Chapter 31
Margot
My coffee has gone cold.
I've been staring at the same paragraph in the same email for twenty minutes. The words don't rearrange themselves into anything useful. Neither do the words from this morning. “Don't mention the trip at the office yet.” Casual, distracted, already halfway out the door before he said it.
I don't know what I'm protecting or why. Or who.
Lisa from scheduling passes my desk on the way to the printer. She pauses, glances at me, then at the cold coffee.
"What's your plan when the merger closes?"
Just that. No group, no circle of women watching me with expressions I can't read. Just the question, dropped like a coin into a still pool.
I don't have an answer. That's the problem.
***
Celeste Park looks up from her desk when I knock and doesn't look surprised.
"Sit down," she says. "I'm not going to give you the PR answer."
I sit. "That obvious?"
"Only to me." She sets down her pen. "I've been watching you both since the gala."
"And?"
"And I've seen that man run this company for six years. I've written statements for three PR crises and two hostile bids." She leans back. "I have never seen him look the way he looks when you walk into a room."
My throat tightens. "Celeste…"
"I'm not finished." She holds up a hand. "I also know what happens when something real gets tangled up in something structural. Power, money, timing. The mess it makes." Her eyes are steady on mine. "What is this to you?"
"I don't know."
"Yes you do."
The precision of it steals my breath.
"What if I get hurt?" I ask.
"Then you get hurt." Her voice doesn't soften exactly, but something in it shifts. "But what if you don't? What if this is the real thing and you walk away because you were too afraid to find out?"
I stare at the edge of her desk. Perfectly organized. Nothing out of place.
"The only wrong choice," she says, "is letting fear decide for you."
***
The rec room at Hamilton Community Theater smells like spray paint and the particular chaos of fourteen children who have opinions about dragon costumes.
Malcolm Reyes is standing by the window.
I wasn't expecting him. I never got back to him after the gala, never confirmed the lunch, never explained why. The sight of him here, in this room, in this part of my life, lands wrong.
He turns, smiling warmly. "Margot. I heard your table read generated some real buzz."
I set the new costumes on the desk. "Word travels."
"I make it my business." He crosses toward me, unhurried. "I know people who have money and nowhere good to put it. I can make them want to put it with you."
Despite everything, the praise warms me. Malcolm was my first mentor. The one who told me my writing mattered when I had no evidence for it.
"The production dates are set," I say. "Spring."
"Good. Which is why I'm here." He leans against the desk, his posture easy and practiced. "I found you a funding source. Private investor. Serious money - cover production, marketing, contingencies. Everything."
Hope moves through me before I can stop it. "Who?"
"Tech money. Made his fortune young, trying to buy his way into the cultural world." Malcolm's tone is light, informational. "He loves having artists at his table. Uses them to signal taste to his guests."
"A silent partner?"
"Not exactly." He waves a hand. "You'd attend his events. Mingle. Talk about your work. You'd be part of his arts portfolio. What he calls his cultural accessories."
The phrase lands and sits there.
Cultural accessories.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you show up, look the part, be visible as someone he supports." His expression doesn't change. "For a woman of your talent and presence, it's nothing."
Nothing. The word he uses for what he's asking me to give.
"How often?"
"Once a month, maybe twice. When he's hosting."
The rec room door opens behind me. The children flood in full of backpacks and voices. Tyler is waving. Emma is already in conflict with someone about the dragon head. Aisha's mother drops her off with a quick hug, mouths thank you to me over her daughter's shoulder.
I turn back to Malcolm.
"I need to think about it."
His eyebrows lift, fractionally. "What's to think about? This solves your funding problem. Gives you freedom to focus on the work."
"Let me think," I say. Firmer this time.
Something shifts under the warmth in his expression. "Sure. Of course." He straightens. "But don't wait too long. He's considering other projects."
He moves toward the door and stops with his hand on the frame. The way he does when there's one more thing he planned to say.
"You know," he says, thoughtful, "when I saw you at that charity gala with Everett Lockwood, I thought there she is.
She's figured out the game." His smile is knowing and something older than kind.
"Which is why I'm surprised you're hesitating.
Attending events for wealthy benefactors, well, you're already doing that.
My client would at least respect you as an artist. Support the work, not just the presence. "
I don't answer.
"Think about it," he says. "Really think."
He leaves.
***
I stand in the hallway while Emma shouts something about a missing wing and Tyler starts beatboxing to fill the silence.
You're already doing this.
My phone buzzes. Text from Everett: Dinner tonight? We should talk.
I stare at the screen.
Talk about what? About why I'm a secret? About whether this is real or convenient? About the distance between don't mention the trip and the way his arm tightened around my waist this morning like I was something he didn't want to lose?
Malcolm's voice. Lisa's question. Celeste's steady gaze.
What's your plan when the merger closes?
I'm standing in the middle of my own story and I still can't tell if I'm the author or the prop.