Thursday mornings were usually good.
Declan liked the second day’s rhythm. Monday was ramp-up, Tuesday crank, Wednesday grind. Thursday, if he’d managed his week right, had a flow to it. Patterns emerging. Problems surfacing early enough to fix before Friday’s fire drills.
Today did not feel like that.
Today felt like walking into a test he hadn’t studied for, even though he’d been cramming for weeks.
He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand.
He looked… fine.
White shirt, cuffs undone. Dark trousers. Hair damp from the shower, pushed back with fingers. The faint shadows under his eyes were standard this month.
But his jaw was tight.
He recognized that.
“You’re stalling,” he told himself, spitting.
He rinsed, splashed cool water on his face, and took a breath.
NexTelis.
In his building.
He’d been preparing for this in the abstract for years. Running numbers. Modeling scenarios. Gaming out responses.
The CEO, David Rourke, was old-school industrial. Late fifties, silver hair, tailored suits, a cultivated image of blue-collar roots and boardroom polish.
The general counsel, Monica Alvarez, mid-forties, razor-sharp, known for her ability to thread legal needles in impossible circumstances.
Two SVPs—operations and finance—whom he considered transitional. Either he’d keep them for a year, then gracefully push them out, or they’d self-select out when they realized Hale didn’t tolerate certain “legacy practices.”
He should be excited.
He was.
He was also… something else.
Unsettled.
He knew why.
He’d known since 11:07 p.m. the night before, when his phone had buzzed with Raj’s text: *Heads up: NexTelis in-house tomorrow. Don’t murder anyone before lunch; we need their signatures first.*
It wasn’t the thought of seeing Rourke that unsettled him. He’d dealt with bigger egos and worse sins.
It was the thought of seeing those people, in his space, while knowing that one floor up and a few yards away sat a woman whose life had been shaped by their decisions.
He could have asked her to take the day off.
He’d thought about it.
Briefly.
It would have been… protective.
It also would have been patronizing. And, more practically, a logistical nightmare.
He needed her.
He needed her eyes on the room, her timing, her ability to cut through bullshit with a well-placed phrase.
He needed her to see this, too.
The thought made his stomach twist.
He grabbed his watch, slid it onto his wrist, and headed out.
His driver—company policy, not his choice, he preferred the subway—was waiting downstairs. Traffic moved in fits and starts. He ignored it, skimming the overnight brief from legal.
By the time the car slid to the curb in front of Hale’s building, he’d responded to twelve emails, flagged three for Margot, and re-ordered his morning in his head.
He stepped into the lobby at 7:38. Early.
Good.
He liked being in before most people. The building felt… cleaner.
The elevator hummed upward.
When the doors slid open on thirty-three, she was there.
Of course she was.
Standing by her desk, hair twisted up, black dress, gray blazer. Dark red lipstick today, stark against her skin.
She checked something on her screen, then looked up as if she’d felt him.
Their eyes met.
He felt the familiar jolt. Annoying. Intriguing.
“Morning,” she said.
“Status,” he replied.
Her mouth quirked. “Good morning to you too.”
He exhaled. “Good morning, Margot.”
“Better,” she said. “You’re early.”
“So are you,” he said.
“I live in a different time zone than normal people,” she said. “It’s called ‘Executive Support.’”
He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “NexTelis?”
“Rourke, Alvarez, and their entourage land at nine,” she said, fluidly shifting into briefing mode. “They’re coming straight here. Security’s tight. I’ve reserved conference room A for the first session, then B for breakouts. Catered lunch at twelve. I’ve built in fifteen-minute buffers every ninety minutes.”
He nodded. “Good.”
“Media’s sniffing but not swarming yet,” she went on. “We’ve had three inbound inquiries about ‘potential strategic activity.’ Comms is holding the line. Internally, your email yesterday calmed people—mostly. The Slack channel is… anxious.”
“Show me,” he said.
She turned her monitor, fingers flicking.
