The number on the board dropped to **7**.
A week.
One more board meeting. Two regulatory calls. Three sleepless nights. A thousand micro-decisions.
The deal was on track.
Which, Margot had learned, meant it could still derail in a dozen inventive ways at any moment.
She adjusted. Constantly.
Declan woke up at 3 a.m. with an idea about staggered integration for NexTelis’s European plants?
She built a calendar for it.
NexTelis’s CEO sent a passive-aggressive email about “misaligned cultural expectations”?
She drafted a response that managed to say “behave” without using the word.
Her father texted a photo of a small bouquet: *Priya sent. Office look like hospital now. But good hospital.*
She laughed out loud at her desk.
Declan looked up.
“What?” he asked.
She held up her phone.
“Priya sent my father flowers,” she said. “He’s offended and touched.”
“Sounds like you,” he said.
“Rude,” she said. “And accurate.”
He smiled.
They’d been… softer. Since the Jess incident. Since Priya.
Not less intense. That would have been impossible.
Just… more honest.
He didn’t pretend not to care. She didn’t pretend not to be scared.
They were both very bad at pretending, anyway.
“Dr. Kline would be proud,” she said once, when he’d admitted, “I don’t know if I can do this without breaking something important.”
“She’d say ‘awareness is the first step,’” he said. “Then assign me homework.”
“What’s your homework this week?” she asked.
“’Identify one pattern of self-sabotage and write about its origins,’” he said, making a face. “I told her my pattern is ‘agreeing to write about feelings.’”
She’d laughed.
Now, as the clock ticked, she saw his patterns more clearly.
The way he pushed harder when he was scared. The way he pulled back when he wanted more. The way he’d rather be the villain in a story than the victim.
He saw hers too.
Her tendency to over-function when she was anxious. The way she deflected with sarcasm. The way she used competence as armor.
“You know,” he said one evening, “you don’t have to solve everything.”
“I know,” she said. “But if I don’t, someone dumber will try.”
“Arrogant,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “It’s contagious.”
They hovered around the line.
He didn’t touch her. She didn’t lean in.
Words did the work their hands wanted to.
***
On Monday, with seven days to go, Hale’s PR head, a sleek woman named Marissa, cornered Margot outside the kitchen.
“We need more of Declan,” she said briskly. “Outside.”
Margot blinked. “He’s already doing three interviews this week.”
“Not enough,” Marissa said. “The narrative’s slipping. Helix is seeding doubt. NexTelis employees are panicking. Our own people are whispering.”
“Welcome to acquisitions,” Margot said. “And Mondays.”
“We need a story,” Marissa pressed. “Not just numbers. Something… human. Something that makes people feel like this isn’t just another predatory deal.”
Margot sipped her coffee. “You want him to… cry on camera?”
“God, no,” Marissa said, horrified. “I want him to be… accessible. Vulnerable. But in a controlled way. Tell them why this matters to him. Personally.”
“His mother’s side of the family had a hardware store that got crushed by a big-box chain,” Margot said absently. “He watched it happen. That’s part of the origin story.”
Marissa’s eyes lit. “See? That. That’s what I’m talking about. Why isn’t that in the deck?”
“Because he hates talking about it,” Margot said. “And because if he puts it in a deck, some asshole on the board will say, ‘Oh, boo-hoo, big bad Walmart hurt your feelings.’”
Marissa winced. “True.”
“And because we don’t want to weaponize his trauma,” Margot added. “That’s… gross.”
“I’m not saying we put it on a billboard,” Marissa said. “But… think about it. A piece. An op-ed. ‘Why I’m Buying the Company That Behaved Like the One That Almost Broke My Family.’ People eat that up.”
Margot’s stomach turned. “He would hate that.”
“Would he?” Marissa challenged. “Or would he hate having to admit that he feels anything about this at all?”
“Both,” Margot said. “But one more than the other.”
Marissa leaned in.
“You’re the only one he really listens to,” she said. “If *you* told him this matters, he might… consider it.”
