Chapter 3 — The Fallout

Margot

The whispers started the moment I stepped into the office. Not loud enough to qualify as outright gossip—this was the kind of workplace that prided itself on professionalism—but low and insidious, like the hum of fluorescent lights you couldn’t quite shut out. A few heads turned as I walked by, their gazes flickering with a mixture of pity and curiosity. I hated the pity most of all.

I tightened my grip on the leather handle of my work tote, my knuckles blanching. The planner inside—my replacement for the one I’d destroyed in a haze of post-wedding rage—was practically bursting with sticky notes and color-coded tabs. It was my armor now, the only thing holding me together. That, and the sheer force of will that had gotten me out of bed and into my perfectly tailored pencil skirt this morning.

Passing the break room, I caught snippets of hushed voices before they abruptly fell silent. One of the interns, a doe-eyed girl in a floral blouse, offered me a tentative smile. I didn’t return it. Instead, I strode past her, my nude heels clicking sharply against the polished floor, each step a deliberate declaration: I’m fine. I’m in control. I’m still Margot Langston.

Reaching my office, I closed the door firmly—just shy of a slam—and allowed myself a moment to exhale. The sleek, minimalist walls, adorned with framed certificates and abstract artwork, suddenly felt oppressive, as if they were closing in. Even the scent of lavender from the diffuser on my desk, chosen specifically to project calm and competence, seemed cloying today.

I dropped into my chair and flipped open my planner, the gilded edges catching the overhead light. Today’s schedule was laid out with military precision: client calls, a project proposal review, and a team meeting at three. All perfectly manageable. All within my control. Except for one ominous entry: “Quick chat with Amanda, 11:30.” Amanda Halliday didn’t schedule quick chats without a specific agenda. And her agendas rarely boded well.

My eyes drifted to a sticky note peeking out from the corner of the page, a leftover from the night before: “Stay focused. Don’t let them see you sweat.” I grabbed the pen looped into the planner’s spine and underlined the words, pressing the tip so hard the ink bled through the page.

The knock at my door came sooner than expected. I glanced at the clock: 10:15. Too early for the “quick chat,” but too purposeful to be a casual visit. My pulse quickened.

“Come in,” I called, forcing my voice to steady.

The door opened, and Amanda stepped inside, as composed and clinical as ever. Her razor-sharp bob gleamed under the office lights, and her tailored navy pantsuit was impeccable. Everything about her—from her hawk-like gaze to the faint aroma of expensive perfume—screamed authority.

“Margot,” she said, her tone brisk but not unkind. “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course.” I gestured to the chair across from my desk, though she didn’t sit. Instead, she rested one perfectly manicured hand on the back of the chair, her stance casual but deliberate.

“I wanted to check in,” she began, her voice measured. “I know the past few days have been... challenging.”

Challenging. As if I’d been grappling with a mildly inconvenient spreadsheet and not the public implosion of my life. I forced a tight smile, folding my hands on the desk. “I appreciate your concern, Amanda, but I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of managing my responsibilities.”

“I don’t doubt your capabilities,” she replied, her sharp gaze unwavering. “But perception matters, Margot. Especially in our industry. You’ve always been an asset to this firm, and I want to ensure that continues to be the case.”

Her words were carefully chosen, but the subtext was deafening. My humiliation at the Glass Chapel wasn’t just a personal disaster—it had become a professional liability. In this world, where appearances were currency, I was now the tarnished penny no one wanted to deal with.

“I understand,” I said evenly, though my nails dug into the underside of my desk. “If there’s any concern about my performance—”

“There isn’t,” Amanda interrupted, though her tone suggested otherwise. “But I would recommend taking some time to... recalibrate. Refocus. Perhaps consider stepping back from client-facing roles for a short while.”

Recalibrate. A polite way of saying, “Disappear until people forget.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” I replied, my voice betraying none of the fury simmering beneath the surface. “Thank you for your feedback.”

Amanda studied me for a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Then, with a faint nod, she turned and walked out. The sound of her heels clicking down the hallway faded, leaving behind a silence that felt both oppressive and mocking.

I stared at the closed door, my chest tight with a mix of shame and rage. My planner sat open on the desk, its orderly pages mocking me with their futile attempts to impose structure on chaos.

By lunchtime, the pitying glances and murmured conversations had become unbearable. Grabbing my coat, I slipped out of the office into the cold autumn air. The city’s relentless energy buzzed around me, a jarring contrast to the chaos inside my head. I didn’t have a destination in mind, but my feet carried me toward the Riverwalk, where the trees lining the path had turned brilliant shades of orange and gold.

I found a bench near the water and sank onto it, clutching my coat tightly around me. The river flowed steadily, its surface rippling in the breeze. The faint scent of damp leaves mingled with the crisp air, grounding me in the moment. Joggers passed by, their footsteps rhythmic and purposeful. I envied their singular focus, their ability to move forward without the weight of a shattered reputation dragging them down.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, jolting me from my thoughts. Sophia’s name flashed on the screen. For a moment, I considered ignoring it. I didn’t feel like talking; I didn’t feel like anything. But Sophia had a way of cutting through the noise.

“Hey,” I said, trying to sound normal.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” Sophia replied, her voice warm but firm. “I’ve been waiting for your call. How’s day one back in the lion’s den?”

I hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “Let’s just say it’s been... illuminating.”

Sophia snorted. “Translation: everyone’s being a passive-aggressive jerk.”

“Not everyone,” I admitted, though the exceptions were few and far between.

“Margot, listen to me,” she said, her tone softening. “You don’t owe anyone an explanation or an apology. What happened wasn’t your fault, and if people can’t see that, screw them.”

Her words should have comforted me, but instead, they stung. Because deep down, a part of me did feel responsible. For trusting Tyler. For ignoring the warning signs. For clinging so desperately to perfection that I hadn’t seen the cracks until everything shattered.

“I just... I don’t know how to fix this, Sophia,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “Everything feels out of control.”

“Maybe it’s not about fixing it,” she said gently. “Maybe it’s about figuring out what you want and going after it. Not for anyone else—for you.”

Her words hung in the air, mingling with the rustling leaves and the steady rhythm of the river. I glanced down at my planner, still clutched in my lap, and for the first time, it felt less like a lifeline and more like a weight. Maybe Sophia was right. Maybe it was time to stop trying to fix what was broken and start building something new.

But first, I needed to deal with Tyler Hayes. And for that, I still had a plan.