Chapter 37
Margot
Ihear him in the hallway and open the door.
He sees me and goes completely still.
His gaze travels from my face down the length of gold silk to my bare feet, then back up. Slow. Deliberate. Heat follows in its wake.
"That's..." He stops. Swallows. "You're stunning."
The words land soft against my chest. I lean against the doorframe, letting myself drink him in. He's here. That's the whole of it.
"Hi," I say.
"Hi." His mouth curves. "Sorry. Talks ran longer than I thought."
"Done?"
"Done. Give me thirty minutes to shower and change, or I'll offend everyone at dinner with my current state." He gestures at himself - the wrinkled shirt, five o'clock shadow darkening his jaw. "Unless you want to eat here? Order in?"
"No." The answer comes immediate. "I want to go out and see Paris with you. Actually experience the city instead of watching it through windows."
His expression softens. "Thirty minutes. I promise."
"Take your time." I grab my clutch from the console table, slip into the heels I left by the door. "I'll go down to the lobby. I'll have a drink at the bar while I wait."
"You don't have to…"
"I want to." I step past him into the hallway. "I've felt a little cooped up. I need air. People. The world."
He studies me for a beat, something warm flickering across his face. "Okay. I'll meet you down there."
The lobby pulses with life. Couples drift through the marble and gold, trailing expensive perfume and laughter.
I settle at the dark wood bar. The crystal glasses catch the light from overhead chandeliers, and I order champagne.
The bartender pours with practiced style and sets the flute before me with a small bow.
I sip. The tiny bubbles burst across my tongue, dry and crisp and perfect.
To my left, an older couple sits close together, their hands intertwined on the bar.
Silver wedding bands catch light. The woman says something in rapid French.
The man laughs, presses a kiss to her temple.
Fifty years together, maybe more. The ease between them speaks of decades, of choosing each other every single day.
To my right, young lovers lean into each other, oblivious to everything except the small universe they've created.
Early twenties, maybe. Backpacks at their feet.
The girl wears a ring on her right hand.
A promise? A commitment? They share bites of chocolate cake, feeding each other with sticky fingers and private smiles.
All these lives. All these versions of what love becomes.
"First time in Paris?"
I glance at the woman who's settled onto the stool beside me. Mid-fifties, expensive suit, pearls at her throat. American accent, East Coast money.
"First time," I confirm.
"Business or pleasure?"
"Both." The truth. "My partner's here for meetings. I'm here for..." What am I here for? "Everything else."
She smiles, knowing. She lifts her glass — a whiskey, neat. "Cheers to great ones."
I clink my flute against her tumbler. "Cheers."
She spots someone across the room and stands, gathering her clutch. "Enjoy your evening."
She disappears into the lobby flow, leaving me alone with my champagne and thoughts.
I watch couples come and go. The old married pair leaves, still holding hands. The young lovers abandon their cake, too wrapped up in each other to care about dessert. A new couple arrives — middle-aged, comfortable, laughing about something only they understand.
My phone buzzes. Text from Everett: Five more minutes. Sorry.
I type back: Take your time. I'm entertaining myself.
His response comes immediately: Doing what?
People watching. Character research.
Find any good material?
All of it. Paris is full of stories.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Good. You can tell me over dinner.
I set the phone down, finish my champagne. The bartender refills without asking. I sip slower this time, savoring every drop.
A shadow falls across my peripheral vision. I turn.
Everett stands beside me, transformed. Charcoal suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, hair still damp from the shower. Clean-shaven, with that scent that is so him, now so familiar - both familiar and devastating.
In his hands, a small bouquet. Soft peach roses, maybe a dozen, wrapped in brown paper and tied with silk ribbon. The blooms glow against the dim bar lighting, delicate and perfect.
"Juliet Roses," he says, offering them. "The florist told me they're the most expensive roses ever developed. Took fifteen years to breed." His mouth curves. "Seemed appropriate for a playwright."
Romeo and Juliet. The reference lands warm against my chest. I take the bouquet, press my face to the petals. They smell like apricots and honey, soft and complex.
"They're beautiful." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Thank you."
He settles onto the stool beside me, signals the bartender. Scotch. We sit in comfortable silence while the drink arrives, while he takes his first sip and exhales.
"Better?" I ask.
"Much." He turns to face me, one elbow on the bar. "Tell me about your day. The shopping. The writing. All of it."
So I do. I tell him about the Marais boutique, the manager who understood, the moment I saw myself in gold silk and recognized armor.
I tell him about the afternoon spent revising my play, about dialogue that finally clicked into place.
About sitting on the terrace watching the city and thinking about stories, about the way Paris makes everything feel possible.
He listens. Really listens. Asks questions. Laughs at the right moments. His attention wraps around me, complete and unwavering.
"Your turn," I say when I run out of words. "How were the meetings?"
He swirls scotch in his glass, watching amber liquid catch light. "Productive. Exhausting. The usual merger dance. Everyone protecting their territory while pretending to collaborate."
"Did you win?"
A smile tugs at his mouth. "I don't lose."
"Confident."
"Accurate." He takes another sip. "There was one victory today. Small, maybe. No one else will notice. Something only I could have forged."
I wait. He considers his words.
"The Hartwell CEO, that conservative, traditional, suspicious of anything that looks risky." He meets my eyes. "Remembered you from the Blackwell Gala. He asked about you. About us. Whether you'd be at the final signing tomorrow."
My breath catches. "What did you tell him?"
"That you're the reason I remember what matters beyond spreadsheets and strategy." His voice drops lower. "That you reminded me what it means to build something real instead of hiding behind transactions."
Heat climbs my spine. I reach for my champagne, needing something to do with my hands.
"He approved of that answer?" I manage.
