Chapter 11
Margot
The question hangs in the air between us, Malcolm's voice pitched loud enough that heads turn. Champagne flutes pause mid-sip. Conversations stutter.
"Why are you here with him?"
Heat floods my face. The midnight blue dress suddenly feels tight, too visible, too plain, too much.
Malcolm Reyes looks the same as he did three years ago when I auditioned for his workshop — salt-and-pepper hair swept back, wire-rimmed glasses. His suit is expensive in that worn way that screams old money and artistic credibility. The smile he wears doesn't reach his eyes.
"Malcolm." I force my voice steady. "I had no idea you'd be here."
"Blackwell's a major arts patron. Of course I'm here." His gaze flicks over my shoulder, scanning for Everett, who stepped away moments ago to speak with a board member. "Though I'm surprised to see you. With Lockwood, of all people."
The judgment in his tone scrapes against my skin. I wrap my fingers around the stem of my champagne flute, anchor myself in the cool glass.
"We're attending together."
"I can see." He moves closer, voice dropping to something meant for my ears alone.
He adjusts his glasses, a gesture I remember from workshop critiques.
The one that preceded devastation delivered in measured tones.
"You had promise. Real promise. I told you three years ago I'd keep an eye on your work. "
"You did."
"And now you're here, playing dress-up. Arm candy for a billionaire who'll forget your name when whatever this is," he points at me, "is all over."
The words land with surgical precision, direct hit for pain.
"That's not…" I start.
"Save it." He glances around, ensuring we're relatively private despite the crowd. "I came over here to make you an offer. A real one. What would it take to get you back in a rehearsal room instead of a ballroom?"
My heart kicks against my ribs. "What are you talking about?"
"Your play." His expression shifts, becomes almost paternal. Almost kind. "The one about the woman rediscovering herself. What are you calling it these days? The table read last month generated buzz. Good buzz."
My breath catches. He knows about my play. The private one. The one I haven't shown anyone except Talia and a handful of trusted readers.
"How did you -"
"The theater community is small. People talk.
" He waves a hand, dismissive. "Ditch the billionaire spectacle.
Let me introduce you to the right people.
Investors. Real patrons who care about art, not photo ops.
I can help you mount it — the right way, with the right backing. What are you waiting for?"
The words wrap around me, both seductive and suffocating. Everything I've dreamed of, hoped for. But there are strings I can't quite see in the dim ballroom light.
"I have existing commitments -"
"What is more important than this right now?" He leans in, voice dropping further. "Come on, Margot. You're better than being some rich man's project. Let me help you be the artist you're meant to be."
He's offering me everything. My dream. My play. The legitimacy I've scraped and clawed for.
Somehow, it still means walking away from Everett.
Sounds so simple. Clean break. Exactly what any smart artist would do.
So why does my stomach twist? Why does the offer sound wrong, feel wrong, despite the pretty packaging?
"This is all a little overwhelming. I need to think about it," I manage.
"Don't think too long. Opportunities like this don't wait." He produces a card from his pocket, presses it into my palm. His fingers linger a beat too long. "Call me Monday. We'll discuss details over lunch. My treat."
The card sits in my palm. I curl my fingers around it, trapped between gratitude and revulsion, as Malcolm walks away into the crowd.
A hand settles at the small of my back. I'd recognize his touch anywhere now.
"There you are." Everett's voice. "I've been looking for you."
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees weaken. I lean back into his touch without thinking, seeking the anchor of his presence.
"He was making you uncomfortable." His expression sobers. "I could see it from across the room."
Heat climbs my neck. "Was I that obvious?"
"Only to someone paying attention." His thumb traces a slow circle against my spine. "What was he saying? Funding for the children's theater?"
His assumption catches me off guard. He thinks Malcolm was talking about the workshop. The kids.
I should correct him. Should explain about my play, about the table read Malcolm mentioned, about the offer sitting in my palm right now.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Something along those lines."
It's not quite a lie. Malcolm did mention resources. Connections.
It's not quite the truth either.
Everett nods, accepting my vague answer. "Is that normal? In theater?"
"What part?"
"The whole…" He gestures vaguely. "Predatory mentorship thing. Offering what looks like help with conditions attached."
I lean against his hand, exhausted and wired and grateful. "Unfortunately, yes. Theater runs on favors and connections. You never know who knows who. Who can open doors. Who can slam them shut." I pause. "It's important not to sever ties. Even when someone's being…"
"Slimy?"
"I was going to say complicated." A wry smile tugs at my mouth. "You learn to navigate it. To smile and nod and figure out who's genuinely interested in your work versus who's interested in, well, other things."
His jaw tightens. "That's awful."
"It's reality." I shrug, feel the silk shift against my skin. "You depend on the kindness of strangers. Blanche DuBois had the right idea."
"Blanche DuBois went insane."
"Valid point."
His hand slides from my back to my elbow, guiding me gently toward the edge of the ballroom. Away from the crowds and the music and the watchful eyes.
"For the record," he says, voice low. "You're not Blanche DuBois. You're not dependent on anyone's kindness. And you sure as hell don't need men like that offering help with hooks hidden in the bait."
"Thank you," I whisper.
"Come on. Let's get out of here." He retrieves our coats from the check, drapes mine over my shoulders with careful hands.
The limo waits at the curb, sleek and black and expensive. Everett opens the door, helps me inside. The interior smells like leather and money and the lingering trace of his cologne.
He settles beside me. Close. The space between us hums with unspoken things.
The driver pulls away from The Plaza. Manhattan streams past the windows, its lights and movement and the endless pulse of the city.
I feel Malcolm's card against my palm, hidden in the pocket of my dress. The edges bite into my skin.
Everett shifts, angling toward me. His knee brushes mine. The contact sends heat spiraling up my thigh.
"Margot."
I turn to face him. His expression is serious. Intent.
"Whatever anyone offers you," he says quietly, "Malcolm, other directors, donors, anyone — you're not a transaction. You're not a commodity. You're worth more than what you can provide them."
Tears prick behind my eyes. I blink them back.
"That's the kindest thing anyone's said to me in months."
His thumb traces across my knuckles. The gesture is intimate.
"It's not kindness. It's truth." He pauses. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there. Heat builds between us, thick and electric. "But tonight…"
My breath catches.
His voice drops lower. Rough. Edged with something I can't name and don't want to examine.
"Tonight, you're with me."