By Friday, Margot had a NexTelis hangover.
Not from alcohol—she’d been too keyed up to drink Thursday night—but from adrenaline, from rage, from holding herself still through hours of forced politeness.
Every time Rourke had said “that’s just business,” she’d wanted to scream.
Every time Alvarez had smoothed something with “we all know how the market works,” she’d wanted to throw something.
She hadn’t.
She’d smiled. Taken notes. Pushed Declan with tiny touches when he tilted toward too much honesty.
She’d gone home and stared at her ceiling until three in the morning.
Now she sat in a small conference room on the thirty-second floor, staring at a man whose entire job was teaching executives how not to tank their own messaging.
“You’re not like my usual clients,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
He was in his late forties, compact, with kind eyes and a tie that screamed “consultant.” His name was Ben.
“Flattering,” Declan said dryly.
Margot sat in the corner, notebook in her lap, deliberately quiet. Observing.
“You don’t care if people like you,” Ben went on. “That’s rare. Most CEOs say they don’t, but they *do*.”
“Liking is irrelevant,” Declan said. “Respect matters. Fear is acceptable. Affection is… a bonus, not a metric.”
Ben’s eyebrows climbed. “That… tracks with what Eliza told me.”
“What did she tell you?” Declan asked.
“That you’re brilliant, blunt, and occasionally forget humans have feelings,” Ben said. “And that you’re autistic.”
Declan’s jaw flexed. “She didn’t have to share that.”
“I asked,” Ben said. “If I’m going to help you, I need the full picture. I’ve worked with neurodivergent clients before. Doesn’t change the fundamentals. Just the framing.”
“And what are the fundamentals?” Declan asked, tone skeptical.
“Message, audience, self-regulation,” Ben said. “You know what you want to say. You’re very clear on that. You’re less clear on how it lands with people who don’t think like you.”
“I know how it lands,” Declan said. “They say I’m ‘refreshing’ and then write op-eds about how I’m ‘disrupting norms.’”
“And the ones who matter?” Ben asked. “Regulators. Employees. The people watching you decide what happens to NexTelis’s legacy. How do *they* hear you?”
Declan didn’t answer.
Ben turned to Margot. “You’ve been with him a week.”
“Feels like a year,” she said.
Ben grinned. “Perfect. What does his default mode sound like to you?”
“Efficient,” she said. “Precise. Sometimes… surgical.”
“Surgical how?” Ben asked.
“Cutting,” she said. “Necessary. But if you’re not the one holding the knife, it can feel like you’re on the table.”
Ben nodded. “That’s what I want you to hear, Declan. You think in systems. They feel the cuts individually. Neither is wrong. But if you talk about NexTelis like a flawed code base you’re going to refactor, while people out there are remembering losing their homes, there’s going to be a disconnect.”
“I’m not going to go on TV and say ‘code base,’” Declan said.
“Metaphor,” Ben said. “You generalize. They personalize. Media will amplify the gap.”
Declan’s fingers drummed once on the table, then stilled. “So what. You want me to cry about the small businesses they hurt?”
“I want you to acknowledge harm without centering yourself as the solution,” Ben said. “There’s a difference between ‘We’re buying NexTelis because it’s a great opportunity for our shareholders’ and ‘We’re buying NexTelis because we think we can run this infrastructure with more accountability and less collateral damage.’”
“That sounds like marketing,” Declan said.
“It’s values,” Ben said. “Which, like it or not, are part of your brand. People want to know if the man buying this beast understands that it *is* a beast.”
“I do,” Declan said.
“Good,” Ben said. “Then show them.”
He tapped his tablet. “Let’s do an exercise. I’m going to play a reporter. You answer as you normally would. We’ll tweak after.”
Declan made a face. “Role-play.”
“Humor me,” Ben said. “Two minutes.”
He straightened, his entire demeanor shifting. His voice took on a slightly brighter tone.
“Mr. Hale,” he said, pretending to hold a mic. “There are reports that you’re in talks to acquire NexTelis, a company with a… complicated history. Why do you want to buy a dinosaur?”
