Chapter 21
Margot
The car purrs beneath us, steady and expensive and too quiet for the noise in my head.
I press my temple against the window, watching Manhattan give way to suburbs, suburbs give way to stretches of green.
My duffel bag sits at my feet. Hastily packed, wrinkled clothes I grabbed from drawers without thinking.
Underwear. T-shirts. One dress I'm not sure why I threw in.
Everett drives. His hands rest at ten and two, knuckles pale against the wheel. We've barely spoken since pulling away from the townhouse twenty minutes ago.
He reaches for the radio. Classical and surprisingly upbeat drifts through the speakers.
"Too moody?" he asks. His voice scrapes rough.
"No." I shift in my seat, pull my knees up. The leather creaks beneath me. "It's good. Who is it?"
His thumb taps against the wheel, following the rhythm. "Boulogne. Never ceases to surprise me. Sort of like you."
I watch from the corner of my eye. I see the smile in his eyes, the attempt to charm, to be who he thinks I want him to be. I see the effort. But I am not there. Only close enough to see his trying.
"Do you listen to classical often?" I ask, needing to fill the space with something normal.
"When I need to think." He changes lanes, smooth and efficient. "Jazz when I'm working. Classical when I'm trying to quiet everything else."
"What's everything else?"
His throat works. "The voice that tells me I'm one wrong move away from losing it all."
The admission lands heavy. I turn to face him fully.
"You're not going to lose it all."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're too stubborn." The words come out sharper than I intend, but honest. "You control everything, Everett. You don't let chaos win."
His mouth quirks at one corner. Not quite a smile. "I let chaos win the day you crashed into my elevator."
"That was gravity. Different thing."
"Was it?"
The question hangs between us. His eyes stay on the road, but something shifts in the air — awareness, memory, the moment everything started.
I reach for my water bottle. My hand shakes slightly. He notices.
"Margot."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I'm getting there." I twist the cap, take a sip. The water is cold, grounding. "Give me time."
He nods. The piano builds toward crescendo, then fades.
His hand moves from the wheel. Settles over mine on the console between us.
The touch jolts through me - warm, solid, real. His palm covers my knuckles, fingers curling gently. Not gripping. Not demanding. Offering.
I flip my hand over. Lace my fingers through his.
We drive that way for miles. His thumb traces circles on my wrist, slow and absent, while Chopin gives way to Debussy gives way to something modern I don't recognize. The city disappears behind us. Trees thicken. The highway opens up.
"There's a market up ahead," he says after a while. "We should stop. Get supplies."
"Supplies?"
"Food. Wine. Whatever we need for the weekend." He glances at me. "Unless you'd rather eat out?"
The thought of restaurants and people and performing normalcy exhausts me. "The market sounds perfect."
He takes the exit ten minutes later. The market sits at the edge of a small town, all weathered wood and hand-painted signs advertising local produce. Cars cluster in the gravel lot. Families wander in and out with paper bags.
Everett parks. Cuts the engine. His hand slips from mine, and the absence aches.
"Ready?" he asks.
"For grocery shopping with a billionaire?" I push open the door. "Always dreamed of this moment."
His laugh surprises us both.
Inside, the market smells like earth and herbs and fresh bread. Wooden crates overflow with vegetables. A cheese counter stretches along the back wall. Local honey. Homemade pasta. Everything artisanal and overpriced and charming.
I grab a basket. Everett follows, hands in his pockets, looking utterly out of place in his expensive sweater and designer jeans.
"Do you cook?" I ask, steering toward the produce.
"I can cook. Whether I'm good at it is debatable."
"Define debatable."
"I haven't poisoned anyone yet."
I pick up an heirloom tomato, test its weight. "High bar."
He reaches past me for asparagus, his arm brushing mine. Heat flares where we touch. "You're skeptical of my culinary skills."
"I'm skeptical you've been inside a grocery store in the last decade."
"I have been," he corrects. "There was an incident with a subscription meal service. The box arrived while I was in London. Things... evolved."
I laugh despite myself. "Evolved how?"
"Let's say the cleaning service earned their tip that month."
The image of Everett Lockwood returning to his pristine townhouse to find a biohazard in his refrigerator cracks me up. He's human. Fallible. A man who leaves meal kits to rot while he builds empires.
