Chapter 15
Margot
Ihead to my suite trying to take this all in.
It’s crazy. Getting crazier. But some of what he says does make sense.
Or I’m choosing to believe it makes sense.
My phone buzzes with a text. Everett.
‘Longer stay, more clothes. Order to be delivered or pick yours up from your apartment.”
I send back “I can get them.”
I go back down the stairs, where Everett hasn’t moved.
"Right." He stands, straightening papers he doesn't need to straighten. "I'll drive you. You can pack what you need."
"You don't have to -"
"I'm driving you." Not a question. Not quite a command either. Somewhere in between.
I bite back the automatic apology. "Okay."
Everett navigates the drive to Brooklyn streets with the same precise control he brings to everything else. His hands rest light on the wheel. Classical music plays low. Chopin, I realize. Nocturnes.
"You surprise me," I say.
His gaze flicks to me. "How?"
"I expected aggressive rock. Power anthems. Something that screams corporate dominance."
His mouth quirks. "Disappointed?"
"No." I watch his profile. That strong jaw. The slight tension around his eyes that never quite leaves. "Curious."
"My mother played piano. Chopin, mostly. Saturday afternoons she'd practice while I did homework." His voice softens. "The sound meant home. Safety. Time when nothing was urgent."
The confession catches me sideways. A crack in his armor I wasn't prepared for.
"Does she still play?"
"Yes. She retired to Florida with my father. She plays on a baby grand in their sunroom." Fondness threads through his words. "Sends me recordings sometimes."
I picture a younger Everett, bent over textbooks while Chopin spilled through the house. Before suits and boardrooms and the weight of all those employees depending on his decisions became part of his daily routine.
"What happened?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
"To what?"
"To the carefree version of you?"
His hands tighten on the wheel. "He grew up.”
I don't push. We drive the rest of the way in silence punctuated by Chopin.
My building rises, stories of brick and fire escapes, graffiti tags the ground floor. Mrs. Chen from 3B waters her herb garden on her windowsill. The saxophone player's window stands open meaning no practice today.
Everett parks, studies the facade. His expression shifts. Not judgment. Something else.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Three years. Four if you count the six months I slept on Talia's couch before I could afford my own place."
"You've been in New York longer than that."
"Seven years total. Arrived with a duffle bag and two hundred dollars." I unbuckle. "Took me a while to stop sleeping on couches."
His jaw works. He opens his door without responding.
The stairwell smells stale, cooking odors mix with old carpet. The railing wobbles under my hand. I climb ahead of Everett, acutely aware of the weight of his presence behind me. His footsteps echo mine.
Fifth floor. My door stands at the end of the hall. Green paint peeling around the frame. The number seven hangs crooked.
"Home sweet home." I unlock the deadbolt.
The door swings open, and I enter the code to my new security system. Look over my shoulder to see Everett with a very self-satisfied smile. The afternoon light streams through my one window, catching dust motes in golden suspension. The radiator clanks its usual greeting.
Everett steps inside. I’m not sure if it is embarrassment or just the reality of how different our worlds are, but it is all here, right before our eyes.
My apartment spreads before him in all its chaotic glory.
Bookshelves line one wall, filled with plays, novels, craft books stacked sideways and forwards.
A thrift store futon is draped with a quilt my grandmother made.
Mismatched mugs are scattered on the kitchenette counter.
String lights hung in swoops across the ceiling in an attempt for atmosphere.
Posters from off-Broadway shows I've seen over the years.
And my table is covered with scripts. Towers of them. Versions. Revisions. Some printed on proper paper. Most on recycled sheets.
Everett moves through the space slowly. His fingers trail along my bookshelf. He pauses at a photo - me and Talia at a street fair, laughing, faces pressed together.
"It's small," I say, defensive. "The heat works most of the time. The hot water's reliable. And the rent's reasonable for the neighborhood."
"It's perfect." His voice carries no sarcasm. No condescension. "It's you."
The observation steals my breath.