Margot bristled.
“He’s not my puppet,” she said. “And I’m not your Cyrano. If you want him to do press, make your case to him. Don’t try to route it through my feelings.”
Marissa’s expression hardened slightly. “This isn’t about your feelings,” she said. “It’s about the company’s. We’re about to put everyone through hell. They need a reason to believe it’s for more than money.”
“I know,” Margot said, anger and understanding warring inside her. “I get it. I just… don’t want to… *use* him.”
Marissa’s gaze sharpened. “You care about him.”
It wasn’t a question.
Margot’s jaw tightened. “He’s my boss.”
“That’s not an answer,” Marissa said. “Look. I’m not the enemy here. I’m trying to protect the company. And him. If we don’t control the narrative, someone else will. And they won’t be kind.”
Margot rubbed her forehead.
“Let me think about it,” she said finally. “And I’ll… see what he says.”
Marissa nodded, satisfied. “Good. Sooner rather than later. We need lead time.”
She walked away.
Margot stared at her coffee, suddenly unappealing.
Declan’s patterns. Her father’s debt. NexTelis. Now PR wanted to turn his origin story into content.
Where was the line between strategic vulnerability and exploitation?
She didn’t know.
She did know who she had to talk to.
***
He was pacing when she walked into his office. Always a bad sign.
“Europe is wobbling,” he said without preamble. “NexTelis’s German plants are a mess. Their unions are spooked. Their board chair is—”
“Declan,” she cut in.
He stopped, mid-stride.
“Marissa cornered me,” she said. “She wants you to do a piece. Personal. About why this deal matters to you. Family stuff.”
His face shuttered.
“No,” he said instantly.
“I thought you’d say that,” she said.
“Then why bring it to me?” he snapped. “You could have told her to fuck off.”
“Because she’s not wrong,” she said, steel in her tone. “We *do* need a story. People are scared. They need to know you’re not just doing this for ego. Or profit. Even if you are doing it for those too.”
He glared.
“You want me to… cry for them,” he said. “Turn my life into a TED Talk.”
“No,” she said. “I want you to… *explain.* On your terms. Not theirs.”
“I explain with numbers,” he said. “With models. With… systems.”
“And that works for regulators and boards,” she said. “It doesn’t work for Jess. Or my father. Or the suppliers in Ohio who think you’re NexTelis 2.0.”
He flinched.
“Don’t,” he said weakly.
“It’s true,” she said. “You’re asking a lot of people to trust you. To go through pain now for a maybe-better later. Trust doesn’t grow from charts. It grows from… seeing you. Knowing why you won’t sleep at night if this goes wrong.”
He stared at her.
“That’s… intimate,” he said. “I don’t… do intimate in public.”
“I know,” she said softly. “That’s why this is hard. And why it matters.”
He paced again. One, two, three.
“This is Dr. Kline’s fault,” he muttered. “She’s making me… *feel*.”
“She’d be very proud I’m weaponizing her work,” Margot said dryly.
He shot her a look.
“I don’t want them to pity me,” he said. “Or… use it against me later. ‘Remember when you told that sob story about your grandfather’s store, Declan? How’s that working out for you while you close other people’s?’”
“They will,” she said bluntly. “Some of them. You can’t control that. You *can* control how you tell it. And why.”
He stopped.
Looked at her.
“Why would I tell it?” he asked, voice very quiet.
She swallowed.
“Because it’s the truth,” she said. “Because seeing the system from both sides is what made you so… good at this. Because you know what it’s like to be Jess. And my father. And those suppliers. And if you don’t *say* that, they’ll assume you don’t know. Or don’t care.”
“I do care,” he said. “Too much.”
“I know,” she said. “Show them.”
Silence stretched.
He stared at the whiteboard. At the **7**.
“I’m not doing a puff piece,” he said finally. “No glossy photos. No ‘boy from small town makes good.’”
“Agreed,” she said.
“If I do this,” he went on slowly, “it’s going to be uncomfortable. For me. For them. For you.”