Threads scrolled past—some serious, some sarcastic.
> *Heard there’s a ‘big meeting’ on 33 today. Anyone else thinking ‘acquisition’?*
> *If we get free coffee out of it, I’m fine.*
> *My uncle worked at NexTelis. They’re sharks. Careful out there, folks.*
A small, tight knot formed under his sternum.
She glanced sideways at him, gauging.
“Expected,” she said. “We’ll need to follow up your note with a live Q&A soon. Maybe a town hall.”
He grimaced. “I hate town halls.”
“I know,” she said. “But they work. People like seeing your face and hearing your voice, even if they complain about what you say.”
“My face,” he muttered. “My least reliable asset.”
“I don’t know,” she said lightly. “It’s doing okay for you so far.”
He looked at her sharply.
Her expression was bland.
“You’re flirting,” he said, before his brain could stop his mouth.
She blinked.
Then, very slowly, one corner of her mouth curved.
“No,” she said. “If I were flirting, you’d know. That was called ‘keeping you from spiraling into self-loathing before a major meeting.’”
Heat crept up the back of his neck.
“I don’t spiral into self-loathing,” he said stiffly.
“Not on my watch,” she said. “Your office?”
He retreated, grateful for the glass wall between him and the rest of the floor.
She followed, closing the door behind her.
The room settled around them, quieter than the outer floor.
He sat, gesturing for her to do the same.
“NexTelis,” he said.
She nodded once, face smoothing into professional lines. “Rourke’s a talker. Likes his own voice. Plays the ‘I’m just a simple guy’ card, but he’s not. Alvarez is the one to watch. She says less, but what she does say matters.”
“You’ve watched them,” he said.
“Since I was twenty-one,” she said, before she could stop herself.
The words hung in the air.
He felt something twist.
“Color?” he asked quietly.
She looked up, startled. “What?”
“For you,” he said. “Overload. Color.”
She hesitated.
“Orange,” she said finally. “With… streaks.”
“Plaid?” he asked, attempting lightness.
“Different pattern,” she said. “More like… old bruise.”
He swallowed.
“You don’t have to be in the room,” he said. “For the whole thing. If it’s—”
“Don’t,” she cut in. “Don’t you *dare* cut me out of this because you think you’re protecting me.”
He blinked. “I’m not—”
“You *are*,” she said, eyes flashing. “Maybe not consciously, but that’s what that sounds like. ‘Stay out of the room, Margot, let the big boys talk deals while you… schedule things.’”
“That’s not what I—” he began.
“Then say what you meant,” she said.
He forced his jaw to unclench.
“I meant,” he said slowly, “that if it’s going to hurt you more than it helps the company to have you there, I can adjust. Because I’m not a monster.”
Her shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Okay,” she said. “Fine. That’s… better.”
“I don’t want to *protect* you,” he went on. “I want to… account for you. In the equation. If your presence in there makes you less effective, that’s a cost. If your presence makes me more effective, that’s a gain. We weigh both.”
She stared at him. Then huffed out an incredulous breath.
“You realize that’s the most romantic thing anyone’s said to me in years,” she said.
His brain stuttered.
“What?” he asked.
“Accounting for me in the equation,” she said. “Seeing *me* as part of the system you optimize, not just a plug-in. It’s twisted. And terrifying. And—”
She cut herself off.
He leaned forward, pulse ticking faster. “And?”
“And I’m not going to finish that sentence,” she said briskly, standing. “You have nine minutes until Rourke’s scheduled to arrive. We need to talk through your opening.”
He filed away the unfinished sentence.
It joined a growing list in his head.
He watched her move around his desk, laying out printouts, framing the flow.
She was calm. Precise. Only the slightest tightness at the corners of her mouth betrayed anything else.
“Ground rules,” she said. “For you.”