Declan exhaled. “Because they control infrastructure that underpins critical parts of the economy, and they’ve been running it badly. We can run it better.”
Ben nodded. “Okay. Follow-up: Critics say NexTelis built its empire by squeezing small suppliers and playing dirty. How do you respond to fears that Hale will become ‘NexTelis 2.0’?”
“By pointing out that we’ve never done that,” Declan said. “Our contracts are transparent. We don’t weaponize our size. The comparison is lazy.”
Margot winced internally.
Ben held up a hand. “Pause.”
“What?” Declan asked, genuinely confused. “It’s true. The comparison *is* lazy.”
“Maybe,” Ben said. “But calling it that on air makes you sound defensive and dismissive of very real fears. You’re talking to three audiences there: the reporter, the general public, and the people who were hurt by NexTelis. What do you want each of them to hear?”
“That we’re not them,” Declan said. “That we’re not going to—”
“Try this,” Margot cut in gently. “’I understand why people draw that comparison. NexTelis did things we fundamentally disagree with. We don’t use those tactics, and if this deal goes through, part of our job will be making sure that history doesn’t repeat itself.’”
He looked at her.
“Add something about listening,” she added. “’We’re going to be talking to former partners, employees, regulators to understand where the pain points were.’ That way it’s not just you deciding what’s ‘fixed.’”
Ben’s eyes gleamed. “Exactly. Do you hear the difference, Declan?”
He did.
It annoyed him that he did.
“It sounds… softer,” he said.
“It sounds… human,” Margot said. “Without being saccharine.”
“I don’t do saccharine,” he said automatically.
“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m here.”
His stomach did that irritating flip again.
“This is why she’s in the room,” Ben said, noting the exchange. “You have instincts. She has translation. Use both.”
They ran through more questions.
Some were straightforward. “Why now?” “How will this impact your employees?” “What about antitrust?”
Some were barbed. “Are you just chasing a legacy deal?” “Is this about ego?” “Do you think you’re better than the people who built NexTelis?”
That last one landed.
“Yes,” Declan said, without hesitation.
Ben smothered a laugh. “Okay. True, maybe. But let’s unpack.”
Margot pinched the bridge of her nose. “God.”
“You really think so?” Ben asked Declan.
“Yes,” he said. “Better ethically. Better strategically. Better at not screwing people for short-term gains. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be doing this. There are easier ways to spend fifteen billion dollars.”
“Fair,” Ben said. “How can we say that without you sounding like an arrogant ass?”
“Trick question,” Margot muttered. “He is an arrogant ass.”
Declan shot her a look.
She smiled, unapologetic.
“Try this,” Ben said. “’I think we can bring a different approach. NexTelis made decisions I fundamentally disagree with. We’ve built Hale with an emphasis on transparency and long-term partnerships. If we can apply that model to this infrastructure, we’ll consider it a success.’”
“That’s… less punchy,” Declan said.
“It also doesn’t make you sound like you’re pissing on their graves,” Ben said.
Margot’s pen moved, capturing the wording.
At one point, Ben asked, “What worries you most about how this acquisition is perceived?”
Declan hesitated.
He didn’t like talking about worries.
“The perception that we’re just… another predator,” he said finally. “Bigger, shinier teeth, same diet.”
“Then say that,” Margot said. “People respond to specificity. ‘I don’t want Hale to be seen as NexTelis 2.0. That’s not why we’re doing this.’”
He looked at her.
“And why *are* we doing this?” she asked quietly.
He held her gaze.
“Because,” he said slowly, “they’ve been running a critical system like a private fiefdom. And I hate fiefdoms. If we can take that system and make it more efficient, more transparent, less harmful… that matters.”
Her chest tightened.
Ben cleared his throat. “You say that on air? People will listen.”
“They’ll also ask what gives me the right to make that call,” Declan said.
