Chapter 26
Margot
I type: She stays. Then I delete it. Type: She leaves. Delete.
My phone sits face-down on the table. Seventeen missed calls. Thirty-two texts. I haven't opened them.
I save both documents. Close the laptop. Stare at the ceiling while scales drift down through plaster and old wood.
Humiliated. That's the word. Not heartbroken. Not betrayed. The contract was clear - no promises, no guarantees, compensation for services rendered.
For believing it could be more. For letting myself forget the elevator incident, the clinical terms, the way he called me disposable before correcting himself to replaceable.
For thinking what I shared meant something.
For letting his hand at the small of my back feel safe instead of staged.
For reading poetry into pragmatism.
I drag myself to the shower where the water pressure sputters, then steadies. I stand under spray that never quite gets hot enough, washing away a week of hiding.
The theater manager's email arrived yesterday: We need to talk about your production funding.
Words that translate to: The sponsors who were covering additional costs beyond your deposit are reconsidering.
***
I meet David at the theater rental office at two. He's waiting in the lobby, holding the folder I recognize. The folder with production budgets and sponsor commitments.
"Three of the corporate sponsors are pulling out," he says as soon as we've settled into the conference room chairs. "Said something about not wanting to be associated with controversy."
My stomach drops. "Controversy."
"Your name's been in the news." He says it without judgment. "Not the kind of headlines that make corporate donors comfortable about putting their logos on playbills."
Not the rates this time. The association itself.
Heat climbs my neck. The leaked contract. The speculation. Manhattan's Most Eligible Bachelor's Mystery Woman. I stopped reading after the third article compared me to every starlet he'd dated.
"I'm sorry." The words scrape my throat. "I never wanted…"
"You're not responsible for other people's garbage." He opens the folder. "We have to deal with the fallout."
Numbers swim before my eyes. Red ink. Shortfalls. The costume budget - slashed. The set design - scaled back. The lighting package we needed? Questionable.
"Your deposit secures the theater space and basic tech," he says. "That's locked in. The production will happen. What's at risk is everything that makes it professional instead of bare-bones."
My hands curl into fists against my thighs. "Can I cover the difference? From the contract money?"
"We're talking good money here." He closes the folder. "There are other options - community arts grants, individual donors. Take the weekend. Regroup. We'll tackle this Monday."
"The kids' workshop?"
"Solid. That donor's funding came through for the full year."
Relief floods through me. At least that's secure.
"The play will happen," I say. It's not a question.
"I know it will." He stands. "You're resourceful."
I nod and make it to the hallway before tears prick my eyes.
***
"- and now the sponsors are pulling funding because my name is controversial." I push a fry around my plate. "Three of them. Gone."
Talia sets down her glass. "Then we fight back."
We're at our usual dive bar, the kind of place where five o'clock feels reasonable. She'd found me here an hour ago, already nursing water, already going in circles.
"How? I can't un-leak a contract. Can't un-date a billionaire. Can't erase…" I stop. Breathe. "Whatever that was."
"No. You can't." She drums her perfect nails against the table. "So you fight back with the only thing that's ever saved you."
"My sparkling personality?"
"Your writing." She leans forward. "You're a playwright, Margot. You take pain and transform it into something people pay to see. So transform this."
"I am transforming it. I've been writing for three days straight." My throat tightens. "New scenes. New ideas. Material that's too raw to use anywhere. It's helping me process. Maybe someday it becomes something real."
"Good. Keep going." Her eyes flash. "Not in your current play - that story's already set. In the next one. In the work that comes after this nightmare ends."
The words land somewhere deep. Settle.
"I don't know if there will be a next one," I admit. "If this production tanks because of scandal…"
"Then you write anyway. Because that's who you are." She takes a fry from my plate. "You've been hiding all week. Writing in circles around the real problem."
"What's the real problem?"
"That you're hurt. That you let yourself hope for something real and got reminded why hope's dangerous." She pauses. "That maybe you're also angry at yourself for shutting down instead of fighting back."
My throat tightens. "He didn't trust me."
"Nope."
"So why do I have this gnawing sensation that I'm the one who messed this up?"
Talia's expression softens. "Because you walked away without explaining. Because you disappeared." She reaches across the table, squeezes my hand. "And because maybe, maybe deep down, you miss him. Even though he's an ass who doesn't deserve you."
I pull my hand back. Wrap both around the shot glass.
"I can't miss him. That's not… we weren't…"
"You were something." Her voice gentles. "Maybe it started as a contract. Somewhere along the way it became more. For both of you."
"Have you read any of his messages?"
"No."
"Margot…"
***
Thursday late afternoon finds me at the coffee shop three blocks from my apartment. Talia sits across from me, laptop open, running damage control on some corporate crisis I'm only half-listening to.
My phone buzzes. Text notification.
From: Everett Lockwood Subject: Not Business
My heart stutters. Talia glances up, catches my expression.
"What?"
"He sent something."
"Open it."
The message contains an attachment: For Margot - A Play in One Act.pdf
I download it. Open it. Read.
It's short. A knight lost in darkness, convinced he's beyond saving. A princess with a lantern who refuses to let him disappear. Dialogue that cuts. Stage directions that ache.
It's terrible. Melodramatic. Overwrought.
It's also the most beautiful thing I've ever read.
Talia leans over. Reads over my shoulder. "Holy hell."
My vision blurs. I blink fast. Swallow hard.
I didn't know you could write.
Send.
I smile. And I can't help myself: Who said you could call yourself a knight?
I'm typing a response when an email arrives. Different sender. Anonymous Gmail address.
Subject: Thought you should see this.
Something cold slides down my spine.
We girls have to stick together. No one should have their name ruined over someone else's ambition. Attached is proof of who leaked your contract. Do with it what you will.
Below, a video file.
I click play.
Security footage. Date-stamped two weeks ago. A conference room at Lockwood Industries. Two men in expensive suits. One I recognize. Grant Sutherland, a board member Everett mentioned once. The other unfamiliar.
Audio crackles to life:
"You're sure about this?"
"Absolutely. Leak the contract, make it look personal. The board will question his judgment. We position you as the stable choice, and when the merger implodes -"
"I step in as lead negotiator."
"Exactly. By the time Lockwood figures out who leaked it, the damage is done. He looks unstable. A CEO who can't control his personal life, let alone a billion-dollar deal."
The video ends.
Silence roars in my ears.
Talia grabs my wrist. "Breathe. What are you going to do?"
What am I going to do?
We need to talk.
Hit send.
And wait for the world to start again.