Chapter 36
Everett
The car glides through the Paris streets, and I watch Margot press her palm against the window, like a child discovering magic, a woman seeing possibility. Light filters through centuries-old architecture, highlighting every storied space.
The flower vendors arrange their stock with the precision of architects.
"There." I lean closer, my shoulder brushing hers. "The Arc de Triomphe. We'll come back here."
Her head turns toward me, eyes bright. "And the Place de la Concorde and the park at the end?"
"Les Jardin. The same." My chest warms at her recognition. She's done her homework. Read about Paris. Prepared herself for a city she's never seen.
"And that café?" She points to a corner establishment with red awnings. "Is that where Hemingway wrote?"
"Different café. Similar overpriced coffee." The comment earns me her best laugh, bright and unguarded. "The real literary haunts are further left. Much smaller. Less polished."
"You've been to them?"
"Years ago." The memory surfaces. Columbia semester abroad, nights spent in cramped bars debating philosophy over cheap wine. Before the company. Before responsibility became part of my life. "I was younger. More romantic about Paris."
Her gaze searches my face. "And now?"
"Now I appreciate its approach to business." I gesture toward the organized chaos of boulevards. "Romance is secondary to infrastructure."
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
I consider the Seine glittering beyond the windshield. "Maybe."
She looks at me, a small, satisfied smile, and turns back to the window. The smile lingers. I catch it reflected in the glass.
The car turns onto Pont Neuf. Water sparkles below, tourist boats cutting white lines through green-gray current. Margot goes quiet, absorbing. I give her the silence. Let the city speak for itself.
We cross into the Right Bank. The Cheval Blanc rises ahead, contemporary lines softened by Parisian elegance, nestled between history and modernism.
"We're here?" Margot's voice carries disbelief.
"We're here."
The car pulls to the entrance. The doormen materialize, efficient, discreet, practiced at handling arrivals without creating spectacle.
***
The suite occupies the top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Paris rooftops and the river beyond.
Margot crosses directly to the terrace doors. Presses her palms flat against the glass. Her reflection catches in the window - wonder written across her features, shoulders dropping as tension releases.
"Everett." My name comes out breathless. "This is…"
"Excessive?"
"I was going to say perfect."
The word lands differently than she intends. Perfect. Not the suite. The moment. Us here together, on the other side of the Atlantic, in a city neither of us can claim as home.
I clear my throat and cross to the desk. Previously sent documents wait, along with merger schedules and contact information. And then to the more interesting paperwork — restaurant recommendations the concierge prepared.
Business. Focus on business.
"You know the schedule." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. I soften it. "The Hartwell delegation is thorough. Every clause is getting last-minute scrutiny."
"I know." She turns from the window. "The merger. Your company's depending on this closing." Her gaze holds mine. "I'm not expecting you to play tour guide."
Relief and disappointment war in my chest. I choose relief. "Good. That's… that's good."
"Besides." She gestures toward her bag, where I know her laptop waits. "I have work too. Now with the play funding comes actual production planning. Casting schedules. Technical requirements. Budget allocation. It's…" She stops, a smile breaking across her face. "It's real work. Finally."
Pride surges through me, warm and foreign. "You deserve it."
"I earned it."
"You did."
I force my attention back to the folders. "The hotel has a spa. Full service. I've made arrangements. Your name is on file. Whatever you want, whenever you want it."
"I don't need…"
"And if you want to explore the city, shop, see museums? The concierge will arrange a car. Drivers who know Paris. No cost. Bills come directly here."
Her expression shifts. Guarded. "You know that's not why I'm here."
The words hit harder than they should. I set down the folder, meet her gaze. "I know."
"I didn't come to Paris to spend your money or get pampered while you work."
"I know," I repeat. Step closer, closing the distance she created. "But promise me something."
"What?"
"Go find one special outfit." The request sounds ridiculous spoken aloud. I push through. "For when I close the deal. When we celebrate. Something that makes you feel…" I search for the right word. "Powerful."
Understanding softens her features. "Like armor."
"Exactly."
She considers. A smile curves her lips. "One outfit. For celebration purposes only."
"Deal."
My phone buzzes. I glance at the message. The car is waiting downstairs. The Hartwell team assembled early. It's time to move.
"I have to go." Words I didn't think I would need to say this soon. I don't want to leave her here. Don't want to walk away from this suite, this woman, this moment that feels suspended outside regular time.
Margot reads my hesitation. "Go close your deal."
"You'll be…"
"I'll be fine." She crosses to me, rises on her toes, presses a kiss to my jaw. Brief. Warm. Gone before I can respond. "Go make those Hartwell people realize how lucky they are."
Heat spreads from where her lips touched. I resist the urge to pull her back, to kiss her properly, to say the things building behind my teeth.
Instead, I grab my briefcase. "Text me if you need anything."
"Everett." She catches my hand, squeezes. "I mean it. Go. I have work. I have Paris. I'll survive your absence."
The reassurance doesn't help.
I leave anyway.
***
Margot
The first days establish a pattern. I work mornings. I miss him afternoons. By day three, the pattern itself becomes the problem.
I've revised that scene twice. Answered every email.
Booked massages I don't entirely need. Read three chapters of a novel I'm not enjoying.
The suite feels like a very beautiful waiting room.
Everett texts in brief bursts between meetings, returns past midnight smelling like conference rooms and exhaustion.
I catch myself checking my phone every ten minutes.
This is ridiculous. I'm in Paris.
Carrie Bradshaw would be disappointed.