“Good,” Ben said. “Because then you can say, ‘Nothing gives me the right. That’s why I’m accountable—to regulators, to shareholders, to the people who rely on these systems.’”
Margot scribbled furiously.
They went on.
By the time the session ended, Declan’s head buzzed, but not in the static way. In a… reorganized way.
He could feel his brain building new pathways. Phrases, frames, responses that didn’t feel like lies. Just… alternate routes.
“Homework,” Ben said, packing up. “Write down three sentences you *want* people to associate with you after the first public mention of this deal. Not about the numbers. About you.”
He made a face. “Branding.”
“Story,” Ben corrected. “Everyone’s telling one. Might as well tell your own.”
He glanced at Margot. “You help him. You’ve got a good ear.”
“I know,” she said.
Ben laughed. “You two are going to give PR a heart attack. I love it.”
He left.
Silence settled.
Declan rubbed his temples. “My head hurts.”
“Good,” Margot said. “Growing pains.”
He eyed her. “You enjoyed that.”
“A little,” she admitted. “It’s nice to see you feel… off-balance for once.”
“I’m off-balance a lot,” he said. “I just hide it.”
“You’re hiding less,” she said softly.
He stilled.
“Is that… bad?” he asked.
She drew in a breath.
“No,” she said. “It’s… complicated.”
“Everything with you is complicated,” he said.
“You hired me for complicated,” she shot back.
He couldn’t argue with that.
He glanced at his watch. “We have thirty minutes before the internal Q&A.”
She rolled her eyes. “Town hall. Just say it.”
“I don’t want to,” he said.
“Too bad,” she said. “You’re doing one. We’ve already booked the room and bribed IT with donuts.”
He exhaled. “Fine. Walk me through it.”
She did.
At three, they stood side by side on a low platform in the largest conference space, a few hundred employees spread before them and another thousand dialed in via video.
He hated this.
The lights. The eyes. The subtle rustle of attention.
Margot stood just off to the side, tablet in hand, an earpiece connected to the AV team.
He could feel her presence like a stabilizing force.
He launched into his opening remarks.
He kept it simple.
“We’re in advanced talks to acquire NexTelis,” he said. “You’ve all seen the rumors. I can’t share every detail yet, but I want you to hear from me why we’re doing this and what it might mean.”
He spoke of infrastructure, of efficiency, of systems that underpinned everything from manufacturing to energy grids.
He did not say “synergy” once.
When he gestured vaguely and said, “You all know NexTelis’s history,” Margot’s eyes flickered meaningfully.
He caught himself.
“I know many of you have… strong feelings about that name,” he said, correcting. “Maybe because you’ve worked there. Maybe because someone you know was hurt by decisions they made. I get that. I don’t expect you to forget it.”
He saw shoulders relax in the front rows.
“We’re not buying them to become them,” he said. “We’re buying them because we think we can do better with what they’ve built—and because if we don’t, someone else will, and I’m not convinced they’ll care as much.”
After he spoke, the floor opened for questions.
Some were operational. “What does this mean for my job?” “Will we have to relocate?” “Are we changing our benefits?”
Some were anxious. “Are we taking on too much risk?” “Will this distract from our core products?”
One, from a woman in her fifties with graying hair and a steady gaze, cut deep.
“I used to work at NexTelis,” she said. “My brother still does. My uncle… used to run a small factory that supplied parts to them. He doesn’t anymore. We all know why. Why should I trust you not to do the same thing to someone else?”
He paused.
In the back, Margot stood very, very still.
He could have defaulted to a prepared line.
Instead, he heard Ben’s voice. And Margot’s.
He made himself feel the weight of the question.
“You shouldn’t,” he said.
A ripple. The woman’s brows shot up.
“Not yet,” he clarified. “Trust is earned. NexTelis broke a lot of it. I can stand here and say, ‘We’re different,’ and some of you will believe me. Some won’t. The only thing that will actually change your mind is what we do. Over time. With real people. Real contracts. Real decisions.”
He saw Margot’s throat work.
