Chapter 20
Everett
The door closes behind her with a sound that echoes through my chest.
I stand frozen in the foyer. The marble floor reflects distorted shapes. My face. Her absence.
Outside, voices explode.
"Miss Bennett! Over here!"
"Is it true about the contract?"
"How long have you two been together?"
I move to the window, staying back from the glass. The townhouse steps swarm with photographers, their cameras aimed at her. She stands in the center of the chaos, coat pulled tight, shoulders squared against the assault.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
She raises her palm, a gesture I've seen her use in meetings. Wait. The cameras flash. The voices quiet slightly.
"Honestly?" Her voice carries through the glass, clear and steady.
Theater training. Projecting to the back row.
"A girl has to shop, you know? Mr. Lockwood was kind enough to accompany me to Bergdorf's.
The gown for the Hartwell gala needed alterations.
Apparently someone decided that was newsworthy. "
A laugh. Warm. Self-deprecating. Completely at odds with the woman who walked out of my study minutes ago with tears streaming down her face.
"Are the contract rumors true?" someone shouts.
"Rumors are always more interesting than reality." She adjusts her bag on her shoulder. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a theater workshop to prepare for."
She moves through them. Grace under pressure. Every inch the woman I watched negotiate contract terms in my office, who stood up to my coldness in an elevator, who kissed me with enough heat to burn through my years of careful distance.
The woman I accused of selling me out.
The crowd parts. She disappears down the street. The photographers linger, taking shots of the townhouse, calling questions at my closed door.
I step back from the window.
A girl has to shop. The words stay with me long after the photographers leave.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. It buzzes again.
The study door stands open. This morning. Hours ago. When she kissed me in the hallway outside this room and I lost every carefully constructed defense I've spent years building.
The credenza catches my eye. Alicia's photos sit exactly where they've been since it happened. Beach. Gala. Frozen at twenty-nine. Forever young. Forever gone.
I sink into my desk chair. Press my palms flat against the polished wood.
She left a pencil on my desk once. I moved it three times. Kept putting it back.
I've been falling for her in increments and calling it something else.
Maybe from the beginning.
My phone buzzes. Text from the head of security. Then another from legal. I start making calls.
First to security. "Pull everything from this morning. Camera angles on the townhouse. Crowd shots. Anyone who got too close."
Next, legal. "What's our exposure on the contract leak?"
"Minimal. NDA violations are actionable, but we need to identify the source first. We're working backwards from the publication."
Dial Celeste in PR.
The uncertainty gnaws at me. Not knowing who leaked the contract. Not knowing how much damage has been done. Not knowing if the merger is salvageable.
Not knowing if we are salvageable.
My phone rings. Celeste.
"We're managing the story." Her voice is crisp, efficient.
"Social media is lighting up, but the narrative is holding.
Ms. Bennett's handling of the press today was exceptional.
" A pause. "We're tracking the source of the leak, but nothing definitive yet.
Could be Bergdorf's. Could be building security.
Could be someone with access to HR files. "
"Keep me updated."
I end the call. The study feels smaller than it did an hour ago. The walls press in.
I stand. Stare out the window at the empty street.
She's been gone less than an hour. The paparazzi dispersed. Life continued.
And I'm standing in my study, confronting the reality that I've become exactly what I swore I'd never be. A life so carefully managed there was no room for pain. No room for anything real.
Margot forced me to feel again. To want again. To imagine a future that wasn't just merger timelines and board approvals.
And the second I felt something real, the second vulnerability crept past my defenses, I sabotaged it.
The front door opens. Closes. Soft footsteps in the foyer.
My heart kicks against my ribs.
I set down the scotch. Move to the study doorway.
She stands in the entrance, coat still on, bag clutched against her ribs. Her face is pale. Exhausted. The light from the chandelier catches the tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.
We stare at each other across the marble floor. The distance feels infinite.
"You came back." The words scrape my throat raw.
"I needed my things." Her voice is careful. Controlled. Theater training keeping her together. "I'll be quick."
"Margot…"
"Please don't." She shakes her head. "I can't. Not right now."
"It wasn't you." The words tumble out. "The leak. We're investigating. Bergdorf's is one possibility. But I jumped to conclusions. I accused you without evidence, without thinking, and I…" My voice roughens. "I'm sorry."
