Tuesday dawned gray and humid, the sky a low lid over the city.
Margot stood outside Priya’s office building at 8:52 a.m., her father beside her in his best shirt and oldest shoes.
He’d insisted on the shoes. “Lucky,” he’d said. “Lasted through everything. I trust them more than I trust bankers.”
Her mother had stayed home, claiming “too much to do,” but Margot suspected it was because she couldn’t bear to sit in another room where men and women in nice clothes talked about her husband’s life like a spreadsheet.
The building was in Midtown, all polished limestone and discrete gold lettering.
Chen Precision Components had never warranted entrance to a place like this when it had been alive.
Margot adjusted her grip on the folder under her arm—copies of the loan docs, her own notes, a printout of Priya’s initial email.
“You ready?” she asked her father.
He grunted. “No. But we go anyway.”
She smiled faintly. “That’s the spirit.”
They rode the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor.
The reception area of Shah Capital Partners was surprisingly warm. Real plants. Dark wood. A large photograph on the wall of a crowded street market somewhere in South Asia.
The receptionist looked up, friendly. “Good morning. Can I help you?”
“Yes,” Margot said. “We’re here to see Priya Shah. Ten o’clock. Chen.”
The receptionist’s eyes flicked to the screen. “Of course. She’s expecting you. Please, have a seat.”
Her father perched on the edge of the leather armchair, hands on his knees, eyes scanning the room.
“You okay?” she murmured.
He shrugged. “Too quiet.”
She almost laughed. “You want me to ask them to run a lathe in the corner?”
He snorted.
Priya emerged a few minutes later, in a charcoal dress and low heels, her bob sharp, her eyes sharper.
“Mr. and Ms. Chen,” she said, extending a hand. “Thank you for coming.”
Her father stood, shaking her hand cautiously. “You are the loan lady,” he said.
Priya’s mouth curved. “I’ve been called worse. Please, call me Priya.”
“Priya,” he repeated, testing. “You young.”
“Compared to some,” she said easily. “Older than your daughter thinks I am. Come.” She gestured toward a glass-walled conference room. “Let’s talk.”
Inside, the table was neat. No stacks of paper. Just three folders and a carafe of water.
“Coffee? Tea?” Priya offered.
“Water,” Margot said.
“Tea,” her father said. “If you have. Green.”
Priya smiled. “We do. My mother would disown me if I didn’t.”
As she poured, she said, “Before we start, I want to be clear about what I am and what I’m not.” She set a mug in front of him. “I’m not a charity. I’m not here to make you feel better about what NexTelis did. I can’t fix that.”
Her father nodded slowly. “I know. No one can.”
“I *am*,” she went on, “someone who buys shitty loans from banks and tries to turn them into something slightly less shitty for everyone. I make money doing this. But I also sleep at night. That’s my balance.”
Margot liked her more every time she opened her mouth.
“How do you make money?” her father asked bluntly.
Priya sat. “Your bank has you on a loan with a principal of, what, eight hundred thousand?”
Her father shifted. “Seven-fifty, when they first give. Now more. Interest.”
“Right,” she said. “And they’re charging you what interest rate?”
He mumbled a number.
Margot winced.
Priya didn’t.
“Classic,” she said. “They’ve tagged you ‘distressed’ and jacked the rate while tightening terms. If I buy the loan at, say, forty-eight cents on the dollar, I pay them three hundred sixty thousand. You still owe me the full amount on paper, but I can restructure.”
Her father frowned. “Why I still owe full if you pay less?”
“Because that’s how the game works,” Priya said plainly. “If I forgive principal, I lose money. If I keep the principal but change the rate and term, I can still make a return *and* make your life less of a nightmare.”
His mouth tightened. “Sounds like bank.”
“Difference is,” she said, unflinching, “I’m telling you straight. No teaser rates. No hidden covenants. If we do this, I’ll put all the terms on a single page and we’ll go through them one by one. If you don’t like them, we don’t sign.”
He looked at Margot.
She met his gaze steadily. “Better the devil you can read than the one you can’t.”
Priya opened a folder and slid a document across the table.
“This is my rough proposal,” she said. “Two options.”