He bristled. “I know how to—”
“I know you *know*,” she said. “We’re going to say it out loud anyway, because brains under stress need clear instructions. One: you don’t bring up their past sins unless they try to play innocent. Keep the focus on the future. Two: you don’t make promises about ‘making things right’ today. That’s for later, when we have actual plans. Three: you don’t let Rourke rile you by playing small-town boy. He *knows* what his company did. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you lose your temper.”
He stared at her.
“You make me sound like a ticking bomb,” he said.
“Under the right conditions, you are,” she said. “So am I. So is everyone. The difference is, you’re holding more dynamite.”
“Comforting,” he muttered.
She smiled faintly. “That’s me. Comfort wrapped in steel.”
He wanted to ask what her ground rules were for *herself*.
He didn’t.
He heard the elevator ding down the hall.
She straightened instinctively. “They’re here.”
He stood.
His heart rate ticked up—not just from the prospect of the negotiation, but from something else.
Anticipation.
Of watching her face when she saw them.
He hated that, too.
“Nina and Raj will bring them to conference room A,” she said. “You have two minutes to breathe. Then we go.”
“Color?” he asked again, surprising himself.
She met his eyes.
“Yellow,” she said. “Heading toward… whatever color you get when you mix rage and professionalism.”
He chuckled, despite the knot in his stomach. “Brown?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re terrible with metaphors.”
“I have you for that,” he said.
He realized, too late, how that sounded.
Her lips parted. Her gaze flickered.
He cleared his throat. “Conference room.”
“Right,” she said.
They walked.
As they approached, he saw them through the glass.
Rourke. Broad, silver-haired, thick hands, booming laugh even through the barrier.
Alvarez. Compact, dark suit, watchful eyes.
The SVPs, bland and interchangeable in navy.
Raj stood near the door. Nina beside him, expression professional, body coiled.
Margot’s steps slowed.
He felt her, suddenly, not as a colleague but as… something else. A charged presence at his side.
He lowered his voice. “Last chance to… step back. I won’t think less of you.”
“Don’t you dare be noble,” she said under her breath, and pushed the door open.
***
The tension in the room spiked the second they entered.
Declan felt it like a shift in air pressure.
Rourke turned, that politician’s smile already plastered on. “Declan! There he is. The man of the hour.”
He crossed the room with the easy swagger of someone who’d walked factory floors and boardrooms and thought both were his by right.
Declan extended his hand.
Rourke engulfed it in both of his, squeezing just a fraction too hard.
“You’re younger than I expected,” Rourke boomed.
“You’re exactly as old as your LinkedIn,” Declan said.
A murmur. A few suppressed smiles.
Rourke barked a laugh. “Straight shooter. I like that.”
Declan doubted he did.
He turned to Alvarez.
“Ms. Alvarez,” he said. “Thank you for coming on short notice.”
“Monica,” she said. Her handshake was firm, dry, no nonsense. “And thank you for the invitation. Your offices are… impressive.”
“We like them,” he said.
He made the rounds—names, nods, brief handshakes with the SVPs.
He could feel Margot hovering at the edge of his perception, just behind his right shoulder.
He didn’t look at her.
Not yet.
Introductions done, they took their seats around the long table.
He sat at one end. Rourke at the other.
Margot slid into the chair to his right, notebook open, pen poised.
He relaxed half an inch.
“Let’s get started,” he said.
They did.
The first hour was, as expected, posturing.
Rourke told stories about his first job on a factory floor, about how NexTelis had “pulled itself up by its bootstraps” in the eighties.
Declan didn’t interrupt.
He watched.
He watched Alvarez’s micro-reactions—a tiny eye-roll at a particularly self-aggrandizing anecdote, the way her fingers tapped faster when he glossed over legal settlements as “speed bumps.”
He watched the SVPs exchange glances when Rourke talked about “efficiency initiatives” that were, in reality, layoffs.
He watched Margot.
She sat very still, back straight, pen moving occasionally.
Her face was carved calm.
Only once did she betray anything: when Rourke said, “Of course, sometimes, in this business, the little guys get squeezed. That’s just the market. The way of the world.”