"You should have trusted me." Her eyes meet mine, and the pain there guts me. "You should have asked instead of accused."
Her voice breaks. She presses her fingers to her mouth, breathing through her nose.
I cross the distance between us. Stop an arm's length away. Close enough to see her pupils dilate. Far enough to give her space to run.
"You're right." My hands stay at my sides even though everything in me wants to reach for her. "I should have trusted you. I should have known better. I…"
The words stick. Lodge in my throat.
I take a breath. Start again.
"Five years ago, someone I loved died in a car accident."
Margot goes still. Her eyes widen slightly.
"I haven't let anyone close since." My jaw aches. I force the words out. "Because close means risk. Risk means loss. Loss means…"
I stop. Breathe.
"Loss means failing someone again," I finish. "And I couldn't survive that."
Her breath hitches.
"Then you crashed into me in an elevator." A rough laugh escapes. "Literally. Papers everywhere. Fire in your eyes. And you didn't back down. Not once. Not when I accused you. Not when I was cold. Not when I tried to intimidate you into forgetting what you saw."
"Everett -"
"I'm falling for you." The words land between us like a detonation.
"I don't know when it started. Maybe that first morning.
Maybe when you kissed me in the hallway and I forgot how to breathe.
" I meet her eyes. Hold her gaze. "I'm terrified.
Because caring about someone means risking loss.
Means all the things I've spent years avoiding. "
Tears slip down her cheeks. She doesn't wipe them away.
"So when the leak happened, when everything felt out of control…" My voice drops. "I defaulted to suspicion. To pushing you away. Because pushing away is safer than holding on."
"That's not fair to me," she whispers.
"I know."
"I trusted you. I let you see…" Her voice cracks. "Everything."
"I know."
"And the first time things got hard, you assumed the worst."
The accusation sits between us.
"Yes," I say. "I did. And I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry, Margot."
She wraps her arms around herself. The gesture is protective.
"I don't know if sorry is enough," she says quietly.
"It's not." I take a risk. Step closer. "But give me a chance to prove it."
She looks up at me. Searching my face for something. Sincerity. Truth. A reason to stay.
I let her see everything. The fear. The regret. The realization that I sabotaged the best thing to happen to me in years because I was too terrified to admit what she'd become.
"Come with me," I say. "To the Hamptons. The beach house. No PR. No board. No merger. No contracts." I pause. "Just us. A chance to figure out what this is without the noise."
Her eyes widen. "What about the merger? The board?"
"They can wait." The words surprise me. Surprise her too, judging by her expression. "You're more important."
Her breath catches.
"No photographers? No events?"
"Just the ocean. And us."
Her hands twist together. A tell. She's considering it.
"Say yes," I say quietly. "Give me a chance to fix what I broke."
She studies me. Those sharp eyes seeing too much. Always seeing too much.
Then, so quietly I almost miss it:
"Okay."
Relief floods through me. Overwhelming. All-consuming.
"Okay?"
"I'll come with you." She lifts her chin slightly. "But I'm not promising forgiveness. Or trust. Or anything."
"I'm not asking for promises. I'm asking for a weekend."
"A weekend." She echoes the words. Testing them.
I glance toward the windows. November light already fading. "It's a two-hour drive. We leave as soon as you're ready."
She nods. Turns toward the stairs. Pauses halfway up.
"Everett?"
"Yes?"
She glances back. "Don't make me regret this."
The words hang in the air. A warning. A plea. A last chance.
"I won't," I say.
I stand in the foyer, heart hammering, hands shaking with relief and terror in equal measure.
I meant what I said. Every word.
I'm falling for her.
And this weekend - this chance - might be the only opportunity I get to prove I can be someone worth falling for in return.
I pull out my phone. Text my caretaker.
Beach house this weekend. Leaving now. Have it ready.
I cross to the study. Look at Alicia's photos on the credenza.
"I'm sorry," I tell her. Tell her memory. "I'm sorry for everything we lost. You will always be part of my life, my past."
The photos don't answer. They never do.
I touch the frame gently. Then I turn away.
Toward the stairs. Toward the woman packing upstairs. Toward the possibility that maybe, just maybe, I can figure out how to hold onto something real without letting fear destroy it first.
Toward a weekend that might save everything.
Or end it for good.