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Everything is a game to her.
And all is fair in love, war, and workplace politics—as long as she wins.
My music fades away as a text message chime plays. Scrambling for my phone, I pull up my messages—only it isn’t Roman like I’d secretly hoped.
It’s a group text from my boss to all the gallery employees.
BIG NEWS, she writes in all caps. I’m beyond thrilled to share with you all that Halcyon has selected OUR gallery for their exhibit! The event will be invitation-only, so I’d like for you each to contact your respective clients next week and personally extend an invitation so we can put together our guest list. The showcase will be next Friday, August 4th at seven PM. All are required to work that night. NO exceptions! It’s going to be a mad dash to the finish line and a lot of long hours in the week ahead, but if anyone can pull this off, it’s us.
A handful of coworkers write back with enthusiastic, ass-kissing replies, and while I should probably do the same, I’m too stunned to form a comprehendible sentence at the moment.
Out of all the galleries in the city, he chose mine?
Was it intentional?
Did he google me and find out where I work?
Or is it nothing more than a strange coincidence?
I’d ask him myself, but I’m quite certain I’m still the last person he wants to hear from.
While my mind fills with hopeful little reveries about some kind of movie-scene moment where the guy realizes he loves the girl after all and they run into each other’s arms, I’m quickly reminded that “Halcyon” never attends their exhibits.
I don’t imagine he’d start now.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
ROMAN
“So.” Margaux—the real Margaux—is seated across from me, her blonde hair pressed into curls so shiny they rival the untouched silverware on the table. We’re not here to eat, drink, or be merry. “So? What did you want to discuss?”
I reached out to Margaux yesterday, asking if she’d be available to meet Saturday morning, as I had some pressing questions I wanted to put to bed. Imagine my shock when she replied within seconds. I suppose she has nothing but time on her hands now. While Theodora decided not to promote Margaux on account of her dishonesty, she opted not to fire her either (on account of her suspected pregnancy). Regardless, Margaux resigned immediately.
I imagine her pride got the best of her.
Some people can’t handle when those who once held them on a pedestal no longer sing their praises.
The more I thought about the dynamics between Margaux and Sloane, what each one had to gain (and lose), and the night-and-day differences between their apologies (or lack thereof, in Margaux’s case), the more I wanted to confirm my suspicions.
A person can assume all they want, until they’re blue in the face or the cows come home, but all of it’s a self-serving waste of time without the full story.
Margaux bats her lashes and offers a disarming smile. I imagine this is what she does when she’s particularly uncomfortable. She dials up her charms and graces in hopes of distracting people from her shortcomings.
Fortunately, I see through it.
She isn’t the first narcissist I’ve encountered in my life, and I’m sure she won’t be the last.
“I have to know . . . What made you send Sloane in your place that night?” I ask. “To the blind date?”
She swallows, looking sheepish for a flicker of a second before tilting her head and rolling her eyes.
“I was sick.” Margaux straightens her shoulders. “I, um, thought I had food poisoning. Turns out I was just, um, pregnant. With twins.”
Just as I suspected . . .
I refrain from reacting.
“And it was morning sickness—which, as it turns out, isn’t restricted just to mornings,” she continues. “Anyway, Theodora was so eager for us to finally meet and she was so excited and I didn’t want to cancel. Sloane offered to go for me instead.”
She chuckles, as if she’s telling a humorous little story. And maybe to some it would even be considered cute, but I’m not here to be entertained.
“Sloane offered?” I ask. “As in it was her idea?”
“No,” Margaux says. “I asked and she offered.”
Big difference.
“I see,” I say. “And you said you told her to be boring?”
“Exactly. I didn’t want you to fall for her or anything. I told her not to be off putting but to be dull enough that you wouldn’t be asking for a second date.” Margaux toys with a shiny blonde curl before brushing it over her shoulder. “If she’d have listened to me . . . none of this would’ve happened.”
She couldn’t be more wrong.
Had she not sent Sloane in the first place, none of this would have happened. Subsequently, I wouldn’t have semiwalked Sloane home. I wouldn’t have seen her apartment building. Or that Halcyon key chain.
