Chapter 29
Margot
The elevator doors slide shut as we enter it alone. The same elevator. Everything different.
His hand finds mine in the narrow space between our bodies. A quick squeeze. Secret.
I squeeze back.
We're thick as thieves now. Co-conspirators.
The doors open. He drops my hand. His expression shifts to CEO neutral. Mine mirrors his. Professional. Distant. Nothing to see here.
His assistant glances up. "Mr. Lockwood. Ms. Bennett. Good morning."
"Morning," we chorus, voices carefully separate.
I head to my desk on the PR department side of the floor. Everett continues to his corner office. To anyone watching, we're employer and employee. Contract date. Nothing more.
Under the surface, we're planning a takedown.
***
Tuesday morning I linger by the break room, coffee in hand, waiting for the right moment. Jessica from accounting appears, juggling files and a travel mug.
"Hey, Margot." She smiles, genuine. "How are you holding up?"
"Better now." I lean against the counter, casual. "Actually settling into a routine. Everett's been really accommodating about everything."
"Everett?" Her eyebrows lift. "You call him Everett?"
Heat climbs my neck. Perfect. "I mean, Mr. Lockwood. We've been working closely on the merger prep. Getting ready for events. You know how it is."
"I really don't." She grins. "But good for you. He's intense."
"He is." I lower my voice, glancing around. "Between you and me? I'm worried about him. He's been stressed about some contract negotiations. Keeps mentioning something about valuations or something? I don't understand half of what he's talking about."
"Really? Merger problems?"
"I don't know. He was on the phone late Sunday, pacing. Sounded serious." I shrug, feigning ignorance. "Probably nothing. I shouldn't have said anything."
"No, no. I'm glad you did." She shifts her files.
She hurries off. I count to ten, then pour fresh coffee and return to my desk.
The rumor will spread. Jessica's efficient. Connected. By lunch, half the building will be speculating about phantom merger messes that don't exist.
Perhaps even Grant Sutherland will hear the whispers.
My phone buzzes. Text from Everett.
Well played.
I hide my smile behind my mug. Word must be out.
Wednesday evening, Everett appears at my desk as the floor empties. His expression neutral, professional. Voice low enough only I hear.
"I'll talk with you later, but you've got a rehearsal tonight. In case you stay at your place, everything is confirmed. The car will pick you up at one at your apartment."
My stomach flips. "Got it."
"Driver's name is Horace. He'll wait 'til you come out."
"Okay."
His gaze holds mine. Something passes between us - support, worry, trust. "You don't have to do this."
"I want to."
"If she's cruel…"
"I've handled worse." I meet his eyes. "I can handle her."
His jaw tightens. Releases. "I have no doubt."
He walks away. I watch him go, heart pounding against my ribs.
Tomorrow. The performance begins tomorrow.
***
Thursday morning arrives cold and bright. I dress carefully. My take on club appropriate - a neutral sweater, tailored pants, understated jewelry. Nothing flashy. Nothing that screams "doesn't belong." The goal is to blend, observe, play the role.
The car appears at one sharp. Horace opens the door, professional and warm. "Ms. Bennett. Good afternoon."
"Hi, Horace. Thanks for this."
"My pleasure. Mr. Lockwood said to take good care of you."
The drive from Midtown to the club takes longer than I thought. I watch the city shift around us, the glass towers giving way to tree-lined streets, boutiques replacing bodegas, money making itself visible in the architecture and space.
Horace pulls up to a building that whispers wealth. No ostentatious signs. No need. Everyone who belongs here already knows.
"I'll be waiting right here when you're ready," Horace says.
I step out. Marble steps and brass fixtures. The doorman who nods like he's been expecting me.
"Ms. Bennett. Welcome. Your guest pass is ready at the desk."
A woman at the reception desk smiles. "Ms. Bennett. Mr. Lockwood arranged your access. Spa services are on the third floor. The elevator is to your left."
"Thank you."
I turn. The elevator beckons. My pulse quickens.
You're a theater person, I remind myself. Capable of anything. Right now, anything is a Tony-winning performance.
I press the button. The doors open.
A voice behind me. "First time?"
I turn. An older woman stands there, early seventies perhaps, elegant in the way only money and taste combined can achieve. Silver hair swept into a low chignon. Eyes sharp and kind at once.
"That obvious?" I manage a smile.
"Only to someone who remembers her own first day." She gestures to the elevator. "May I?"
We step inside together. She presses three.
"The spa can be overwhelming at first," she says. "All the silence and ritual. I'm Vivienne, by the way. Most people call me Vivi."
"Margot." I shake her offered hand.
"Lovely to meet you, Margot. Guest of a member?"
"Yes. A friend of mine thought I could use some relaxation." Not a lie. Not quite the truth.
"Well, you've come to the right place. The massage therapists here are magicians." The elevator opens. She steps out, gestures for me to follow. "The spa reception is down this hall. Locker rooms to the right. The relaxation lounge is straight ahead."
We walk together along the softly lit hallway, the scent of eucalyptus drifting from somewhere unseen.
"Are you in the city?" Vivi asks.
"Brooklyn. But I work in Manhattan."
"Ah. The best of both worlds." She smiles. "What do you do, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I'm a playwright. Well, aspiring. Mostly I work an office job to pay bills."
Her expression lights. "A playwright? How wonderful. I adore theater. The intimacy of it. The immediacy."
My heart lifts. "Me too. There's nothing else quite the same."
"No, there isn't." She stops at a door marked SPA.
"This is your destination. I'm heading to the pool, but…
" She reaches into her bag and produces a card.
Vivienne Montclair. A phone number below.
"I'd love to talk more about theater. And would you mind sharing yours?
I'd love to reach out about tea sometime. "
"Of course." I pull out my phone, as she does hers, and we exchange information.