"He said I was a lucky man." Everett's gaze holds mine. "He's right."
The air between us charges. I want to climb across the space separating us, press my mouth to his, taste scotch and truth on his tongue.
"We should go," he says, voice rough. "Before I forget we're in a public lobby."
"Where are we going?"
"Dinner. A small place a colleague recommended. Amazing food, apparently." He finishes his scotch, stands, offers his hand. "Unless you want a car? It's about a fifteen-minute walk."
"Walk." I slide my palm into his, let him pull me up. "I want to see Paris on foot."
We exit the hotel into evening air. Cool, carrying the scent of river water and fresh bread from a nearby boulangerie. Streetlights glow warmly. The city hums with life, with possibility, with romance that seeps from every cobblestone.
Everett keeps my hand in his as we navigate sidewalks. Our fingers intertwined, warm and sure. We don't talk. Don't need to. Paris fills the silence with distant music, conversation spilling from cafés, the Seine rushing somewhere nearby.
"See that?" He gestures ahead to where a bridge arches across the river, ornate railings glistening under the moonlight. "Pont des Arts."
I glance at him. "I've heard of it."
"Have you?" His tone carries amusement. "Let's see it anyway."
We step onto the bridge. Below us, the Seine flows dark and eternal. Boats glide past, their lights reflecting on water. The Eiffel Tower rises in the distance, beginning its evening light show. Paris spreads out in every direction, beautiful, ancient, alive.
Everett stops at the bridge's center and releases my hand.
I turn to face him. "What?"
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out something small, metallic. An antique lock, brass tarnished with age, with a key inserted in its mechanism. The metal catches the streetlight, glowing warm against his palm.
"I couldn't think of a more fitting place to give this to you." His voice carries rough edges, vulnerability bleeding through control. "You are the key to my heart, Margot."
Tears start to prick my eyes. I press my lips together, holding everything in.
"I was locked." He takes a step closer. "Afraid to open. Convinced love was something I'd lost the right to after Alicia. After failing her. After focusing on work over everything else until there was nothing left except empty rooms and photographs of a woman I couldn't save."
A tear slips free. I don't wipe it away.
"Then you came into my life." Another step.
Close enough to see the emotion in those gray eyes.
"You made me realize everything I was missing.
Made me want things I'd buried. Made me understand that loving someone never leaves you.
That opening the lock doesn't guarantee loss.
" He holds up the key, the lock. "You are the key to my lock.
The only person who could open what I'd sealed shut. "
He takes my hands. The metal presses between our palms, warm from his skin. His thumbs stroke my knuckles, gentle and sure.
"My Fair Lady. Will you consider this grumpy, broken-down old bachelor who wants to be your knight in shining armor? This man who would like nothing more than to discover the world outside the forest with you?"
Everything of the past months wells to the surface.
The anger. The fear. The moments we shared.
His trust. The doubts. The disappointment.
The hope. Tears are gently welling in my eyes, messy moments of time together.
But I'm smiling- wide and helpless and more certain than I've ever been about anything.
I look up into his eyes. Gray depths swimming with hope, with fear, with love he's finally brave enough to name.
"I can't think of a better ending to any play than this moment, right now," I whisper.
"Is that a yes?"
"That's a yes." The words come out strong, clear, no hesitation. "Yes to you. Yes to us. Yes to everything we're going to build together."
His exhale shakes. Relief and joy and something too big for words. He pulls me close, one hand cupping my face, thumb brushing away tears. The lock and key press between us, caught between our bodies.
"I love you," he says. Simple. Honest. The truth he's been circling for months.
"I love your fire and your spine and the way you refuse to apologize for taking up space.
I love that you see people. Really see them, and create worlds on paper that matter.
I love that you chose me when you could have walked away. "
"I love you too." The confession spills free, easy now that the lock is open.
"I love your grumpy exterior and the soft center you hide from everyone except me.
I love that you're learning the difference between protecting and possessing.
I love that you brought me to Paris and gave me space to find myself while you worked.
I love that you're here now, offering me a key instead of a cage. "
He kisses me. Soft at first, then deeper, his hand sliding into my hair, tilting my head to the angle he wants.
I rise on my toes, press closer, taste scotch and certainty on his tongue.
The city fades. The bridge, the river, the tourists snapping photos - all of it disappears until there's only him, only us, only this moment suspended between past and future.
When we break apart, breathless and flushed, he rests his forehead against mine.
"I'm going to be very practical now," he murmurs, holding up the lock. "I thought let's make it official and put it on the railing."
"Yes?"
"The tradition." His smile curves against my temple. "Is no more. They removed all the locks and now it is illegal. They will remove it."
"Well, that's disappointing."
"So, my playwright? What ending would you like to write for us now?" We move to the railing. The key dangles from his fingers.
"It's my key to your heart?" I ask.
He nods. I close my hand over his. I look at him with a twinkle, and he responds with an even bigger smile back. Together, we toss the key into the Seine.
It arcs through the air, catching light for one perfect moment before splashing into the water below. The lock stays in my hand.
Everett pulls me into his arms. I press my face against his chest, breathing him in.
"Hungry?" he asks after a while.
I laugh against his shirt. "Starving."
"Good." He kisses the top of my head. "Let's go feed my fiancée."
Fiancée. The word sinks in, warm and real and mine.
We leave the bridge hand in hand, the lock with us. Our proof. Of love. Of choice. Of two people who found each other in an elevator and built something neither expected.
Paris glows around us, the city of light living up to its name. Somewhere ahead, dinner waits. Tomorrow, the merger signs. After that … everything.
Tonight, we're just two people walking through Paris, carrying Juliet Roses and a future neither of us saw coming.
The curtain hasn't fallen yet.
The best scenes are still ahead.
***