Chapter 12
Everett
The townhouse door closes behind us with a solid click. Security system armed. Locks engaged. The entryway stretches before us, the black and white marble reflecting soft overhead lighting, my Rothko over the console table absorbing shadows.
Margot stands three feet away, one hand on the wall, wrestling with the straps of her heels. The midnight blue dress - the one she chose herself, the one that made every head turn tonight - shifts as she bends. Her hair has come loose from its pins, curling against her neck.
"That was..." She straightens, heels dangling from one hand. Her stockinged feet whisper against marble as she moves inside towards the study. "A lot."
"You were excellent." The words come out before I can stop them.
She pauses on the bottom step, turns to face me. Color still rides high on her cheeks. "I was faking half of it."
"Couldn't tell."
"Good." Her mouth curves. "That's the point of theater training, right? Fake it until you make it."
I loosen my bow tie, pull it free. The silk slides through my collar. "Come on. We should talk while it's fresh."
"Talk." She tests the word. "You mean debrief?"
"If you want to call it that."
"Of course you do." She pads up the stairs ahead of me, dress swaying. "Very corporate."
The parlor floor lamp casts warm light across gray walls. I cross to the bar cart, pour two fingers of scotch. Hold up the decanter in silent question.
"Water," she says. "I've had enough champagne."
I pour her water from the pitcher. Cross the room. Hand her the glass.
Our fingers brush. Brief.
She retreats to the white leather sofa, tucking her feet beneath her. The dress pools around her legs. I settle into the chair across from her, maintaining distance, keeping the coffee table between us.
Professional. Safe.
"So." She sips water. "How bad was I?"
"Bad?" I lean back. "You charmed Patricia Hartwell within five minutes. Her husband spent twenty minutes watching you work the room before telling me he was impressed."
"The merger partner?" Her eyes widen. "I didn't realize - "
"I know. You treated her like a person." I take a drink. "She appreciated it."
Margot sets her glass down, studying me. "You're surprised."
"Should I be?"
"It feels like you expect me to handle myself all that well." Her head tilts. "Which means you had low expectations going in."
Heat crawls up my neck. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." No accusation in her tone. Just observation. "It's fine. I get it. Assistant. Thrift store fashion. Recycled paper scripts." She waves a hand. "Not exactly platinum card material."
"That's not -" I stop. She's right. I underestimated her. "You're right."
Her eyebrows lift. "Sorry, what?"
"I underestimated you." The admission scrapes out. "I thought you'd be competent. Get through the evening without incident. Instead you -" I gesture, searching for words. "You read the room better than people who've spent decades in it."
She's quiet for a beat. "What did you notice?"
"About what?"
"About me. Tonight." She pulls her knees up, wrapping her arms around them. "You're giving me the highlights reel. Patricia loved me. The Hartwells were impressed. But what did you actually see?"
The question catches me off guard. I rotate the scotch glass, watching amber liquid catch light.
"You deflected personal questions without seeming defensive," I say slowly. "Three different people tried to dig into your background. Where you're from. How we met. You redirected every time - asked about their work, their interests, made them feel heard without giving anything away."
"Theater training." She shrugs. "Improv rule number one: yes-and. Accept what they give you, add something that shifts focus."
"You did it seamlessly." I take another drink. "And the Hartwell CFO. You somehow convinced him theater education should be a corporate priority."
Her laugh spills out, surprised. "I have no idea how that happened. He asked about the workshop, and suddenly I was pitching arts funding like I knew what I was doing."
"You do know what you're doing."
"I was terrified the entire time." She leans forward slightly. "Can I tell you what I noticed?"
"Please."
"Everyone's performing." She says it matter-of-fact.
"The donors, the board members, the society women.
They're all playing parts. Saying what they're supposed to say.
Laughing at the right moments. Demonstrating the right opinions.
" Her fingers trace the rim of her water glass.
"It's theater. Just with higher stakes and better costumes. "
The observation lands. I've never articulated it that way, but she's right.
"You saw that in one night?"
"I've spent time watching people perform at Lockwood Industries." Her smile turns wry. "Tonight was just a different stage. A bigger audience with much more expensive sets."
I'm quiet, processing. She continues.
