in a town car.
Rowan's voice echoes in my head: You didn't talk about starlets like that. You treat her like she's your problem.
She's not my problem.
She's my solution to a board problem. A merger complication. A—
My phone buzzes. Internal line.
"Mr. Lockwood, the strategy meeting starts in five. Conference Room B. I've asked Ms. Bennett to assist with the presentation setup since -"
"No."
Silence on the other end. My assistant, Patricia, clears her throat. "Sir, she's familiar with the client files from last quarter, and with the video conferencing glitches we've been having -"
"Assign someone else." I end the call before she can argue.
Ten minutes later I'm in Conference Room B watching Tony – an eager junior assistant – fumble with the screen-sharing setup. The client CEO's face pixelates on the monitor. Audio cuts in and out. Three senior VPs sit around the table radiating impatience.
"Technical difficulties," Tony mutters, clicking frantically. "Just need to restart the -"
The screen goes black.
I pull out my phone. Text Patricia: Get Margot.
Her reply arrives in seconds: She declined. Said mixing professional roles creates optics issues. Suggested I send IT instead.
My hand tightens around the phone.
She's right. Of course she's right. Having her serve as my personal tech support while pretending to be my girlfriend would look exactly like what the tabloids accuse me of—keeping an assistant on retainer for convenience.
But we're ten minutes into a thirty-minute window, and the Hartwell Group doesn't tolerate incompetence.
IT arrives. Fixes the issue in ninety seconds. The meeting proceeds.
Afterward, I find myself walking past the assistant pool. Not intentionally. My office is on the opposite side of the floor. Yet here I am, watching her through the glass partition as she organizes files at her desk, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, fingers flying across her keyboard.
She glances up. Our eyes meet.
I turn away first.
***
Wednesday brings another disaster.
Product launch event, three simultaneous presentations across different conference rooms, forty attendees who need to be in the right place at the right time. I'm in back-to-back calls when Patricia messages: We have a situation.
The situation: Tony assigned people to the wrong rooms. Half the marketing team ended up in the legal briefing. The Hartwell Group representatives, here for preliminary due diligence, got directed to an empty conference room on the wrong floor.
I'm halfway to the elevator when I see her.
Margot stands in the main corridor, tablet in hand, directing traffic with the calm competence of someone conducting an orchestra. She's pulled the seating charts, cross-referenced them with the original invite list, and stationed herself at the hub where all three hallways intersect.
"Mr. Patterson, Conference Room A, seventeenth floor, left off the elevator." She smiles at the befuddled executive. "Legal is expecting you. Coffee and pastries are already set up."
"Ms. Wong, you're in Conference Room C, eighteenth floor. Product demos start in five minutes." She hands the woman a folder. "Presentation materials are at your seat."
Someone from Hartwell Group approaches, looking lost. Margot's smile doesn't falter.
"Mr. Lockwood's merger discussions are in the executive boardroom, nineteenth floor. I'll walk you there myself if you'd like, though I believe Ms. Harrow is already waiting."
The man's expression shifts from irritation to relief. "That would be helpful, thank you."
She catches my eye as she leads him toward the elevator. No acknowledgment beyond a slight nod. Professional. Distant.
I pick up my phone.
Text her: Thank you for this afternoon.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Just doing my job. See you at home.
***
Friday arrives with the weight of expectation.
The Blackwell Foundation Gala. Seven p.m. cocktails, eight p.m. dinner. Press on the red carpet. Board members watching. Hartwell Group executives in attendance, evaluating whether I'm the stable, respectable CEO they want to partner with.
And Margot.
I haven't seen her since yesterday morning. Today she left the office early – her children's theater, her Friday non-negotiable. The text arrived: Running late. See you there.
I adjust my bow tie for the third time, standing in my bedroom, trying to ignore the fact that I've changed shirts twice already. Tom Ford tuxedo, black, classic. Nothing flashy. I'm not trying to impress anyone.
Except maybe I am.
My phone buzzes. Text from her: Car just arrived. On my way.
I head downstairs, grab my keys, then stop.
She's taking the car service. Meeting me there. We'll arrive separately, which defeats the entire purpose of arriving together, of showing the board we're a united front. But she's coming.
I text back: I'll meet you at the entrance. Wait for me.
No response.
Fifteen minutes later I'm standing outside The Plaza, watching town cars deposit women in gowns. Photographers line the red carpet, cameras ready. A few board members have already arrived. I see Lenora Harrow's sleek silver hair disappearing through the entrance.
Then her car pulls up.
The door opens. She steps out.
The dress from Bergdorf's fits her the way I remember - midnight blue that's almost black, neckline skimming her collarbones, sleeves ending at her wrists. Elegant. Understated. Completely her.
She's pulled her hair up, exposing the curve of her neck. Small earrings, nothing flashy. Minimal makeup. She looks nervous.
She looks stunning.
I cross to her before she reaches the carpet. Offer my arm.
