Chapter 17
Margot
The new whispers don't start on Monday. These arrive Tuesday morning, delivered in a pristine binder by a woman who smiles while destroying me.
Celeste Park sits across from Everett and me in the conference room, her tablet glowing with spreadsheets of my inadequacy. She's the kind of woman who makes competence an art form. PR Director. Crisis manager. Professional fixer of messes.
Apparently, I'm a mess.
"The current strategy isn't working." Her manicured finger swipes across the screen. "The Gala generated speculation. The no-response, quiet approach made it worse. People fill silence with assumptions."
Everett leans back in his chair, jaw tight. "What are you suggesting?"
"Full visibility. Margot needs to be seen - not occasionally, constantly. Coffee runs. Lunch dates. Weekend brunches. The kind of organic moments that demonstrate a genuine relationship." She glances at me, assessing. "Curated organic, obviously."
My hands tighten in my lap. Everett's eyes flick to them.
"We'll coordinate outfits, locations, timing.
I'll brief you on conversation topics that photograph well.
Nothing controversial, nothing that invites scrutiny.
" She taps her tablet. "We'll also need rehearsed responses for common questions.
Where you met, how long you've been together, future plans. "
Heat crawls up my neck. "You want me to memorize lines."
"I want you to control the narrative." Her tone stays pleasant, unyielding. "Right now, the narrative is 'mysterious woman, sudden appearance, questionable motives.' We change that to 'established relationship, legitimate partner, invested in his world.'"
Everett's hand curls into a fist on the table. "She's not an actress."
"No." Celeste's gaze slides to him. "She's an unknown. Unless we give her a story that makes her an asset."
The word lands between my ribs. Unknown.
I swallow hard, force my voice steady. "What kind of events?"
"Gallery openings. Charity luncheons. Theater premieres - your background makes that authentic." She scrolls through her calendar. "I'm scheduling three appearances over the next ten days. We can go over the media training Thursday."
Everett shifts beside me. "Give us a minute."
Celeste's eyebrows lift. "Of course. I'll be outside."
The door closes. Silence fills the space she vacated.
I stare at the binder she left behind. MARGOT BENNETT — STRATEGIC POSITIONING stamped across the cover in bold letters.
"I'm sorry." Everett's voice cuts through my spiral. "I didn't know she'd -"
"She's right." The words scrape my throat raw. "I am a question mark. The quiet approach made people wonder. Now they're digging."
"You're not…"
"I am." I meet his eyes. Gray. Stormy. "We both know what this arrangement is. What I am in it. She's just saying it out loud."
His jaw clenches. "What you are is someone who deserves better than being packaged and sold to the press."
"Do I?" My laugh cracks. "I signed up for this. I thought I knew what that meant. I don't get to complain when there's more to the job than I realized."
He leans forward, elbows on the table, gaze intense. "You're not merchandise. You're -"
A knock interrupts. Celeste's assistant pokes her head in. "Ms. Park needs an answer on the schedule. Should she proceed with bookings?"
Everett doesn't break eye contact with me. "What do you want to do?"
What do I want? To run. To hide. To go back to being invisible.
To keep the kids' workshop funded. To see my play produced. To honor the contract I signed.
"Book them," I say, and walk out before he can stop me.
***
Friday arrives wrapped in anxiety. The table read is everything I hoped. Everett sits in the back row the entire time, silent, watching. When it ends, he catches my eye and nods toward the door.
We don't speak in the car. The driver navigates through traffic while I twist my fingers together, watching streetlights blur past the window.
The restaurant sits tucked in a quiet corner of the West Village. Intimate, dim, the kind of place where conversations stay private. A server leads us to a corner table, brings water and menus, disappears.
"You were brilliant tonight," he says.
Heat floods my cheeks. "It's not my performance. It's the actors."
"It's your words. Your vision." He picks up his water glass, sets it down without drinking. "The play has real weight."
He pauses. "Noah's good. The way he delivered the monologue in Act Two -"
"He's exceptional. Trained at Juilliard. Same program I…" My throat tightens. "The one I couldn't afford."