“I live in uncomfortable,” she said. “It’s fine.”
He shot her a quick, grateful look. “You’ll help me write it.”
“Obviously,” she said. “Marissa will want to edit, but we’ll keep her away from the adjectives.”
He huffed a laugh.
He paced once more.
Stopped.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll do it. Op-ed. My terms. If Marissa doesn’t like it, she can… yell at you.”
“She’ll yell at both of us,” Margot said. “It’ll be a bonding exercise.”
He studied her.
“You’re sure this is a good idea,” he said. Not quite a question.
“No,” she said. “I’m sure it’s a *necessary* one.”
He nodded slowly.
“Dr. Kline is going to have a field day with this,” he murmured.
“She doesn’t need to know,” Margot said.
“She will,” he said. “She knows everything.”
“Creepy,” she said.
“Accurate,” he said.
They sat at his small round table, laptops open, and began.
She asked questions.
“When did you first realize your grandfather’s store was in trouble?”
“What did your mother say when the chain opened down the street?”
“How did it feel, watching him sign the papers?”
He answered.
Haltingly at first. Then, as the words found form, more fluidly.
“It wasn’t just the money,” he said at one point. “It was… watching him shrink. Week by week. He’d stand in the aisle, looking at the shelves, and I could see him… folding in on himself. Like the walls were pressing in and he didn’t know how to push back.”
She swallowed hard.
“Did anyone help?” she asked.
“A lawyer,” he said. “Briefly. Uselessly. A few regulars came by, bought more than they needed. But the bank didn’t care. The chain didn’t care. The system didn’t care. It was… silent. That was the worst part. The silence.”
She typed, fingers shaking.
“When I started Hale,” he went on, staring at his hands, “I told myself I’d never be on the side of the silence. That if I ever had power in a system like that, I’d… make noise. Even if it hurt. Especially if it hurt.”
“Why?” she asked, voice very soft.
“Because numbness is… death,” he said. “If you stop feeling, you stop… seeing. You become NexTelis.”
She blinked back tears.
He looked up.
Saw them.
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “You’ll make me stop.”
“I’m not crying,” she lied.
“You are,” he said. “And I… appreciate it. But if you cry, I’ll start… editing. To protect you. That’s not… useful.”
She laughed wetly. “You’re very… data-driven about my emotions.”
“Yes,” he said. “Don’t change that.”
They worked for two hours.
By the end, they had a draft.
It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t polished.
It was… raw.
He read it once, eyes moving faster the second half.
At the end, he closed his laptop.
“This is… a lot,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “It is.”
“And you’re sure,” he said again. “That this… matters.”
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
He exhaled.
“Send it to Marissa,” he said. “If she adds one ‘inspiring’ adjective, I’ll fire her.”
“She won’t,” Margot said. “I’ll stand between you and the adjectives.”
He gave her a look she tried not to read too much into.
As she left his office with the draft, she felt… responsible.
Not just for his calendar.
For his story.
For how the world would see him when he took off the mask for millions of strangers.
It was a lot.
It was also exactly what she’d signed up for, even if she hadn’t known it.
***
Two days later, the op-ed went live.
*Why I’m Buying the Company That Broke My Grandfather’s Store* by Declan Hale appeared on the home pages of three major business sites and a couple of smaller, more progressive outlets.
The response was immediate.
Some praised.
*“A rare bit of honesty from a CEO.”* *“If more tech leaders talked like this, we’d be in better shape.”*
Some scoffed.
*“Billionaire uses grandpa as PR shield.”* *“Spare us your trauma, Declan. You’re still closing plants.”*
Jess sent an email.
> I read it. > > I still don’t know if I’m keeping my job. > > But I believe you when you say you’re not doing this for the stock price alone. > > That makes it a little easier to breathe. > > – J
Her father texted.
> Read article. Your boss write too much. But… he know. I see it now. > > Still don’t like him. > > Maybe like him later.
Margot laughed through the ache.
She forwarded both to Declan.
