Chapter 24
Everett
The silence in the car is oppressive. Margot stares out the passenger window at the parkway sliding past, shoulders angled away from me, spine rigid against the leather seat. I've made three attempts at conversation in the past hour. Each one died on contact.
"The Andersons want to have us back…"
"I'm tired."
"We could stop for coffee…"
"No."
"Margot, about what you heard…"
"Drop it."
Two words. Flat. Final.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. The urge to pull over, make her face me, explain what I meant versus what she heard, it claws at my chest. Instead I drive. Miles of asphalt. Exit signs. The city rising ahead.
"I didn't mean what you heard," I try again. "It was a direct question and I…"
"Said what you meant." Her voice cuts clean.
"Out of context…"
"There's no context that makes it better." She turns her head slightly, not enough to meet my eyes. "I'm done talking about it."
She's not convinced. She's not arguing either.
The rest of the drive passes in suffocating quiet. We pull up to the townhouse. I cut the engine, reach for her door.
She's already out. Already moving.
"Margot, wait…"
"Good night." She doesn't pause. Doesn't slow. Up the stairs to the guest suite. The door closes with a soft, decisive click.
I stand in the foyer, bags in hand, staring at the empty staircase.
I walk to the study. Pour two fingers of scotch. Drain it. Pour another.
The second glass goes down slower. I lean against the counter, phone in my free hand, thumb hovering over Rowan's contact.
He'll tell me I'm an idiot. He won't be wrong.
I press call.
"Ev. How was the beach?" His voice carries easy warmth. Background noise suggests he's at a restaurant. Dinner with someone, probably. Normal people doing normal things.
"I need to talk."
The background noise cuts. Movement. "Hold on." A door closes. "Okay. What's up?"
Where do I start?
"Wyatt asked what we were doing out there," I say. "At the Hamptons. I told him crisis management. For the merger. Margot overheard."
"Smooth, Ev. Real smooth."
"So were you keeping it professional?"
I drain the scotch. The burn does nothing to ease the pressure in my chest. "What does it matter?"
"It matters because you're calling me at eight p.m. on a Sunday night." A beat. "So I'll ask again. Are you falling for her?"
The words stick in my throat. Admitting it makes it real. "Yes."
"So here's what you're going to do. You're going to figure out what's true. Really true. Then you're going to tell her why she's different."
"What if she won't listen?"
"Then you keep trying. You show up. You prove you mean it." A pause. "Or you let her go."
The call ends. I stand in the kitchen, phone in hand, staring at nothing.
I walk to my own rooms. Strip off the clothes that still carry the scent of the beach house, the ocean, her skin. Crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling.
Sleep doesn't come.
***
Morning arrives gray and heavy and wet.
The French press sits cold. Empty.
Every morning, she's been up before me. Coffee ready. Her mug sitting beside the pot, evidence she'd been there. The kind of detail that shouldn't matter and somehow meant everything.
This morning: nothing.
I brew my own coffee. Pour it into the black mug and it tastes of sadness.
I check my watch. Six-thirty. She's usually down by now. Six-forty-five. Nothing.
Seven. I climb the stairs. Knock on her door. "Margot?"
Silence.
"I made coffee. If you want…"
Nothing. Not a sound. Not a shift of weight or rustle of fabric.
I knock again. "Margot, please. We need to talk."
The realization surfaces slowly. She left early. Slipped out before I woke. Avoided me deliberately.
I find myself in the kitchen, moving her abandoned coffee mug from the drying rack to the cabinet.
***
I drive to the office through rain that turns Fifth Avenue into a blur.
Elevator doors open at 17, and the assistant pool hums with Monday morning energy. Only Margot's desk sits empty.
I go to my meetings. Later after lunch, I pass her desk again. Still empty. A coworker - Sarah? Sandra? - sits nearby.
"Where's Margot?" I ask.
She startles. "I…she left early. Said she had a meeting."
"What meeting?"
"She didn't say." The woman's gaze skitters away.
My phone buzzes. Text from Rowan.
How'd it go?
I stare at the screen. How did it go? It didn't. She won't talk to me. Won't see me.
***
The drive home passes in a fog. Rain. Traffic. I pull up to the townhouse at four-thirty. Kill the engine.
She could be inside. Waiting. Ready to talk.
Or she could be gone.
I climb the steps. Unlock the door. "Margot?"
Silence answers.
I pull my phone. Dial her number. It rings. Rings.
Voice mail.
I call. Voice mail.
I sink onto the edge of her bed. The mattress gives under my weight. Her scent lingers. The pillow still holds the indent of her head.
It was barely yesterday she slept in my bed. In my arms. Skin against skin, breath mingling, secrets shared.
Now: nothing. Silence. The cold space where warmth used to be.
My phone vibrates. Text. I grab it, heart hammering.
Not Margot. My COO. Merger update needed. Call when you can.
The merger. The reason for all of it. The business imperative that led me to propose a contractual arrangement for an acceptable companion.
Words that were true once. In the beginning.
It stopped being true somewhere between the elevator and the moment I knew I had to be there for her.
Those words became a lie the moment I touched her and didn't want to stop.
I loved Alicia. Lost her. Survived the unsurvivable and swore I'd never open myself to that kind of loss again.
I go downstairs. Pour scotch I don't drink. Stand at the window watching rain turn the city into something distant and unreachable.
Somewhere out there, she's breathing. Living. Moving through a world that doesn't include me.
I go back to the kitchen. Move her coffee mug from the cabinet to the drying rack.
And leave it there.