Her father leaned forward, squinting.
Margot read.
Option A: keep the shop operating. Lower interest, extended term, monthly payments cut almost in half. In exchange, modest profit-sharing on any revenue above a certain threshold.
Option B: planned wind-down over three years. Reduced payments, partial forgiveness at the end, equipment sale structured so he’d keep a decent chunk of cash, not just pay creditors.
Her throat tightened.
“This is…” she began.
“Better than the bank,” her father finished, disbelief coloring his voice.
“Yes,” Priya said. “Because the bank doesn’t care if you shut down. You’re a line item. I care because I’m buying *you*, not a portfolio. If you fail, I fail. That aligns us.”
“And if I die?” he asked, too casually.
Margot’s heart squeezed.
Priya didn’t flinch. “Then we talk now about contingency. Does your wife want to keep the shop? Does your daughter? If not, we build that into the plan. No surprises.”
He snorted. “My wife would burn the machines for warmth before she run shop. My daughter has better things to do.”
He said it with pride and a hint of regret.
Margot’s chest ached.
“So we assume wind-down on death,” Priya said. “We can even build in a life insurance policy if you want—small, just enough to cover remaining principal so your family gets equipment sale proceeds clean.”
He blinked. “You think of everything.”
“Not everything,” she said. “Just the things that screw people when they’re not looking. I’ve been doing this a while.”
He was quiet a moment.
“Why you do this?” he asked abruptly. “You could work for big bank, make more money, not worry about little guys.”
Priya’s jaw tightened briefly.
“My father ran a shop,” she said. “In Mumbai. Not parts—textiles. He lost it in ‘98 when a conglomerate decided to offshore and the bank pulled his credit line with three weeks’ notice. He died of a heart attack two years later. My mother still thinks it was the bank that killed him.”
Silence fell.
“I went to business school,” Priya went on. “Learned the game. Played it. Then I decided I’d rather be on this side of the table. Still a game, yes. But at least I get to tweak the rules for people like him. Like you.”
Her father stared at her.
Something in his face softened.
“You sound like my daughter,” he said gruffly.
“Then you raised her well,” Priya said.
Heat prickled at Margot’s eyes.
“Mr. Chen,” Priya said, folding her hands. “I could talk at you for an hour, but at the end of the day, this is simple. Staying with your bank is death by a thousand cuts. Coming with me is… another kind of risk. But it’s one where you can see the knife.”
“Your metaphors,” Margot muttered. “Very stabby.”
Priya’s mouth quirked. “Comes with the job.”
Her father exhaled noisily.
“You want honest?” he said. “I don’t like any of this. I don’t like banks. I don’t like forms. I don’t like your… capitalist magic tricks.”
Priya inclined her head. “Fair.”
“But,” he went on, “I like my life. I like my shop. I like not waking up at three in morning thinking about interest.”
He looked at Margot.
“What do *you* think?” he asked.
She swallowed.
Every instinct screamed to say *yes*. Take the deal. Grab this lifeline before the bank tightened its hold.
Another instinct—the one honed by years of watching executives sign things they didn’t understand—said, *slow down*.
“I think,” she said carefully, “this is the best offer we’re going to get from anyone who doesn’t share our last name. I think Priya’s being honest about her motives. I think staying with the bank is… untenable.”
Her father absorbed that.
He turned back to Priya.
“You will not… trick me?” he asked, abrupt.
“No,” she said. “I don’t need to. I make money even if I’m transparent. Trickery is inefficient.”
He huffed. “You sound like my daughter too.”
Margot snorted.
Priya slid a pen across the table. “Take the week,” she said. “Read it. Sleep on it. Yell at your daughter. Call me with questions. I’m not chasing. If you want this, you come to me.”
He eyed the pen like it might explode.
“Always same with you people,” he muttered. “Everything is signature.”
Priya’s lips twitched. “You want to prick your thumb and make it blood? We can do that. Might freak out compliance, though.”
He laughed, surprised.
Margot felt something unclench.
On the way out, Priya touched Margot’s elbow lightly.
“Five minutes?” she murmured.
Margot squeezed her father’s arm. “Wait for me downstairs? I’ll be right there.”