We move through the aisles, collecting items. He gravitates toward proteins - steak, chicken, fish. I add vegetables, pasta, olive oil. When we reach the deli counter, I pause at the mortadella.
"Who eats this?" I pick up the package, studying the pink meat studded with fat.
"Italians. People with taste." He takes it from me, adds it to the basket. "Trust me."
"I don't trust mysterious meat products."
"You trust me with your career and reputation, but not with lunch meat?"
"One has a contract. The other is processed mystery."
His grin transforms his face. He looks younger, lighter, the man he might be without the weight he carries. "Fair point."
We reach the wine section. He studies labels with the focus of someone who actually knows what he's reading. I pretend to browse the bread, watching him from the corner of my eye. The way he tilts bottles, checking vintages. The slight furrow between his brows when he's concentrating.
He's beautiful. The thought surfaces unbidden, unwelcome, and true.
"Red or white?" he asks without turning.
"Both."
"Greedy."
"Practical."
He selects three bottles - one white, two red - and adds them to the basket. At the register, the total makes my stomach twist. Two hundred dollars for groceries. Casual. Nothing.
He pays without blinking.
Outside, the afternoon sun slants golden across the parking lot. I load bags into the trunk while he closes the hatch.
"Thank you," I say. "For stopping."
"You're welcome."
"I mean it." I face him across the car. "For treating me... normal. Not performing or managing or controlling. Just…" I gesture at the market behind us. "This."
His expression softens. "This is the easy part, Margot."
"Then what's the hard part?"
"Everything else." He opens my door. Waits. "Come on. Let's get there before the light fades."
***
The beach house appears at the end of a long driveway, all windows and weathered shingles and proximity to water I can smell before I see. Everett punches a code into the gate. It swings open, revealing the sprawling property, private, surrounded by dunes.
He parks near the entrance. Cuts the engine. "It was my grandfather's. He built it in the seventies when this area was still affordable. Left it to me when he died."
"You come here often?"
"Not enough." He climbs out, grabs the bags from the trunk. "Work has a way of consuming time."
I follow him to the entrance, carrying my duffel and one of the wine bottles. He unlocks the door - no electronic panel, just an old brass key - and ushers me inside.
The interior takes my breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the ocean. White walls. Weathered wood floors. Furniture simple and elegant, everything designed to highlight the view. Sunset bleeds orange and pink across the water, painting the space in warm light.
"This is incredible," I whisper.
"The guest rooms are upstairs. Second door on the left. I think you would like it most." He sets the grocery bags on the kitchen island. "Take your time. Settle in. I'll start dinner."
"You're cooking?"
"I promised, didn't I?" His smile carries challenge. "Your only job tonight is to drink wine and keep me company."
"I can help…"
"No." The word is gentle but firm. "Let me do this. Please."
The vulnerability in the request undoes me. I nod.
Upstairs, the guest room he suggested overlooks the ocean. A queen bed with white linens. A chair by the window. Everything minimal and peaceful and designed for rest.
I drop my duffel on the floor. Cross to the window. Beach stretches empty in both directions, waves rolling steady against sand. Seagulls wheel overhead, their cries muted through the glass.
My phone buzzes. Talia.
How's exile?
I type back: Beautiful. Terrifying. Both.
You okay?
Getting there.
He treating you right?
He's cooking me dinner.
WHAT. Everett Lockwood COOKS?
Apparently. Will report back if I survive.
You've got this, babe. Be honest. Be brave.
I pocket the phone. Change into leggings and a soft sweater, something comfortable that won't make me feel like I'm trying too hard. Barefoot, I pad downstairs.
The kitchen smells like garlic and butter and rosemary - the smell of a house that's been empty too long, suddenly lived in. Everett stands at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. Two wine glasses wait on the counter, one already poured.
"Asparagus," he says without turning. "You asked who eats it. I do. Also, you."
"Confident."
"Accurate." He gestures to the glass. "White. Cold. Drink."
I pick it up, sip. Crisp and bright, citrus and something mineral. "This is good."
"Should be. It's a Sancerre. The woman at the counter recommended it."
"You asked for recommendations?"
"I'm not too proud to admit when I need help." He stirs something in a pan. Butter, garlic, the smell intoxicating. "Unlike some people."
"Meaning me?"
"You apologize for existing. I'd call that needing help."
The observation stings and soothes at once. It feels true. Uncomfortably true.