He crosses to the window, over the rooftops and water towers. Brooklyn spreads below him in brownstone waves.
"I had a place in the Village during college," he says. "Fourth floor walkup. Shower with two settings - scalding or frozen. My roommate played guitar whenever he wanted." A smile ghosts his mouth. "Best two years of my life."
"What changed?"
"Graduation. MBA. The business." He turns from the window. "Responsibility. The kind that comes with employees depending on you, boards questioning you, mergers that can't fail."
"You miss it." Not a question.
"Sometimes." His gaze sweeps the room again. Lingers on the scripts. "This place reminds me of that time. When everything felt possible. When urgency meant finishing a paper, not closing a deal."
Warmth blooms in my chest. Dangerous warmth.
I cross to my bedroom. "I'll pack. Make yourself comfortable."
My bedroom feels even smaller now in contrast. My bed. A dresser. The closet stuffed full because it is too small to start with. I pull my spare duffle from under the bed, start filling it with essentials. Work separates. Sweaters. Underwear I don't examine too closely while he's in the next room.
Through the doorway, I watch him drift toward my table. He picks up a script. Sets it down. Picks up another.
His spine straightens. He goes completely still.
My stomach drops.
No. Not those. Not -
I emerge from the bedroom carrying my half-packed duffle. "Everett!"
He's reading. One of my scripts clutched in his hands. His eyes track across the pages with complete focus.
Heat floods my face. My heart hammers.
I cross the room in three strides. Snatch the script from his hands. "Don't."
He blinks. Refocuses on me. "Margot "
"You had no right." My voice shakes. Anger and humiliation twist together in my chest. "That's private."
"The title page says 'By Margot Bennett.'" His tone stays gentle. "I wasn't snooping. I was curious about your work."
"Curious." I clutch the script against my ribs. Armor. Shield. "You're curious about the assistant's little hobby?"
"No." Firm. Immediate. "I'm interested in the playwright's work."
The distinction cracks something open. I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe through the panic clawing up my throat.
"I wasn't ready for you, for anyone, to see it," I whisper. "It's not finished. It's rough. I haven't even done the full polish pass."
"What I read was brilliant."
My eyes snap open. "What?"
"The dialogue. The character dynamics. The way you reveal backstory through action instead of exposition." He gestures toward the script in my arms. "Margot, that's real writing. Professional-level craft."
My throat closes. Tears prick behind my eyes.
"You're mocking me."
"I'm complimenting you." He steps closer. Not crowding. Present. "Why is that so hard to believe?"
"You're a billionaire CEO. You negotiate mergers not review theater. What do you care about some assistant's play?"
"You're not some assistant." His voice drops. "You're a playwright who took a survival job to fund her dream. There's a difference."
The words land in my chest. Settle there.
I lower the script. Hold it against my stomach with both hands.
Silence. Everett's expression shifts. Unreadable.
"It's personal." The admission costs me. "Theater saved me when my parents almost divorced. When money was tight and home felt unstable. The local community theater ran free workshops. I went every day after school. Found myself there. Found my voice."
Understanding floods his face.
"That's why the children's workshop matters," he says.
"It gave me a place to belong when nowhere else did." My fingers tighten on the script. "Those kids - Tyler wanting to be the dragon, Aisha owning her princess role, Jeremy finding his voice -they're me years ago. I can't let that space disappear."
"You won't have to." His voice carries certainty. "The funding is yours. One year, guaranteed. No strings."
Relief and something sharper, gratitude mixed with vulnerability, flood through me.
"Thank you." The words come out thick.
"Tell me about this one." He nods toward the script in my hands. "Your current play."
I hesitate. This script holds everything - my fears, my hopes, the raw places I don't let people see. Sharing it means being known. Being seen.
The risk terrifies me.
Instead I hear myself say. "I have a table read scheduled next Friday night. It’ll be with local actors I've worked with before. I’m testing the dialogue, the pacing, seeing what lands."
"A table read." Interest sharpens his gaze. "Where?"