"Patricia Hartwell seems lonely," Margot says. "Her husband talks business constantly. She's brilliant - you could see it - but no one asks her opinion on anything except event planning and donor cultivation. When I asked about her work before marriage, she lit up."
"She was a curator, I believe."
"Modern art. She loves Rothko." Margot gestures toward the painting in my entryway. "She mentioned you had one of his pieces. One of her favorites.
"What else?" I hear myself ask.
"The older woman in emerald green - gray hair, diamonds, terrifying posture."
"Lenora Harrow. Board chair."
"She was watching you all night." Margot's gaze sharpens. "Not me. You. Evaluating. Every conversation you had, every person you spoke with. She's worried about something."
My chest tightens. "The merger."
"Or you." Margot tilts her head. "She looks at you the way teachers look at students with potential who aren't applying themselves. Like she sees what you could be and it frustrates her that you're not there yet."
The observation cuts too close. Lenora has been on me for months about the merger, the optics, my reputation. But Margot read it in one evening.
"You're observant," I say.
"I'm a playwright." She pulls her feet closer. "I watch people. How they move, what they say versus what they mean. Tonight was research."
"Research."
"For future plays. Rich people at galas." Her mouth curves. "It's better than anything I could make up."
A laugh surprises me. Rough. Real.
"Glad we could provide material."
"Oh, the material was excellent." She grins. "The woman in red who cornered me by the champagne fountain? Asked where I summered. I said Brooklyn and she thought I meant some estate in the Hamptons called Brooklyn."
"You didn't correct her."
"Why would I? Her version was more fun." Margot's expression shifts. Something more serious. "Malcolm Reyes. The theater director who approached me. You know him?"
The name tightens something in my chest. Protective instinct flares - sharp, unexpected.
"I know of him." I set my glass down.
"Asked why I was here with you." She says it carefully. Watching my reaction. "Then offered to help. Said he has resources."
"What did you tell him?"
"That I'd think about it." Her gaze doesn't waver. "But the way he asked… it felt off. Like he was testing something. Or trying to get information."
"Be careful." I meet her eyes. "You're…" I stop. Start again. "You're under contract to me. That means people will use access to you as leverage to get to me. Or they'll use me as leverage to get to you. Either way, you're vulnerable in ways you weren't before signing."
"So this is about the contract."
"This is about making sure you don't get hurt because of decisions I made." The words come out harder than I intend.
She studies me for a long moment. Something shifts in her expression.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For the warning."
We sit in silence. The house settles around us—old wood creaking, the hum of heat through radiators, the distant sound of traffic muffled by thick walls and expensive windows.
"Can I ask you something?" Her voice drops.
"Yes."
"Why don't you have someone?" She asks it gently. No judgment. Just curiosity. "You're successful, attractive, clearly capable of charm when you want to deploy it. So why are you alone?"
The question lands in my chest. Heavy.
I could deflect. Change the subject. Tell her it's late and we should sleep.
Instead I hear myself say: "I lost someone.” I pause.
Then “Car accident."
Her expression softens. "I'm sorry."
"That's why you work so much," she says. Not a question.
The observation cuts clean through. I don't respond. Can't.
She unfolds from the sofa, bare feet silent on hardwood. Crosses the space between us. Stops in front of my chair.
"I'm sorry you lost them," she says quietly. "That's - I can't imagine."
"It was a long time ago."
"Not when you loved someone."
I look up at her. The lamplight catches in her hair, turns her eyes soft.
She leans down. Her lips brush my cheek. Soft. Brief. Gone too fast.
"Goodnight, Everett." The words ghost across my skin. "Thank you for tonight."
The space between us crackles with something I don't understand and can't name.
She's my employee. Under contract. Living here because I convinced her it made sense.
I freeze. Can't move. Can't speak.
She steps back, confused. Hurt flickers across her face.
"Right." She wraps her arms around herself. "I'll…goodnight."
She turns. Crosses to the stairs. Each step measured. The dress sways.
I sit frozen in the chair, scotch glass empty, chest tight.
My reflection stares back from dark glass. Jaw tight. Expression haunted.
She's starting to mean something.
And I have no idea how to stop it.