Her hand tightened on her pen.
Her jaw flexed, a tiny movement.
Declan felt a hot flash of anger.
“Sometimes,” he said, voice very level, “the ‘squeeze’ is less about market forces and more about contractual abuse.”
The room went quiet a half-second too long.
Alvarez’s eyes sharpened.
Rourke let out a larger-than-necessary laugh. “You’ve been reading the shitposts, I see.”
“I’ve been reading your case files,” Declan said.
Margot’s pen stilled.
Rourke waved a hand. “We’ve had our share of disgruntled partners. Who hasn’t? You get big enough, someone’s always mad. Comes with the territory.”
It was on the tip of Declan’s tongue to say, *When enough people are mad, maybe you’re the problem, not the territory.*
He felt Margot’s foot nudge his under the table.
Not a kick.
A press.
Grounding.
He swallowed the line.
“Let’s talk about the future,” he said instead, eyes flicking to Alvarez. “We’re not here to re-litigate the past. We’re here to discuss what comes next.”
Rourke visibly relaxed. “Exactly.”
He gestured broadly. “You kids with your algorithms and AIs, you see things differently. That’s why we’re here. We’ve got scale. You’ve got smarts. Together…”
“Together,” Declan said, “we can do better than either of us has done alone.”
Alvarez’s mouth twitched.
They moved to numbers.
There, he was in his element.
He laid out his offer clearly. No games. He’d built in buffer, of course—no one named their true number first—but he didn’t lowball. He didn’t need to.
He had leverage.
NexTelis’s stock had been limping for years. Their debt load was unsustainable. Their board was restless.
Rourke blustered. “That’s… light, son.”
“Based on your *public* EBITDA, perhaps,” Declan said. “Based on your *real* cash flows, it’s generous.”
Rourke’s jaw ticked.
Alvarez interjected smoothly. “We’d like to understand your assumptions.”
“Of course,” Declan said. “We’re prepared to share a high-level view today. Detailed numbers are contingent on your willingness to open the kimono fully.”
“Open the kimono,” Margot murmured under her breath.
He saw it, just at the edge of his vision—a tiny wrinkle of her nose.
Later, he’d ask.
For now, he walked them through the model, his voice steady, his hands still. He didn’t sweeten. He didn’t oversell. He just… showed.
He could feel them recalibrating.
By the time they broke for lunch, the ground had shifted.
Not decisively. But materially.
In the hallway, as they walked back toward the kitchen area, he exhaled.
His head hummed.
Margot fell into step beside him.
“Good,” she said quietly. “You didn’t bite his head off. Or promise to wash his sins away with your superior ethics.”
He shot her a sideways look. “High praise.”
“I’m not done,” she said. “You were a little sharp on the ‘public versus real’ line. You could have smoothed.”
“I didn’t want to smooth,” he said. “I wanted him to know I see through his bullshit.”
“You accomplished that,” she said. “And you poked his ego. Which means he’ll either dig in or overcompensate trying to prove you wrong.”
“Which would be?” he prompted.
“Useful,” she admitted. “Just… be aware. He’s not as stupid as he pretends. Neither is Alvarez.”
They reached the lunch spread—salads, sandwiches, a hot dish that looked like some kind of curry.
Rourke piled his plate high, making comments about “rabbit food” and “real men needing meat.” The SVPs laughed dutifully.
Alvarez took a small scoop of salad and a piece of chicken, eyes distant.
Declan wasn’t hungry.
He knew better than to skip.
He took a modest portion, then stepped aside.
Margot fixed herself a plate too. Less food than he’d like, more than he’d expected.
He wondered, briefly, if someone had done this calculation about *her* once. Had stood, watched her eat, thought, *Not enough.*
The idea irritated him.
“You can breathe,” she murmured, as they stood at one end of the counter. “You’re doing fine.”
“I know,” he said. “How are you?”
Her teeth sank briefly into her bottom lip.