“I can tell you what we *won’t* do,” he went on. “We won’t use our size to trap smaller partners in impossible contracts. We won’t hide risk in footnotes. We won’t pretend that layoffs are ‘efficiency initiatives’ without acknowledging the human cost.”
He exhaled.
“But I’m not going to ask you to take my word for it,” he said. “Watch what we do. Hold us accountable. Hold *me* accountable. If you see us slipping, say something. We listen.”
He glanced, instinctively, at the edge of the stage.
Margot’s eyes met his.
Heat flared, but this time not the dangerous kind.
Something steadier.
The woman with the question studied him for a long moment.
Then nodded, just once.
After the session, people drifted, buzzing.
He stepped off the platform, shoulders stiff.
Margot appeared at his elbow, as if she’d teleported.
“You didn’t suck,” she said.
He huffed. “High praise.”
“That line,” she said quietly. “‘You shouldn’t trust me yet.’ That was good.”
“It was true,” he said.
“That’s why it worked,” she said.
He wanted to ask what *she* thought. If it had moved her at all.
He didn’t.
Instead he said, “What’s next?”
“Therapy,” she said.
He groaned. “I just did a town hall. Isn’t that enough emotional labor for one day?”
“Dr. Kline,” she said. “Three o’clock. If you’re late, she’ll be mad.”
“I don’t care if she’s mad,” he muttered.
“You do,” she said. “In your way.”
His phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
> *Dr. Kline – Running five minutes behind. Can we do 3:05–3:55?*
He exhaled, half in relief, half in annoyance.
“See?” he said. “The universe agrees with me.”
“The universe doesn’t schedule,” she said. “I do.”
He shook his head, bemused.
“You’re coming,” she added.
His eyes snapped to hers. “To therapy?”
“Not *in*,” she said. “But I’m walking you to the door. If I don’t, you’ll wander into a spreadsheet on the way and never come out.”
“I’m not a child,” he said.
“No,” she said. “You’re a grown man with the attention span of a genius raccoon when stressed.”
He stared at her.
“I don’t even know what that means,” he said.
“Trust me,” she said. “It tracks. Five minutes.”
He went.
In the elevator, it was just them.
The air felt… close.
He watched their reflection in the mirrored panel.
He didn’t like elevators. The enclosed space, the hum, the flicker of fluorescent light.
He kept his gaze fixed on the floor indicator.
“You did well,” she said again, quietly this time.
“Stop saying that,” he muttered.
“Why?” she asked.
“Feels… weird,” he said.
“Compliments?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“You should hear how you talk about yourself,” she said. “It’s like you’re describing a machine you’re trying to debug.”
“I am,” he said.
“You’re more than your code,” she said.
He snorted. “Romantic.”
“Terrifying,” she corrected. “For you, anyway.”
He glanced at her.
“What about you?” he asked suddenly.
“What about me?” she parried.
“How do you talk about yourself?” he asked.
She thought.
“Like a system,” she said. “Inputs, outputs. Efficiency. Control.”
“Sounds familiar,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re very… compatible that way.”
The word hung between them.
Compatible.
Not a word she should be using about her boss.
The elevator dinged.
Door slid open.
Saved.
They walked down the bland hallway toward Dr. Kline’s office.
At the door, he hesitated.
She turned to go.
He heard himself say, “Margot.”
She paused.
He cleared his throat.
“Ben said I should write three sentences,” he said. “About what I want people to associate with me after the deal is announced.”
“And?” she prompted.
“I haven’t,” he said. “Not yet.”
“Procrastinating,” she said. “Relatable.”
“Help,” he said, surprising himself.
She blinked.
Then smiled slowly. “We’ll do it after. I’ll bring my pen. You bring your vulnerability.”
He made a face. “Sounds… painful.”
“You’ll survive,” she said. “You always do.”
She left.
He watched her go, something uncomfortable expanding in his chest.
Dr. Kline opened the door a moment later.
“You’re on time,” she said. “Impressive.”
“Margot’s fault,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “I approve of her already.”
He snorted and stepped inside.