Actually, Carrie Bradshaw would put on heels and explore the city. She'd find a café, order wine, strike up conversations with strangers. She'd make Paris work for her instead of waiting for a man to finish business meetings.
The thought propels me off the bed.
I change into jeans and a sweater. Pull my hair into something presentable. Grab my phone.
The concierge desk in the lobby glows warm and welcoming. A woman in her forties looks up as I approach, her smile professional.
"Mademoiselle Bennett. How may I help you?"
"I'd like to go shopping." The words feel foreign. I'm not a shopper. Never have been. But Everett asked me to find one special outfit, and sitting in the suite isn't accomplishing that. "Mr. Lockwood mentioned you could arrange a car?"
"Of course." She pulls out a tablet, taps efficiently. "What type of shopping interests you? High fashion? Contemporary? Vintage?"
I hesitate. What do I want? Not the architectural gowns from Bergdorf's. Not haute couture. Not starlet glamour or society wife perfection.
"Something elegant," I say slowly. "Understated. Special occasion, but not…" I search for the word. "Not costume."
Understanding lights her eyes. "I know exactly where to send you."
***
The boutique sits tucked on a quiet street in the Marais, a small storefront with an elegant window display, the kind of place you'd walk past unless you knew to look.
The driver opens my door. "I will wait here, mademoiselle."
Inside, the space glows intimate and warm. Exposed brick with violet velvet settees. Racks of clothing arranged by color rather than style, with jewel tones flowing into neutrals, metallics catching light near the back.
A woman approaches, impossibly elegant in a sleek black dress and a genuine smile. "Bonjour. Welcome."
"Hi. The concierge at Cheval Blanc sent me?"
"Ah, yes. Mademoiselle Bennett." She gestures toward the seating area. "Please. Sit. Tell me what brings you here."
I sink onto a velvet settee. "I need something for a celebration. A special occasion. Something that feels…" I stop. "Powerful. But not attention-seeking."
She nods slowly, studying me with an assessing gaze that doesn't feel invasive. "You have beautiful coloring. What event is this for?"
"A business dinner. My…" I pause. What is Everett? "My partner is closing an important deal. I want to look appropriate. Elegant. Like I belong there."
"You already belong there, chérie." Her voice is kind. "The clothing simply helps you remember." She stands. "Let me pull some options."
She disappears into the back and returns with an assistant carrying armfuls of fabric. Dresses in every cut and color imaginable.
I try them on one by one.
A black cocktail dress - too severe. A burgundy wrap dress - too corporate. A navy column gown - too understated, ironically. A silver sheath - too flashy.
Each one is beautiful. Well-made. Expensive. None of them feels right.
I emerge from the dressing room in dress number seven in an emerald green silk that will photograph beautifully but makes me feel like I'm playing dress-up.
The manager studies me, head tilted. "No."
"No?"
"These are all wrong for you." She crosses her arms, considering. "Tell me. What is your passion?"
The question catches me off-guard. "My passion?"
"Yes. What makes you come alive? What do you do when no one is watching?"
"I…" The answer surfaces immediately. "Theatre. I'm a playwright. I write. I direct. I…" My chest warms. "I work with children. Teaching them to find their voices through performance."
Her expression transforms — delight replacing her professional assessment. She turns, whispers something rapid-fire French to her assistant.
The assistant disappears into the back.
"One moment," the manager says. "I have something."
Her assistant returns minutes later carrying a garment bag. She unzips it with ceremony.
My breath catches.
Gold silk palazzo pants that flow like liquid. A matching jacket — tailored, elegant, structured enough to feel formal. A camisole in deeper bronze, the color of sunset on the Seine.
"Try this," she says. "This is you."
I take the pieces into the dressing room. Slip into the pants. They pool around my feet, the hem kissing the floor. The camisole drapes perfectly, sophisticated without being revealing. The jacket transforms everything, adding structure, polish, fluidity and flow.
I turn toward the mirror.
Oh.
The woman staring back isn't playing dress-up. She's confident. Put-together. The kind of woman who closes theatre deals and attends business dinners and belongs in suites overlooking the Seine.
The gold catches light without screaming for attention. The cut is elegant without being fussy. The overall effect is…
Perfect.
I emerge from the dressing room. The manager's smile tells me she already knows.
"Yes?" she asks.
"Yes," I breathe.
"This is theatre," she says, gesturing to the outfit. "Drama without costume. Presence without pretense. You wear this, and people see you. Not the clothing. You."
Exactly what I needed.
I wait while tailoring finishes a minor adjustment. Then watch as the shopping transcends commerce — my new silk outfit presented in its own garment bag with the kind of ceremony only the French could make feel entirely natural.
I thank her profusely. She waves off my gratitude with Gallic elegance.
"Enjoy your celebration, chérie. You've earned it."
***
The car glides back toward the hotel. The Paris afternoon light slants through windows, painting everything amber. I lean back against leather seats, feeling lighter than I have in days.
I found it. The armor. The celebration outfit. The thing that will make me feel powerful when Everett closes his deal and we toast to futures neither of us has named yet.
My phone buzzes.
Everett's name lights the screen.
Last details almost ironed out. Plan to celebrate tonight!
My heart does a flip, a leap, a dance I can't control.
Tonight. He's coming back tonight. Not past midnight. Not exhausted and barely awake. Tonight, we celebrate.
I stare at the screen, reading his words again, and realize something has been changing, slowly, certainly. It finished as I was trying on gold silk and finding my reflection.
I'm not waiting anymore.
I'm ready.