Chapter 13
Margot
Heat floods my face.
Sunlight cuts through the windows, sharp and bright. I blink awake in Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count too high to count.
My phone buzzes. Talia.
Brunch. Now. Need details. You need mimosas. I need mimosas.
I text back: Give me an hour.
The townhouse sits still with Saturday quiet. My footsteps whisper down the hardwood stairs, cool beneath my bare feet. Water is running somewhere above. I think he's awake. Already moving through morning routines I'll never see.
Coffee sits in the French press, still warm. I pour a cup into his black mug, although it's the one I like best too. I lean against the marble counter.
The front door opens. Closes. I go to the window and see him disappearing down the stairs, gym bag over one shoulder. Running or workout or whatever billionaires do at seven a.m. on Saturdays.
I leave a note on the counter. Out for the day. Back tonight. And slip into the morning air.
The café Talia chose sits in the West Village, all exposed brick and reclaimed wood, crowded and just what I need. Normalcy. She's already claimed a corner table with two mimosas waiting. Her expression is somewhere between glee and impatience.
"Sit. Talk. Leave nothing out." She pushes a glass toward me.
I slide into the chair across from her. Wrap my hands around cold glass. "Good morning to you too."
"Good morning. You went to a gala with Mr. Billionaire. I need details."
"It's a townhouse. Not a mansion."
"Margot. Six floors, in Manhattan. That's a mansion." She leans forward. "Spill."
I sip the mimosa. Orange juice and champagne fizz on my tongue. "It was terrifying. All those people in designer everything, talking about summer homes and charity boards and mergers I don't understand."
"But you survived."
"More than survived." I pull apart a piece of croissant from the basket between us. "I talked to his board chair about community theater. Had a twenty-minute conversation with Patricia Hartwell about art and its funding."
"Who's Patricia Hartwell?"
"Wife of the CEO the merger is with. I think she's old money. She certainly knew everyone. But our conversation was smart, intelligent, and she actually listened to my thoughts about theater."
"What about Mr. Billionaire himself? Still terrifying?"
"Everett," I correct automatically.
Her eyebrows lift. "Everett now, is it?"
Heat climbs my neck. "That's his name."
"You're on a first-name basis with a man who owns a six-story townhouse and probably has more money than God."
"It's not like that."
"What's it like?"
I search for words. The croissant continues to call.
"He's… complicated. Controlled. He runs everything like a business negotiation, including conversations.
But then there are these moments where the guard lets down and he's this really thoughtful, nice guy.
Not Mr. Iceman. Like there's something underneath. "
"Something like what?"
"I don't know." I take another sip. The champagne tastes less celebratory now. "But it doesn't change the arrangement. In a few months, the merger closes. Or I'm not needed anymore. Whatever the case, at least I walk away with money for the play. He goes back to his life."
"This is pretty real right now."
"I'm Cinderella at the ball except I know exactly when the clock strikes midnight." I set down my glass. "This isn't a fairy tale."
The server appears with our food. Avocado toast for me, bright green against sourdough. Eggs benedict for Talia, hollandaise pooling golden on the plate.
We eat in comfortable silence for a moment. "Actually," I say, setting down my fork. "I've been thinking. Now that the first event is over, maybe I should go back to my apartment. The gala was the big public debut. Mission accomplished."
Talia pauses mid-bite. "You want to leave?"
"I don't know. Maybe? Living there is strange. Wonderful and strange and too comfortable." I push avocado around my plate. "What if I get used to it? What if I start thinking heated floors and French press coffee are normal?"
"Would that be so terrible?"
We finish eating. Talk about her work, her roommate's terrible boyfriend, the new show opening off-Broadway we should see. Normal things. Comfortable things.
I leave Talia at noon with plans to meet again next week. My writers' circle convenes at two.
***
Sarah's cramped one-bedroom apartment in Alphabet City overflows with books and scripts. Six of us have been meeting monthly for a year, reading scenes aloud, offering feedback, surviving the brutal process of finishing plays.
"Act Three revision," I announce. "The confrontation scene. I rewrote the heroine's motivation."
"Finally." Ryan grins. "That scene's been killing you for months."
"Don't remind me." I flip open the binder. "Ready?"
"Read it."
I read. My voice fills the small space, bringing characters to life. The heroine confronting her past. The choice between safety and truth. Choosing herself over comfort.
The words feel right in a way they didn't before. True.
Silence when I finish. Then Sarah grins.
"That's it. That's the scene the whole play's been building toward."
Relief floods through me, warm and certain. "You think?"
"I know." She gestures at the script. "The motivation is clear now. We understand why she has to leave. Why staying would destroy her."
Ryan nods. "The final line lands. Before it felt preachy. Now it feels earned."
By three-thirty, we're finishing the last of the coffee. My script is covered in penciled notes. Small adjustments. Final polish.
My play is ready.
I hug Sarah goodbye, thank everyone, gather my things. Completion hums through my veins. Three years of work. Late nights. Coffee-stained pages. Believing someone would care about the story I'm telling.
Now I get to share it.
I head toward Queens. Toward the theater.
***
I find Dennis in the cramped office, surrounded by filing cabinets, playbills competing with children's artwork for wall space. He glances up when I knock.
Something in his expression makes me nervous.
"Margot. Come in."
I perch on the edge of the folding chair across from his desk. "I wanted to talk about finalizing dates for my play. I feel I'm ready to move forward with production."
Dennis sets down his pen and rubs his face with both hands. The gesture carries weight I don't want to interpret.
"About that," he says carefully. "We need to discuss the new rate structure."
"New rate structure?"
"I fought for you, Margot. Reminded them of your work with the children's workshop, how your deposit was already down.
Some of the board members pushed back hard.
Theater funding is brutal right now. Everyone's scrambling.
" He pulls a folder from his desk drawer and opens it.
His expression carries genuine regret, confirming my worst fears.
"Dennis." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "How much?"
He slides the rate sheet across the desk.
I pick it up.
Read the first line. The numbers blur. I blink. They refocus. Stay exactly the same.
"Margot—"
"They tripled it." My voice sounds far away. Not mine. "The rates tripled."