He wrote back:
> Father “maybe liking me later” is high praise. > > I’ll take it.
That night, as she packed up at eleven, he stopped by her desk.
“Walk you out?” he asked.
Her heart stuttered.
“You don’t have to,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “I want to.”
Line. Edge.
She hesitated.
Then stood.
“Okay,” she said. “But if you get papped with your assistant, I’m denying everything.”
They rode the elevator down in silence.
In the lobby, the night guard nodded. Outside, the city hummed, damp and cold.
They walked side by side down the block.
“How are you?” she asked.
He huffed. “That’s my line.”
“I’m stealing it,” she said. “Deal with it.”
He tucked his hands into his coat pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind.
“Exposed,” he said finally. “Like I walked out onto a stage naked and said, ‘Here. Judge this.’”
“They will,” she said. “They are.”
“Yes,” he said. “Some will hate it. Some will love it. Most will forget it in a week.”
“But the ones who don’t,” she said. “They’ll be the ones who matter.”
He shot her a sideways glance. “You really believe that.”
“Yes,” she said. “Or I pretend to, very convincingly. It’s how I get up in the morning.”
He smiled faintly.
“You okay?” he asked, returning the question.
She thought of her father, of Priya, of Jess, of the plant list.
“No,” she said. “But I’m… functional.”
He nodded. “Same.”
They reached the corner where their paths diverged.
Her subway entrance. His car.
He stopped.
“So,” he said. “Seven days.”
“Six,” she corrected. “You’re still living in the past.”
“Story of my life,” he said.
She smiled.
“Margot,” he said, voice shifting. Deeper.
Her breath caught.
He stepped closer.
Not touching. Not quite.
“You were right,” he said quietly. “About this. About… doing the piece. About talking to Jess. About… a lot.”
She swallowed. “You’ll make my head big.”
“Good,” he said. “Maybe then you’ll stop… minimizing yourself.”
Her chest ached.
“You scare me,” she blurted.
He froze.
“What?” he asked, hoarse.
“You scare me,” she repeated, softer. “Not because you’re… you. Because of what I feel around you. Because of what I might do if I stop… holding the line.”
His pupils blew wide.
He took a breath. Let it out slowly.
“You scare me too,” he said.
She blinked. “I do?”
“Yes,” he said. “Because you see me. Because you… matter. Because I don’t know what I’d do if you… left. Or broke. Or… hated me.”
Her heart pounded in her ears.
“This is dangerous,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said.
They stood on the sidewalk, cold air biting their cheeks, city noise swirling.
A yellow cab blared its horn. Someone shouted across the street. A siren wailed in the distance.
He exhaled.
“I’m not going to kiss you,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
“Oh,” she said, stupidly.
“I want to,” he added, low.
Heat shot through her.
“I’m not going to,” he repeated. “Because if I do, this becomes something else. Something messy. Something I… don’t trust myself not to ruin. And I can’t… risk you. Or this. Not now. Not when so many people’s lives are tied to my capacity to… not fuck up.”
She stared at him, heart in her throat.
“That’s… the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” she said faintly.
He barked out a surprised laugh.
“I’m serious,” she added. “You wanting to kiss me is hot. You *not* kissing me because you care about consequences? That’s… fucking irresistible.”
He groaned, half-pained. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m not trying to,” she said. “I’m just… telling the truth.”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second.
Opened them.
“Go home,” he said roughly. “Sleep. Dream about… anything else.”
“Try telling my subconscious that,” she muttered.
He smiled, pained.
“Good night, Margot,” he said.
“Good night, Declan,” she said.
They didn’t hug.
They didn’t touch.
They stood there a second longer, like gravity had glitched, then turned in opposite directions.
As she descended into the subway station, her chest felt both lighter and heavier.
He wasn’t going to kiss her.
He *wanted* to.
He’d said so.
And he’d chosen not to.
The line held.
For now.
She didn’t know how long they could keep it.
She did know that if they crossed it, it wouldn’t be by accident.
It would be by choice.
And that terrified her more than anything.
---