His eyes tracked it.
She caught the movement, flushed, and looked away.
“Functional,” she said. “It’s weird. Hearing him talk about ‘little guys’ like they’re figures on a chart. Knowing my father was one of them.”
He swallowed. “I… know.”
“You don’t,” she said. “Not really. But you’re trying. That helps.”
He wanted to say, *Tell me about him. Not as a case study. As your father.*
He didn’t.
Instead he said, “After this, take twenty minutes. Away from this floor. Go outside. Get air.”
“I don’t need—” she began.
He cut her a look.
She huffed. “Fine. Twenty.”
“Thirty,” he said.
“Twenty-five,” she countered.
His lips twitched. “Deal.”
They returned to the conference room.
The afternoon session got uglier.
Not in volume. In content.
Alvarez pressed on indemnities. On warranties. On who would assume responsibility for past bad acts.
“We accept that there were… issues,” she said carefully. “We’ve addressed most internally. But we can’t agree to a deal that leaves our people exposed to infinite liability.”
“We’re not asking for infinite,” Declan said. “We’re asking for specific. You tanked three regional suppliers through contract manipulation. You leveraged bankruptcy code to strip their assets and leave them with pennies. We’re not taking that on without a clear understanding of scope.”
Margot’s nails dug into her palm.
Three suppliers.
He’d underlined those in the memos.
He didn’t look at her.
Alvarez’s gaze flicked to Rourke. “Some of those decisions were… legacy.”
“I don’t care who signed the papers,” Declan said. “The liabilities live with the entity. That’s you. If we buy you, that’s us. I’m not interested in inheriting your ghosts without knowing how many there are.”
She couldn’t help it.
A bitter laugh escaped her.
Every head in the room turned toward her.
Her face flamed.
“Something amusing, Ms…?” Rourke squinted. “Chen, was it?”
She wanted to say, *Yes. Like Chen Precision Components, the company you strangled.*
She didn’t.
She breathed.
“Just appreciating the metaphor,” she said coolly. “Ghosts tend to show up whether you invite them or not. Better to know how many chairs you need to set at the table.”
Alvarez’s mouth twitched.
Rourke frowned. “You talk like a lawyer.”
“I talk like someone who’s cleaned up a lot of messes,” she said. “Usually after men like you and your predecessors made them.”
The air went icy.
Declan’s pulse spiked.
“Margot,” he said quietly.
She realized, in a delayed flash, what she’d just done.
She’d poked the bear.
In front of his prey.
She schooled her expression. “Apologies if that came across as disrespectful, Mr. Rourke. I’ve spent a decade managing executives through crises. The patterns… repeat.”
He studied her.
Those pale blue eyes that had probably once charmed unions and mayors and mid-level bankers.
“Where’d you work before this?” he asked.
“Veridian Media,” she said evenly. “Before that, fintech. Before that, import/export.”
“Before *that*?” he pressed.
Her hand tightened under the table.
“My father owned a manufacturing company,” she said. “I helped out in summers. Learned more there than I did in any internship.”
Declan’s heart thudded.
Alvarez’s gaze sharpened.
Rourke’s eyes narrowed. “What was it called?”
She held his gaze.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said.
He smiled, small and mean. “Guess not. If it was important, I’d remember.”
Heat flooded her chest.
Declan’s fingers curled against the table.
He opened his mouth.
Margot’s hand brushed his under the surface.
A light touch.
A warning.
Don’t.
He swallowed.
“This isn’t productive,” he said, keeping his voice flat. “We’re here to talk about your liabilities, not stroke your memory.”
Rourke’s gaze flicked to their almost-touch.
Declan moved his hand away deliberately, resting it on his knee.
“It’s productive for me,” Rourke said. “I like to know who I’m in business with. You surround yourself with… interesting staff, Mr. Hale.”
“She’s not my staff,” Declan said, surprising himself. “She’s my EA.”