He nodded, ambling toward the elevators with his packet of papers, muttering about “too many zeros.”
Priya led Margot into a small side office.
Declan’s name flashed across the screen of her phone on the desk.
He’d texted while they were in the meeting.
> *How’d it go?*
Margot ignored it for the moment.
“Well?” Priya asked, leaning against the desk.
“Well,” Margot said. “He likes you. That’s a big hurdle.”
“He likes that I don’t bullshit,” Priya said. “Men like your father don’t need hand-holding. They need someone to cut through.”
“Thank you,” Margot said. “Seriously.”
Priya waved a hand. “Don’t. Not until he signs. And even then, save it. We’ll need that gratitude when we have to renegotiate in five years.”
Margot smiled weakly.
Priya’s eyes sharpened. “How are *you*?”
Margot frowned. “Fine.”
“Liar,” Priya said cheerfully. “I’ve seen that face before. On myself. Late twenties, high thirties, women doing too much for too many people and pretending their load isn’t heavy.”
“I’m managing,” Margot said.
“Better than most,” Priya conceded. “You’ve got Declan pointed in mostly the right direction. That’s an accomplishment.”
Heat crept up Margot’s neck. “He points himself.”
“Sure,” Priya said. “And you… nudge. Don’t minimize it. Men like him like to think they’re self-contained systems. They’re not. They’re networks. You’re in his now.”
“I know,” Margot said quietly.
Priya watched her. “You sleeping with him?”
Margot nearly choked. “Oh my God.”
Priya shrugged. “Direct saves time.”
“No,” Margot said firmly. “And I’m not going to.”
Priya’s expression didn’t change. “He wants to.”
Heat flared for entirely the wrong reasons. “That’s not—We’re not—we have *rules*.”
Priya’s mouth twitched. “I ask because I’ve seen versions of this. Woman like you. Man like him. High pressure. High stakes. Lines get blurry.”
“I’m not your cautionary tale,” Margot said, more sharply than she intended.
Priya held up her hands. “Nor do I want you to be. I like you. I like him. I like what you’re trying to do together. I’d prefer it not end in tears and resignations.”
“It won’t,” Margot said, more confidently than she felt.
Priya studied her for a beat.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Then my unsolicited advice is: don’t martyr yourself. If it gets to be too much—emotionally, professionally, ethically—walk. Men like Declan will survive. They always do. You don’t have to set yourself on fire to keep his deal warm.”
Margot almost laughed. “Everyone keeps giving me fire metaphors.”
“Because you’re flammable,” Priya said dryly. “Bright. Hot. Dense. Good for burning. Try not to.”
Margot swallowed.
“I’ll… keep that in mind,” she said.
Priya glanced at her phone. “He’s texting me too,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Wants an update.”
“Of course he does,” Margot muttered.
“I’ll tell him the truth,” Priya said. “That his meddling might actually help this time.”
“He didn’t have to—” Margot began.
“I know,” Priya said. “But he did. That means something. Don’t get used to it. But note it.”
Margot nodded.
She left with a little less weight on her shoulders and a little more on her heart.
Downstairs, her father stood outside, staring up at the building.
“Well?” she asked.
He grunted. “She’s sharp. Like you. I don’t trust her. But I trust her more than the bank.”
“That’s… something,” Margot said.
He tucked the folder under his arm. “We think. We talk. We let your mother yell. Then we decide.”
“Good plan,” she said.
As they parted at the subway entrance, he squeezed her hand.
“Your boss,” he said. “He did good, connecting us.”
“Yes,” she said. “He did.”
“Tell him,” her father said. “From me.”
She nodded, throat tight.
“I will.”
***
Hale’s thirty-third floor buzzed when she stepped out of the elevator just after eleven.
The war room door was open. Voices spilled out. The big board in the hall showed a timer: **Day 18/30**.
Her desk had a sticky note on the monitor.
*Call me. – D.*
She dropped her bag, booted her laptop, and dialed.
He picked up on the first ring.
“Well?” he said.
“Impatient,” she said by way of greeting.
“Yes,” he said. “Report.”
She smiled despite herself.