"You're late," I say.
"Traffic." She slips her hand into the crook of my elbow. Her fingers tremble slightly. "The workshop ran over. One of the kids had a meltdown about his costume for The Paper Bag Princess. We had to -"
"Breathe."
She stops. Looks up at me. Those sharp eyes that see too much meet mine.
"You've got this," I tell her. "Just follow my lead."
"What if I trip?"
"Then I catch you."
The cameras start flashing before we reach the carpet. Photographers shout my name, asking who she is, demanding we look their direction. I keep my hand at the small of her back—proprietary, protective—and guide her forward.
She doesn't falter. Doesn't freeze. She lifts her chin, finds a smile that's part nerves and part genuine warmth, and walks beside me like she belongs here.
Maybe she does.
Inside, the ballroom glitters. Crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, centerpieces of orchids and roses. Five hundred guests mingle during cocktail hour, champagne flutes catching light. The Blackwell Foundation raises millions every year for arts education. Theater programs. Music scholarships.
Margot's world. Dressed up in mine.
"Mr. Lockwood." A donor approaches - Patterson, hedge fund manager, deep pockets. "Good to see you. And who's this?"
"Margot Bennett." I make the introduction smoothly. "Margot, Charles Patterson. His foundation is active in the New York and Miami performance scene."
Her face lights up. Genuine interest replaces nerves.
"Any connection with the Adrienne Arsht wing? I saw Tides of Glass pre-Chicago. The acoustics are incredible." She turns to him, animated. "Are you involved in selecting which productions get priority booking?"
Patterson blinks, clearly not expecting her to know the venue. "Actually, yes. We have a committee that -"
They're off. Discussing theater, funding models, which productions deserve support. I watch him laugh at something she says - self-deprecating joke about printing scripts on recycled paper - and feel something hot twist in my chest.
Not anger. Worse.
She moves through the room, charming without trying. Witty in a way that catches people off guard. Slightly awkward, which somehow makes her more appealing. Men lean in when she talks. Women smile at her stories about the children's workshop.
I stay close. Hand at her waist. Eyes tracking every interaction.
A reporter approaches during dinner—young woman, sharp suit, recording device half-hidden. "Mr. Lockwood, I'm doing a piece on the merger. Can you comment on -"
"Not tonight." I keep my tone pleasant. Final.
"Just a quick question about your date." She angles toward Margot, smile predatory. "I don't recognize you from Mr. Lockwood's usual social circle. How did you two meet?"
Margot's hand tightens around her champagne flute.
I step closer. "She's important to me. That's all you need to know."
The words come out before I think them through. The reporter's eyes widen. Margot's head turns sharply.
"Important," the reporter repeats, already typing notes. "So this is serious?"
"Excuse us." I guide Margot away, toward the relative privacy of the terrace doors.
"You didn't have to do that," she says quietly.
"Yes, I did."
"Why?"
Because the thought of her being dissected by tabloids makes my blood pressure spike. Because watching her charm an entire room reminds me she doesn't need my protection. She has her own power. And that terrifies me more than anything.
"Because you asked me not to let you be alone out there." I meet her gaze. "I'm keeping that promise."
Something shifts in her expression. Softens.
Then a voice cuts through the moment.
"Margot? Margot Bennett?"
We both turn. A man in his fifties approaches, silver hair, expensive suit, theatrical gestures.
"Malcolm," she says. Careful. Guarded.
"I thought that was you." He reaches for her hands, clasps them warmly. Too warmly. "You look absolutely radiant. I haven't seen you since, oh! when was it? The workshop showcase last spring?"
"Something along those lines." She extracts her hands gently. "Malcolm, this is Everett Lockwood. Everett, Malcolm Reyes. He's... a mentor of sorts. The theater community."
Malcolm's smile sharpens as he shakes my hand. Assessing. Calculating.
"Lockwood Industries," he says. "Impressive company. I'm familiar with your foundation's work in arts funding." His gaze slides back to Margot. "I didn't realize you moved in these circles now."
"I don't. We're -" She hesitates.
"Together," I finish. Flat. Clear.
"How wonderful." Malcolm's tone suggests anything other than wonderful. "Margot, we should catch up. I've been meaning to reach out about your play. I have some contacts who might be interested in -"
A board member signals me from across the room. Time-sensitive. I catch Margot's eye, telegraphing do you need me to stay?
She gives me a tiny nod. I'm fine.
I step away. Not far, within line of sight. Ready to handle whatever crisis requires my attention. Keep her in my peripheral vision. Watch Malcolm lean in, talking animatedly. Watch her posture shift from relaxed to tense.
I'm moving back toward them when Malcolm's voice rises, loud enough to carry across several conversations.
"No, really, I'm curious." He spreads his hands, theatrical and pointed. "Why are you here with him?"
The nearby conversations stop. Heads turn.
Margot's face goes carefully blank.
And every protective instinct I've spent a lifetime learning to control snaps awake.