Rourke chuckled. “Same thing, isn’t it? Fancy secretaries with fancier titles.”
Margot’s spine went rigid.
“Careful,” she said softly. “You’re about to insult the person who controls the CEO’s calendar.”
Rourke laughed. “I’ve survived worse.”
Alvarez cleared her throat, cutting through the testosterone. “Gentlemen. Ms. Chen. Can we refocus? We’re all tired. Perhaps we should circle back to the indemnity caps.”
Gratitude flickered in Declan’s chest.
He forced himself to lean back, fingers unclenching.
They wrestled another two hours, language circling, tightening.
By the time they ended, nothing was signed, but the outlines of a deal were clearer. Rourke blustered about sleeping on it. Alvarez asked for time to model worst-case scenarios.
They stood.
Handshakes again. More measured this time.
At the door, Rourke turned to Margot.
“Chen, was it?” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“You’re wasted in admin,” he said. “If this thing goes through, maybe we’ll find a real role for you.”
Her mouth parted.
Before she could respond, Declan stepped half into Rourke’s space, not touching him, just… crowding.
“She has a real role,” he said, voice ice. “With me.”
Rourke’s eyes flicked between them.
A slow, nasty smile curled his lips.
“Careful, son,” he said softly enough that only they could hear. “Lines get blurry when you spend too much time with someone that… sharp.”
Declan’s body went rigid.
Rage flared, bright and hot, flooding his veins.
Margot spoke before he could.
“I know my lines,” she said. “Very clearly. And if anyone tries to cross them, I sharpen the edge.”
Rourke barked a laugh and stepped back. “You fit right in here, don’t you? See you soon, Ms. Chen. Mr. Hale.”
They left.
The door closed.
Silence.
Declan realized his hands were shaking.
He stared at them, dumbly.
“Color,” Margot said quietly.
He swallowed. “Plaid.”
“Sit,” she said.
He sat.
No argument, no pretense.
She closed the blinds on the conference room’s glass walls, shutting them into a small, dim box.
“Breathe,” she said.
“I’m fine,” he snapped.
“You’re not,” she said, not unkindly. “You’re vibrating. Breathe.”
He forced air in. Out. In. Out.
His heart hammered.
Rourke’s words replayed, looping. *Lines get blurry…*
He hated men like that. Who assumed everyone lived in their world of blurred boundaries and quiet abuses.
“Hey,” Margot said softly.
He looked up.
She’d moved closer.
Not too close. A respectful distance. But enough that he could see the tiny lines at the corners of her eyes, the faint sheen on her lip gloss.
“You did well,” she said. “Better than I expected, honestly.”
He huffed a shaky breath. “High bar.”
“Higher than you think,” she said. “You didn’t blow up. You didn’t promise to ‘fix’ everything. You held your line.”
“He insulted you,” he said.
She shrugged, a sharp little movement. “He doesn’t know me. He sees my job title and thinks that makes me safe to poke. He’s wrong.”
“It bothered me,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “That’s… kind, in a fucked-up way. But don’t make this about you defending my honor. I’ve been defending my own for years.”
He flinched. “I wasn’t… I don’t think of you as… needing—”
“I know,” she said. “Which is why I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at *him*.”
She took a breath.
“My father would have been too scared to say anything back,” she said. “He would have laughed and made a self-deprecating joke. He thought if he made himself smaller, they’d be gentle.”
“They weren’t,” Declan said.
“No,” she said. “So now? I don’t do small.”
He believed her.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“For what?” she asked.
“For not letting me punch him,” he said. “Or… metaphorically.”
She smiled, a flash. “Would have been terrible for the deal. And your hand.”
“And your father,” he said, before he could stop himself.
Her face shuttered.
“What do you mean?” she asked carefully.
“If the deal dies,” he said, “NexTelis will keep doing what they’ve always done. Or worse, someone less… particular than me will buy them. Your father’s story will repeat. With other names. Other families. If we close, I can… change some of that.”