Understanding crosses his face. "You got in?"
"Partial scholarship." I trace the rim of my glass. "My parents couldn't cover the gap. Neither could I."
"So it didn't happen."
"I shifted. There's a difference." The old defense mechanism kicks in – to protect the dream by pretending it's not dead. "I remember that someday I will be a successful playwright."
"Margot." My name stops me. "You don't have to perform for me. Not here."
The words crack something open. I blink back tears, force my voice steady. "What do you want from me?"
The server arrives and saves me from an answer. She takes our orders and leaves, but the break lets me redirect away from myself, toward him.
"Why did you build the company the way you did?" The question surfaces from some brave, reckless place. "Why answer to a board at all?"
His eyebrows lift. "That's what you want to know?"
"Yes."
He's quiet for a moment, considering. When he speaks, his voice carries a different quality - reflective, unguarded.
"I watched other companies implode because founders couldn't let go of control.
I didn't want that." He pauses. "Lately, people resist the structures I put in place.
Want to extend terms. Stay in power longer. "
Understanding clicks into place. "You feel like someone's using this situation against you."
"Someone sees an opportunity." He meets my eyes. "The merger has elements that make me vulnerable. Being positioned as unstable, questions raised about my judgment. Things that weren't a problem are being raised as issues. Ammunition for people who want me compromised. Compliant."
"So it's more than just your reputation." My chest aches. "I'm a weapon someone can use against you politically."
"You're not a weapon." His voice hardens. "Just caught in something I should have anticipated."
Our food arrives. Steam rises from the plates, filling the space between us.
I pick up my fork, set it down. "What happens if the merger fails?"
He's quiet for a moment. "It puts other pending discussions at risk. Business is constant motion - acquiring, selling, repositioning. That motion depends on stability. Or the perception of it."
"Perception."
"Rumor becomes truth. People believe what they hear, not what's real." His jaw tightens. "When rumors spread, deals stall. Partnerships dissolve. Jobs become vulnerable."
I watch the tension in his face. The weight.
"This company has weathered decades of change," he continues. "My grandfather built it. My father expanded it. I took it bigger." He pauses. "I don't want to be the generation that took it down."
"No pressure." The words slip out before I can stop them.
His mouth quirks. "Something along those lines."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"
"Stop apologizing." Gentle. Firm.
My throat tightens. "What if I mess it up? What if I say the wrong thing, wear the wrong outfit, -"
"You won't."
"You can't know that."
"I can." He reaches across the table. Stops. His hand hovers between us, palm up. Offering. "I've seen you under pressure. You get sharper. Funnier. More yourself."
I stare at his hand. The choice he's giving me.
I take it.
His fingers close around mine. Warm and steady. The contact sends electricity up my arm, settles somewhere beneath my ribs.
"Do you ever do anything besides work?" I ask quietly.
His eyebrows lift. "Is this your polite way of calling me a workaholic?"
"Maybe." A smile tugs at my mouth. "Do you have hobbies? Pastimes? Things you do when you're not running an empire?"
His thumb traces my knuckles. The gesture feels absent, natural. "Tennis. Usually Saturday mornings when I can manage it."
"Alone?"
"With Rowan. My best friend. We've played together since Columbia." Something softens in his expression. "He keeps me honest. Calls me out when I'm being an ass. Reminds me there's more to life than quarterly reports."
"Sounds like a good friend."
"The best." He pauses. "You'll meet him eventually. Fair warning - he's going to have opinions about all of this."
"About the arrangement?"
"About you." His gaze holds mine. "He sees right through me."
My heart kicks. "Sees what?"
"That this stopped being just an arrangement a while ago." Honesty. Raw. "At least for me."
We eat in silence for a while.
"Tell me something real," he says eventually. "Something you've never told anyone."
The request catches me off guard. "Like what?"
"Anything. A secret. A fear. Something that matters."
I chew my bottom lip, deciding. "Sometimes I'm terrified my play is terrible. That everyone who's praised it is lying to be kind. That when it's finally produced, people will see the truth. I'm a fraud pretending to be a writer."