***
At seven that night, the office was thin again.
Margot sat cross-legged in her chair, shoes off, blazer draped over the back. Her hair had come partly loose, a few strands curling around her face.
She was exhausted.
She was also buzzing.
It was a terrible combination.
Declan’s three sentences lay on the desk between them, on a pad of paper she’d insisted they use instead of a screen.
“I want people to think I’m…”
He’d frowned, tapping the pen.
“Competent,” he’d said.
She’d rolled her eyes. “Aim higher.”
“Ethical,” he’d added.
“Good,” she’d said. “And?”
“Not full of shit,” he’d said.
She’d laughed.
“Authentic,” she’d translated. “You want them to feel like you mean what you say. Even when they disagree.”
“Yes,” he’d said.
“And under all of that,” she’d pushed, “you want them to feel… respected?”
He’d gone still.
“Yes,” he’d said, quieter. “I… hate being condescended to. I don’t want to do that to other people. Even when I’m… smarter.”
She’d written, *respectful*.
He’d grimaced. “That sounds… weak.”
“It’s not,” she’d said. “Respect without pandering is rare.”
Now, as she reviewed the page, she felt oddly… protective.
This was him. Stripped of masking. Reduced to three lines.
> Competent. > > Ethical. > > Authentic & respectful.
“So,” he said now, leaning back in his chair. “Do we embroider this on a throw pillow?”
She snorted. “Please don’t. HR would start a shrine.”
He made a face. “God.”
“Also,” she added, “you missed one.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Curious,” she said.
He blinked. “Curious?”
“You are,” she said. “About people. Systems. Why things work. Why they don’t. It’s one of the… sexiest things about you.”
The word was out before she could stop it.
She froze.
He did too.
Very slowly, his eyes darkened.
“Sexiest,” he repeated.
Heat flooded her face. “Professionally. Intellectually. Curiosity is… attractive. In humans. Generally.”
He watched her, head tilted.
“You think I’m… attractive,” he said plainly.
She closed her eyes briefly.
“Declan,” she said, very evenly. “Do not do this.”
“Do what?” he asked. There was no mockery in it. Just interest. Of course.
“This,” she said, gesturing between them. “This… line-dancing.”
“I’m just… clarifying,” he said. “You said—”
“I know what I said,” she snapped. “I am sleep-deprived and emotionally compromised and I said something I shouldn’t have. We’re going to pretend I didn’t.”
“I don’t want to,” he said.
Her eyes flew open.
He looked… frustrated. Not with her. With… reality.
“I don’t like pretending,” he said. “It feels like lying.”
“It’s called *boundaries*,” she said. “You know. Those lines we talked about?”
“I know what boundaries are,” he said. “I also know you’re… attracted to me. And I’m… attracted to you. Not acknowledging that doesn’t make it less true. It just makes it harder to navigate.”
Her pulse hammered.
This was the nightmare scenario.
And yet.
Part of her… appreciated the bluntness. The absence of games.
Her mother’s voice whispered, *Honest is not same as good.*
She took a slow breath.
“You’re right,” she said.
He blinked. “I am?”
“I’m attracted to you,” she said, the words tasting like steel. “You’re… smart. Focused. You look at me like I’m… interesting. That does things to my lizard brain I’d rather not analyze.”
His pupils dilated.
“And you’re attracted to me,” she went on, before he could say it. “Fine. Biology. Chemistry. Whatever.”
Silence crackled.
“Now we’ve acknowledged it,” she said. “Satisfied?”
“No,” he said. “But… continue.”
She almost laughed.
“Now,” she said, “we decide what to *do* with that information. My rule: I don’t sleep with bosses. Ever. Because it always, always ends badly for the person with less power. That’s me. No matter how much money you throw at me, you will always have more power. So. We ignore it.”
“Is that… possible?” he asked, brow furrowing.
“Yes,” she lied. “I’ve done it before. People are attractive. I don’t touch. They become background radiation.”
“I don’t want you as background,” he said.
