For the first time, Margot didn’t have a sharp comeback. Her eyes flickered with something—maybe regret, maybe anger—but she quickly masked it with a forced smile.
“You’re going to throw it all away,” she said with a sigh, almost like she pitied me. “I was even planning to introduce you to Alfred Schumann, the renowned pianist. But now? Well, you’ve made things difficult for yourself.”
She leaned back, arms crossed, waiting for me to beg.
But I didn’t. Instead, I shrugged and said, “We’ve broken up. There’s nothing difficult about it. Take Steven instead.”
Her smug expression faltered. The composure she prided herself on cracked, but she quickly changed tactics.
Margot leaned closer and coyly said, “Frank, come to the party with me. Alfred will be there. I’ve already smoothed things over for you, and I’ll publicly clear up everything about our relationship after. I’ll agree to the breakup—on good terms.”
I studied her face, trying to gauge if she was being sincere. But she clung to my arm, whining and pleading with me until I reluctantly nodded.
“Fine,” I said. “One last time. Let’s end this civilly.”
...