“It went… well,” she said. “He likes her. He doesn’t trust her. He trusts her more than the bank. She gave him real options. He’s… thinking.”
“Good,” Declan said quietly.
“And he told me to thank you,” she added.
A beat.
“For what?” he asked.
“For connecting us,” she said. “For meddling. His words, not mine.”
He exhaled, a sound that might have been relief. “Tell him he’s welcome.”
“I did,” she said softly.
Silence hummed for a second.
“Status on NexTelis?” she asked, shifting gears.
“We got the FTC’s preliminary response,” he said. “No outright block, but they want more documentation on regional impacts. Legal is… cautiously optimistic.”
“Meaning they’re no longer drafting your obit?” she said.
“Correct,” he said.
“Internal?” she asked.
“People are… twitchy,” he said. “After the town hall, HR’s gotten more questions. Some are thoughtful. Some are...”
“‘Will I get a raise if we buy NexTelis?’” she guessed.
“Yes,” he said dryly. “Those.”
“I’ll work with Nina on a FAQ,” she said. “Set expectations. Quash fantasies.”
“Good,” he said. “Come to my office?”
“I just walked in the door,” she protested.
“You move fast,” he said. “Use it.”
He hung up.
She shook her head, fighting a smile.
Bossy.
Infuriating.
Her boss.
She eyed the war room, then his frosted glass.
War room could wait ten minutes.
She slipped into his office and shut the door behind her.
He sat at his desk, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled. A half-empty coffee cup sat near his laptop.
His eyes flicked over her—hair, face, clothes—then settled on her eyes.
“You look… tired,” he said.
“So do you,” she retorted.
“Accurate,” he said. “Sit.”
She did.
He watched her, elbows on the desk, fingers laced.
“Thank you,” he said.
There it was again.
Gut-punch, simple.
“For what this time?” she asked.
“For… this,” he said, gesturing vaguely between them. “For going to Priya with your father. For not… shutting me out.”
She frowned. “I considered it.”
“I know,” he said. “You… paused before you texted me back Saturday.”
Heat crept up her neck. “You can’t *know* that.”
He shrugged. “You usually answer within three minutes. That one took twelve.”
She stared.
“You clock my response times,” she said slowly.
“Yes,” he said, like it was nothing. “It’s useful. I know when you’re in transit, in meetings, ignoring me, upset.”
“You’re… creepy,” she said, not entirely joking.
“Yes,” he said. “You’re still here.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
“How was…” He made a small, awkward gesture. “Family?”
“Loud,” she said. “Nosy. Opinionated. Perfect.”
He smiled, something soft flickering. “Your mother still thinks I’m dangerous?”
“Yes,” she said. “I told her she’s right.”
He winced. “Brutal.”
“She also thinks you’re ‘signaling’ with cake,” Margot said.
He huffed. “I was signaling… pastry.”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” she muttered.
He choked on a laugh.
“You told them… about NexTelis?” he asked, more carefully.
Her jaw tightened. “No.”
He studied her. “Why not?”
“Because it’s complicated,” she said. “Because my father’s heart can’t take another shock. Because if I say, ‘Hey, Baba, the man I work for is trying to buy the company that ruined you, but don’t worry, he’s one of the good ones,’ he’ll either laugh in my face or have a stroke.”
His expression pinched. “I… get that.”
“Do you?” she pressed. “Because sometimes I feel like you think telling the truth is always the right call, no matter the collateral.”
He hesitated. “I… used to. Less so now.”
“What changed?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“You,” he said simply.
Heat flared under her skin.
“Don’t,” she said hoarsely.
“Don’t what?” he asked.
“Make me your turning point,” she said. “I refuse to be the woman in the TED Talk you thank for teaching you to be human.”
He almost laughed. “I’m not giving a TED Talk.”
“You know what I mean,” she said. “I’m not your… redemption arc.”
He sobered.
“I know,” he said. “You’re my… constraint.”
She blinked. “Sexy.”
“In systems terms,” he said. “Constraints make models more accurate. You… correct for variables I’d rather ignore.”
She exhaled. “That’s… better.”
He drummed his fingers once, then stilled.
“Can I ask… something?” he said slowly.
“You just did,” she pointed out.