"It’s a small rehearsal space in Chelsea. Nothing fancy. Folding chairs and usually bad coffee." I set the script on the table. "It's part of moving the play forward. Hearing it out loud is different than reading it. Making adjustments before I approach and finalize theaters about production."
"You're close."
"Maybe." Hope and terror war in my chest. "The deposit I put down at Hamilton. That's for my production run. Eight weeks of performances." My voice wavers. "Everything depends on this script being ready."
Everett processes this. His expression cycles through surprise, understanding, something that might be pride.
"You've been working toward this the entire time."
"Three years." The confession releases something tight in my chest. "Writing. Rewriting. Saving every dollar. Networking with directors and actors and stage managers. This table read - it's make or break. If the script doesn't work, I have four months to fix it. If it does -"
"Then you're a produced playwright."
The words shimmer between us. Real. Possible.
"Yeah." A smile cracks my face. "Then I'm a produced playwright."
He moves to the table. Picks up the second script, the one underneath the first. Studies the title page.
"This is older work?"
"My first attempt. Two years ago." I cross to stand beside him. "The structure's weak. The protagonist's arc doesn't quite land. I mined it for parts when writing the new one."
"Can I read it?"
The question catches me sideways. "Why would you want to?"
"To understand your evolution. How you got from there - " He taps the older script. "To here." His finger rests on the new one.
My heart does something complicated. Dangerous.
"Okay," I whisper.
His smile transforms his face. Genuine. Warm. The version of him that existed before boardrooms and mergers.
"When's the table read again?" he asks.
"Next Friday."
"I want to come."
The words stop my breath.
"What?"
"The table read. I want to attend." He sets the scripts down.
Turns to face me fully. "As your boyfriend.
Your significant other. Whatever we're calling this arrangement in public.
" His voice intensifies. "If we're together - really together in everyone's eyes -I should be there. I should know your work. Support it."
Panic flares in my chest. "Everett, it's not - it's just actors reading lines. Nothing polished. Nothing -"
"I'm not asking for polished. I'm asking to see what matters to you." He steps closer. Close enough I have to tilt my head back to hold his gaze. "Why is that threatening?"
"It's not threatening." A lie. Complete lie. "It's private."
"We currently reside together. We’ve attended a gala together.” His voice drops. "Why is your art the one thing I can't access?"
The question lands like a punch.
I wrap my arms around my ribs. Defensively. Protectively.
"What if you hate it?" The fear I've been holding cracks open.
"What if you sit through the reading and realize it's amateur hour?
That I'm delusional thinking I can produce this play?
That everything I've sacrificed - my pride, my boundaries, this entire arrangement - is for a dream that's never going to happen? "
His hands settle on my shoulders, gently.
"Then I'll tell you the truth." His gray eyes hold mine. "The same way I told you the truth about that dress at Bergdorf's. The same way I've told you the truth about everything since we signed that contract."
"Which is?"
"That your work to me is extraordinary. That your voice matters. That I've never met anyone who fights as hard as you do for what they believe in." He pauses. "And that whether this play succeeds or fails, you're still one of the bravest people I know."
Tears blur my vision. I blink them back.
"You can't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because…" My voice breaks. "Because I might start believing them."
"Good." His thumbs brush my collarbones through my sweater. The touch sends electricity down my spine. "You should believe them. You should have believed them years ago."
The space between us charges. His gaze drops to my mouth. Heat pools low in my stomach.
I force myself to step back. To breathe.
"Ok. Friday," I say. My voice feels unsteady as I say "I'll text you the address."
"I'll be there."
"It's going to be rough. Actors stumbling through lines. Me taking notes. Probably arguing with my director about Act Two pacing."
"Sounds perfect."
"You're insane."
"Probably." That half-smile again. The one that makes my heart stutter. "But I'm coming to your table read, Margot. You're stuck with me."
The words settle between us. Promise and threat tangled together. He's not asking anymore. He's claiming space in the part of my life I've guarded most fiercely.
And God help me - I'm going to let him.