Her heart lurched.
“Too bad,” she said, more sharply than she intended. “That’s the deal. You get my brain. You don’t get my body. Or my heart. Or anything else you think you can ‘solve.’”
He flinched.
“I’m not trying to solve you,” he said quietly.
“Aren’t you?” she asked, softer now. “You solve everything. That’s what you do. That’s who you are. Systems, problems, people. This… thing between us? You’d turn it into a challenge. A project. A lever. And when the novelty wore off, when the deal closed, when the next crisis came… where would that leave me?”
He looked like she’d slapped him.
“I wouldn’t—” he began.
“You don’t *know*,” she said. “Because you’ve never done this. With someone like me. In a position like this. You can’t predict yourself perfectly, Declan. I know you think you can. You can’t. Neither can I. That’s why I have rules.”
He swallowed.
“Do you… want to?” he asked. “Break them?”
She closed her eyes.
Images flashed.
His hands on her, his mouth, the way he’d look at her if she let herself fall even a little.
Yes, another voice whispered.
“No,” she said.
He exhaled, a sound that could have been relief or disappointment or both. “You’re lying.”
“Yes,” she said. “I am. Because the part of me that wants to is twenty-one and stupid and thinks fucking the boss is a shortcut to… something. The part of me that’s thirty-two and has watched this movie before says *absolutely not.*”
“I wouldn’t use you,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “You’re not that kind of man. You’re worse.”
His eyes narrowed. “Worse?”
“You’d *mean it*,” she said. “Every look. Every touch. Every ‘you’re so important to me.’ You’d believe it. And then things would change—because they *always* change—and you’d reallocate resources. Move me on your internal map from ‘central’ to ‘peripheral.’ You wouldn’t even realize you were doing it. You’d just… optimize. And I’d be… collateral.”
He stared at her, horror dawning.
“I don’t want to be your optimization problem,” she finished softly.
Silence.
He dragged a hand through his hair.
“I hate that you’re right,” he said hoarsely.
“So do I,” she said.
He looked up.
Pain flickered across his features. Brief. Real.
“I don’t… know how to want something and not… consume it,” he said. “Fully. Completely. I don’t have a half-speed.”
“I know,” she said. “That’s why you’re good at what you do. It’s also why you’re dangerous.”
“To you,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “To me.”
He dropped his gaze.
When he spoke again, his voice was scraped raw.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“That’s nice,” she said gently. “But your want doesn’t change the risk. My boundaries do.”
He nodded, jerky.
“Okay,” he said. “We… ignore. We… background radiation.”
She almost smiled. “Yes.”
“And if you… need distance,” he added, surprising her, “if I… make it worse somehow… you tell me. I’ll… adjust. I’m not always good at seeing where I… leak.”
Her chest ached.
“That’s… enough,” she said. “For now.”
He nodded.
They sat there, the word *sexiest* still hanging like smoke between them.
After a while, he said, “We should go home.”
“We?” she asked, wary.
“Separately,” he said quickly. “At the same time.”
She huffed a laugh. “Good clarification.”
They packed up.
In the hallway, as they walked to the elevators, he looked at her.
“You’re… not going to quit,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
“No,” she said. “Not unless you make it impossible to stay.”
“I won’t,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “I like my job.”
He smiled, small and wry. “You like control.”
“Yes,” she said. “And right now, this—” she gestured between them “—is still under mine.”
He didn’t argue.
In the elevator, they stood side by side.
Close.
Not touching.
It was the longest thirty seconds of her week.
When the doors opened, they stepped out into the lobby.
Night air spilled in from the revolving doors.
“Goodnight, Declan,” she said.
“Goodnight, Margot,” he said.
He hesitated.
“Don’t dream about NexTelis,” he added. “Again.”
She almost laughed. “Can’t make promises.”
“Try,” he said.
She walked out into the city.
He watched her go.
He wanted.
He did not move.
He went home alone.
And lay awake far too long, thinking of systems he couldn’t model and a woman who refused to be solved.