Her jaw tightened. “You can’t *fix* it.”
“No,” he said. “I can’t. But I can… stop some of the bleeding.”
Silence.
“Do you ever get tired of carrying the world?” she asked finally.
He almost laughed. “Do you?”
Her mouth twitched. “Touché.”
He forced his breathing to slow. The plaid began to resolve. Lines straightened.
“Color,” she said again, after a minute.
“Yellow,” he said. “Maybe… chartreuse.”
She made a face. “Never say chartreuse again.”
He felt his lips curve. “You don’t like that word?”
“Sounds like pretentious puke,” she said. “Also, too many vowels.”
“I’ll log that,” he said.
She studied him.
“You okay to walk back?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Liar,” she said.
“I can function,” he amended.
“Better,” she said. “Drink water. You’re dehydrated.”
He hadn’t realized his mouth was dry until she mentioned it.
He stood, the room tilting just a fraction.
Her hand hovered, not touching, ready.
He straightened.
“I’m fine,” he said again, more convincingly.
She arched a brow.
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Less plaid.”
“Better,” she said.
They walked back to his office.
He could feel the eyes on them. Speculation. Curiosity.
He didn’t care.
In his office, he dropped into his chair. She closed the door and toggled the glass to opaque, a movement that felt more intimate than it should have.
“Fifteen minutes,” she said. “No screens. No calls.”
“I have—”
“NexTelis isn’t going anywhere in fifteen minutes,” she said. “They’ll be back at four. You want to meet them again in full meltdown mode?”
He grimaced. “No.”
“Then shut up and sit,” she said.
He almost objected.
Almost.
Instead, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Silence.
He heard her move—papers rustling, keyboard taps soft.
His mind tried to spin back to indemnities, to caps, to Rourke’s smug face.
He let it bounce off.
For a moment, he let himself feel it.
Anger.
Not the hot, sharp kind he’d learned to dampen as a kid, when yelling only made teachers yell back.
A colder thing.
Directed.
*You made her father kneel*, he thought, picturing Rourke, his easy dismissal.
People like that built empires on other people’s backs and called it vision.
He’d done his share of cutting, of course. He’d closed plants that weren’t viable, laid off teams when product lines failed.
But he’d never played games with contracts to strip assets and leave people hollow.
He wouldn’t.
“Declan?” Margot’s voice was soft.
He opened his eyes.
She stood on the other side of the desk, one hand resting lightly on the wood.
“You’re making a face,” she said.
“What face?” he asked.
“‘I’m plotting a murder and trying to make it look like a regulatory action,’” she said.
He barked a laugh.
The knot in his chest loosened, just a little.
“Accurate,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Hold onto that. It’ll keep you sharp. Just… don’t let it eat you.”
“You sound like Dr. Kline,” he said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said.
He sat up.
“Thank you,” he said.
She frowned. “You keep saying that.”
“I mean it,” he said. “You… keep me from doing stupid things.”
“Technically,” she said, “you haven’t done any truly stupid things yet. Give it time.”
He smiled, slow.
“You’re… good at this,” he said. “At… me.”
He’d said that before, he realized.
He meant it more now.
She held his gaze for a long second.
A flicker of heat moved between them, low and coiled.
This was not the time to notice the way her blouse moved when she breathed. Or the faint sheen of sweat at her temple.
He did anyway.
He turned to his screen, breaking the moment.
“Four o’clock,” he said. “Round two.”
She nodded, the spell dissolving.
“Wear your armor,” she said lightly.
“I thought I was,” he said, glancing at his shirt.
“Not that,” she said. “The other kind. The one that lets you hear things like ‘just business’ and remember they’re lying.”
He watched her walk out.
He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until the door clicked shut.
He let it out slowly.
Ghosts in the glass.
He could feel them pressing against the edges of his carefully ordered world.
For the first time, he wondered if he was inviting them in.
And if, maybe, he wasn’t entirely alone in that haunted house.