He rolled his eyes. “Another something.”
She sighed. “Fine.”
“If,” he said, choosing words carefully, “NexTelis had not… hurt your father. If they were just… another legacy player. Would you still hate this deal?”
She paused.
That was a good question.
She thought of the systems. The network effects. The potential for optimization. The risk.
“No,” she said finally. “I’d be wary. I’d push. But I wouldn’t… feel it in my bones like this.”
“And if I’d told you from day one,” he went on, “that I was targeting them, that your father’s company was on the list… would you have taken this job?”
She considered.
“No,” she said honestly. “Or I would have, but with the explicit goal of sabotaging you.”
He snorted. “At least you’re honest.”
“You asked,” she said.
He nodded, absorbing.
“So you’re here,” he said, “because I told you *after* you’d already… committed.”
“Yes,” she said.
“That seems… unfair,” he said.
“Welcome to my world,” she said lightly.
He flinched.
“I’m not… blaming you,” she added, softer. “I chose this. I could still walk.”
“I’d prefer you didn’t,” he said quietly.
“I know,” she said.
Silence hummed.
He broke it.
“I talked to Kline about you,” he said.
Her brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“Not in detail,” he said quickly. “Just… context. She asked what changed. I said, ‘My EA.’”
Her stomach did something unpleasantly fluttery.
“And what did your therapist say about me?” she asked, aiming for dry and landing too close to vulnerable.
“That you’re a mirror,” he said.
She frowned. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you reflect my… shit back at me,” he said. “In ways I can’t ignore. She thinks it’s… good. And dangerous.”
“She’s not wrong,” Margot muttered.
“She also said,” he added, “that I need to be careful not to treat you like an emotional dumping ground, because then you’ll burn out and leave and I’ll be… alone with my spreadsheets again.”
She smiled, despite the sting. “She’s very wise.”
“She is,” he said. “She also charged me three hundred dollars to tell me that, so please don’t let it go to your head.”
She laughed.
“You have two choices,” he said.
“Always,” she said. “Lay them on me.”
“Choice one,” he said. “We proceed as we are. You stay in every room. You yell at me when I’m an idiot. You… carry more than you should.”
“Choice two?” she asked.
“Choice two,” he said, “you… create some… distance. Operationally. You delegate more to Raj. You step out of some meetings. You protect… yourself. More. From… me.”
She stared.
“You’re about to ask me,” she said slowly, “if I need to be protected from you.”
“Yes,” he said. “Do you?”
Her throat tightened.
She thought of Saturday morning. His car outside her building. His face in that Henley. The way her body had responded without consulting her brain.
She thought of NexTelis’s conference room. His hand almost touching hers under the table.
She thought of mango cake.
“Yes,” she whispered. “And no.”
“Useless answer,” he said, but very gently.
“I need protection from my own… patterns,” she said. “Not from you. You’re… just data.”
“Thanks?” he said.
“You’re also a catalyst,” she went on. “You speed things up. Intensify them. That’s dangerous. For both of us.”
“Yes,” he said.
“So we proceed with caution,” she said. “Not distance. I don’t want out. Not yet. Maybe not at all.”
He exhaled.
“Okay,” he said. “Caution.”
“Ground rule,” she said. “No more surprise Saturday mornings.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
“Reasonable,” he said. “I’ll schedule my boundary violations in advance.”
She glared.
He smiled.
She stood. “War room?”
“Yes,” he said. “Investors at one. NexTelis at three. FTC at five. I hate this day.”
“You love this day,” she said. “You live for this shit.”
He didn’t deny it.
As she reached for the door, he said, “Margot.”
She looked back.
“Your father,” he said. “If he… signs… his loan will still be on NexTelis’s list. In my models. I won’t… erase it. I don’t think that would be honest.”
Pain and pride twisted together in her chest.
“Good,” she said. “I don’t want to be erased.”
He nodded.
She left.
In the war room, as she took her place by the wall, notebook in hand, she glanced once at the giant timeline.
**Day 18/30.**
Twelve left.
Twelve days to close the deal, restructure a life, and not fall apart.
Easy, she thought.
She’d done harder.
Maybe.
---