His expression softens. "That's not a secret. That's every artist who's ever created anything worthwhile."
"How do you know?"
"Because anything worth doing scares you. If it doesn't, you're playing it safe." He pauses. "Your turn. Ask me something."
"Do you regret hiring me?"
"No."
"Not even a little?"
"Not even slightly." His grip tightens on my hand. "You've made everything more complicated. More difficult. More…" He stops. "Alive."
The word steals my breath.
Our server returns, clears plates, offers dessert, which we decline. Everett settles the check while I gather my coat.
The drive home feels charged. The air between us hums with everything we're not saying.
The townhouse glows warm when we arrive. Everett unlocks the door, disarms the security system. I step into the foyer, then turn toward my room.
"Thank you," I say. "For dinner. For… everything."
"Margot -"
"I should go. It's late. You probably have work -"
"I don't want you to go."
The confession stops me. I turn.
He stands three feet away, tie loosened, hair mussed from running his hands through it in the car. Disheveled. Relaxed. Human.
"I don't want to go either," I admit.
We stare at each other. The space between us feels impossible to cross and already vanished.
I move first. One step. Another. "Goodnight," I whisper.
I lean up. Aim for his cheek. Miss.
My lips brush his instead.
The contact jolts through me. Electric, devastating. I freeze, mortification flooding my system.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean - I was trying to -"
"Don't." His voice comes out rough, raw. "Don't apologize."
"But I -"
"I wouldn't mind more."
The words hang in the air like permission. An invitation.
I kiss him again. Deliberate this time.
His mouth opens beneath mine. One hand slides into my hair. The other grips my waist, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens - hungry, desperate, all the tension we've been building for weeks spilling over.
I grip his shoulders. Feel the solid muscles beneath the expensive fabric. His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, pressing me against him. I gasp into his mouth.
He walks me backward until my spine hits the wall. His mouth never leaves mine. When he finally breaks away, we're both breathing hard.
"Margot." My name sounds wrecked. "We should -"
"Don't stop." I pull him back.
He kisses me again. Slower this time. Deeper. His hand moves from my hair to my jaw, tilting my face. I arch into him, desperate for more contact, more heat, more everything.
He pulls back. Breathing ragged. Eyes dark.
"Wait."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong." His thumb traces my swollen bottom lip. "Everything's right. That's the problem."
Confusion clouds my thoughts. "I don't understand."
"I want you." Direct. Unambiguous. "More than I've wanted anything in years. Do you understand that?"
I nod, mute.
"I want you to be sure." His hand cups my face. Gentle. Reverent. "Not caught up in the moment. Not swept away by…" He gestures vaguely between us. "This. I want you certain."
My chest aches. "I am certain."
"Tonight you are. Tomorrow morning…" He stops. Breathes. "I need you to still be certain tomorrow. And the day after. And the week after that."
Understanding crashes over me. He's protecting me. From him. From us. From the weight of choices made in passion.
"So what are we doing?" I whisper.
"We're taking our time." He steps back, creating space. The loss of contact feels like winter. "We have tomorrow. And all the days after. We don't have to rush."
He helps me stand straight, smooths my hair. His hands linger.
"Come on." He takes my hand. "I'll walk you up."
We climb the stairs in silence. My heart hammers against my ribs. Everything in me screams to pull him back, finish what we started.
At my suite door, he stops. Turns me to face him.
"I mean it," he says quietly. "We have time. All the time you need."
He leans down. Kisses my cheek. Soft. Chaste. Nothing like the devastation downstairs.
"Goodnight, Margot."
"Goodnight."
He walks away. I watch him disappear toward the upper floors.
I lean against my closed door, pressing my palm to my mouth where his kiss still burns. Tomorrow. He said we have tomorrow. Tomorrow and all the days after. The question is whether I'm brave enough to want them. Whether I'm strong enough to let this be real instead of another role I'm playing.
Whether I can trust that when he looks at me, he sees Margot - not the contract, not the arrangement, not the solution to his merger problem. Just me. Messy and uncertain and terrified and wanting him anyway.