"I'll be in touch soon, Margot." She tucks her phone away and smiles warmly.
"I'd love that," I say, meaning it.
"Wonderful." She squeezes my arm gently. "Enjoy your afternoon. And don't let the marble intimidate you. Under all the polish, we're all just people."
She disappears down the hall. I tuck her card into my bag and push through the spa door.
The spa reception desk glows with candlelight, soft music, and dim lighting. The sound of water trickling somewhere.
A woman approaches. "Welcome. May I help you?"
"Yes. I'm a guest. Margot Bennett. I'd like to book a massage."
"Of course. Let me pull up your access." She taps a screen. "Ah, yes. You're all set. We have availability in thirty minutes. Swedish or deep tissue?"
"Swedish."
"Perfect. And would you like to add any enhancements? Aromatherapy, hot stones…"
"What's appropriate as a guest?" I keep my voice uncertain. "Do I tip, or is that part of the club fees? Are there things I should be aware of? Club etiquette?"
The receptionist opens her mouth to answer.
"Oh, you poor thing."
The honeyed voice slides over my shoulder. An oddly familiar voice.
I turn.
Looking just like the photo Everett showed me from the club magazine is Mrs. Grant Sutherland, standing in a plush robe, hair wrapped in a towel.
"First time at a club?" she asks, all concern and condescension. "How overwhelming for you."
My stomach tightens. The voice. It's the voice I overheard in the fitting room at Bergdorf's. The voice that called me a paid escort. Said it aloud and with such casual cruelty.
I paste on a grateful smile. "Yes. I'm a little lost."
"Well, let me help." She steps closer, voice dropping to conspiratorial. "First rule is you absolutely tip. Even though you're a guest, it's expected. Twenty percent minimum. Thirty if you want them to remember you for next time."
The receptionist's expression flickers. Barely. A tell.
"Thank you," I say, voice earnest. "That's so helpful. I would have had no idea."
"And avoid the steam room after three," she continues. "That's when the board members use it. Very exclusive. Guests aren't welcome."
I file this away.
"I appreciate the warning," I say.
"Of course. We have to help each other, don't we?" Her smile widens. "Especially when navigating these spaces for the first time. It can be so easy to make mistakes."
The subtext screams. You don't belong here. You'll never belong here.
I meet her eyes and hold her gaze. Let her think she's won.
"You're very kind," I murmur.
"Enjoy your massage, dear." She glides away, satisfaction rolling off her in waves.
The receptionist waits until she's gone, then leans forward. "For the record, gratuity is included in club fees. Even if offered, it is not to be accepted."
"I thought so," I say quietly. "Thank you for clarifying."
Her expression warms. "Of course. Your massage starts in twenty minutes. The locker room is through that door. Here is your locker key. Robes and slippers are provided. Take your time."
I change in the quiet locker room, shedding my clothes for the thick terry cloth robe and slippers. The marble floor radiates warmth beneath my feet. Heated. Nothing by accident, no luxury too small to be included.
My phone buzzes.
How's club life?
I smile. Type back: Marble. So much marble. Do you own stock in a quarry?
Inherited. Grandfather's taste. You surviving?
She found me. Gave terrible advice. I played grateful and clueless.
Perfect. You're perfect.
Heat blooms in my chest. Laying it on thick, Lockwood.
Just the truth, Bennett.
The massage therapist appears. "Ms. Bennett? We're ready for you."
The massage ends too quickly. I surface from it reluctant, relaxed, and loose. The therapist leaves me to dress.
In the locker room, I find Mrs. Sutherland at the vanity. Perfect, unplanned, and propitious.
I settle at the mirror two sinks down and begin fixing my hair.
"How was your massage?" she asks, voice bright.
"Wonderful. Exactly what I needed." I pause, carefully casual. "My gentleman friend has been so stressed. Work things. I don't really understand it all."
Her gaze sharpens in the mirror. "Oh?"
"Contract negotiations. Or is it a merger?" I wave a hand, dismissive. "He talks about it, but I zone out. Business is so boring."
"Merger?" She sets down her lipstick. Full attention now. "Which company?"
"I don't remember the name. Something with an L?" I shrug. "He seems worried about money, though. Keeps mentioning budgets and year end."
Her expression transforms into excitement and hunger. The look of someone who's just been handed a treasure she knows exactly what to do with.
"How interesting," she murmurs.
I finish with my hair and gather my things. "Well, I should go. Thank you again for the advice earlier. So helpful."
"Anytime, dear."
I walk out, down the hall, and into the elevator. The doors close.
My reflection stares back from the polished brass walls. I look composed and calm.
Inside, my heart races.
She took it. Everything she was supposed to take.
I text Everett from the lobby.
Bait's in the water.
Details when you get here.
Horace opens the car door. I slide inside, and the club disappears behind us.
My phone buzzes one more time. Not Everett.
A text from an unknown number.
Margot, this is Vivi Montclair. So lovely to meet you today. Would you be free for tea this weekend? Saturday afternoon, perhaps? I'd love to hear more about your playwriting. — V
I stare at the message.
Vivienne Montclair. Theater lover. Wealthy woman who showed me kindness when she didn't have to. Who wants to talk about my work.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
I'd love to. Saturday works perfectly.
Her response comes fast.
Wonderful! I'll send you the address. Looking forward to it.
The car glides through Manhattan. I lean back against leather seats, watching the city blur past.
We set a trap for Mrs. Sutherland. Check.
I planted false information. Check.
And somehow, unexpectedly, I made a connection with a woman who wants to talk about theater.
Not part of the plan. Not calculated or strategic.
Just... real.
I pull out Vivi's card again. Run my thumb over the embossed letters.
Two invitations. Two different worlds opening.
One a trap.
One a door.
And the curtain's just gone up on Act Three.