Black Ties and White Lies(111)

I smile, tracing over the looping font of the words Greetings From the Hamptons. Tucked into a drawer at my apartment, I still have the sketch of this very mug. I can’t believe Beck has kept these things all this time.

I can’t believe he’s loved me all this time.

He’s loved me far longer than I’ve loved him, but it doesn’t change the fact that now, my heart is forever his. I can’t imagine it ever belonging to anyone else. I don’t want it to. For the rest of my life, I want him and only him. I don’t care how we started, all I care about is how we end. Or how we never end.

Now I just have to wait until he’s back to tell him.

And I know exactly how I want to do it.

He’s gone to great, elaborate lengths to have me. Now, it’s my turn.





I’ve been in boardrooms with some of the most intimidating people in the world, and I’ve never felt the kind of pressure I do right now. Stepping into the penthouse, knowing Margo is somewhere in here ready to either crush my heart or help heal it, has me riddled with anxiety.

I’m ready to lay it all out on the line for her, but I can admit to myself that I’m terrified none of it will be enough. What if she can’t get past the lies I told her to get her here? I’d thought I was telling small white lies that wouldn’t make a difference, but white lie after white lie has piled up. What if that isn’t something she’ll get past?

“Margo?” I yell into the silent space. There’s no sign of her anywhere. The place has been immaculately kept. I can’t help the fear that bubbles in my chest that wonders if she’s left. Ezra had told me she’d been here in my absence, but what if she’d snuck past him to get away.

My throat feels itchy as I take the stairs to her room two at a time. I wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow, but I couldn’t waste another second. When she’d texted me that we needed to talk as soon as I got back, there was no way I could stay in San Jose another second longer.

Plus, I had company business to attend there—and personal business. Both were done. I made the deal, and I made sure that Carter won’t ever be bothering Margo or I ever again.

Now I just have to make sure Margo wants to even stay with me, or if she wants to say fuck you to me and our entire family and leave for good.

I’m worried that’s exactly what she’s done when I find her room empty. I race into her closet, some tension leaving my body when I find her belongings all still tucked neatly inside.

Searching the rest of the upstairs, I retreat back downstairs. I hadn’t checked the bedroom we shared because I figured she wasn’t sleeping there. But maybe in my absence she’d decided she liked it better.

If that’s the case and she does end up leaving me, I hope the sheets still smell like her. That I can pretend that her warm body is nestled into mine as I mourn what her and I could’ve been if I hadn’t told her lies.

I’m about to walk into the bedroom when I hear music wafting out from my former office. I stop, wondering if that’s where she’s been hiding. My heart picks up pace at the thought. Because if Margo is in there, it means she’s found the last secret I’d been keeping from her.

It wasn’t always supposed to stay a secret. I’d intended it to be a surprise one day, but not until I knew she was mine. Not for fake, but for real.

If I’ve been taught anything the last few days, it’s that even the most carefully laid plans can backfire. I hesitantly open the door, my suspicions confirmed when my eyes land on Margo working intently on something at a desk in front of the windows.

Even as I step into the room and close the door behind me, she doesn’t look up. The music is too loud. She’s too entranced with whatever she’s working on to notice me. I’d give anything to close the distance between our bodies and bring her into my arms. I want to know what she’s working on, what’s got her so inspired that she hasn’t answered any of my phone calls.

I use her being distracted to my advantage. I lean against one of the pillars, watching her in awe as she works hard at the task in front of her. She shades and erases at the project in front of her. The canvas she works on is massive, far larger than the sketchbook I normally see her work in.

It must be over ten minutes by the time she looks up, the few songs that have skipped by telling me I’ve been watching her for a while. She jumps, almost falling out of her seat when she notices me.

She picks up the speaker system’s remote, turning off the music in the room. In the silence, her whispered, “Beck,” comes out loud and clear.

I’m disarmed by how beautiful she looks. Margo wears one of my dress shirts, the fabric falling to her mid-thigh. She’s got her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, tendrils of hair spilling out of it. She’s tied a scarf around the top of her head, attempting to keep the flyaways at bay. It doesn’t quite work the way she’s expected. Her hair still looks a mess, but she’s never looked more beautiful.

“I thought you got home tomorrow.” The pencil she was holding drops onto the table. When I take a few steps closer to her, she stands up, blocking my view from whatever she’s been working on.

My heart hammers in my chest, threatening to beat right out of me from nerves. I’m hopeful. Maybe too much at the sight of seeing her still here. Seeing her wear my clothes, I can’t help but let myself hope this is her actually staying. Maybe this is her forgiving me.