The days compressed.
Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one.
Each morning, the war room screen ticked over, the big digital countdown flicking to a new number with a soft click that everyone felt in their bones.
NexTelis sent more people. Mid-levels. Ops leads. Finance grunts.
Hale’s war room developed its own ecosystem. Jokes. Rituals. A particular seat allocation that, if disturbed, made the whole table twitchy.
Margot lived in the center of it.
She moved like a conductor, eyes everywhere, pen flying. She’d never loved chaos. But she loved order *in* chaos. The way small interventions could ripple outward.
She took calls from regulators. She intercepted panicked Slack messages and turned them into usable information.
She watched Declan.
He was… holding.
More than she’d expected.
He’d learned to say, “I don’t know, I’ll get back to you,” in rooms where he once might have tried to brute-force an answer.
He’d learned to say, “This is uncomfortable but necessary,” instead of “Suck it up.”
He’d learned to say, when HR fretted about stress levels, “Build me a list of people at risk, and we’ll adjust workloads.”
She’d helped him with those phrases.
He’d deployed them with surgical precision.
He still had sharp edges.
He still snapped occasionally when someone wasted his time.
He still forgot to eat unless someone put food in front of him.
She still did that.
On the twenty-second day, two things happened that nudged everything sideways.
First, a former NexTelis employee went viral with a blog post titled *“What It Was Really Like Working Inside the Beast.”*
Second, an anonymous Twitter account posted a screenshot of an internal Hale memo that contained three words that made Margot’s blood go cold.
*Legacy liability optimization.*
She saw it at her desk at 9:04 a.m., coffee halfway to her lips, as Slack pinged with the link.
Her stomach dropped.
She clicked.
The screenshot showed a snippet of a doc, header redacted. The bullet point read:
> – Explore legacy liability optimization for small-scale supplier contracts (pre-2015) – potential targeted settlements / buyouts
Her heart pounded.
Legacy liability optimization.
Legal language for *how can we make this less expensive?*
Not necessarily evil.
Potentially… a landmine.
She opened the doc in their system with the same phrase in the title. Her access level turned the redacted memo into a full view.
It was a working paper from Legal and Corp Dev. Exploring scenarios for dealing with old NexTelis contracts that might, in theory, come back to bite them.
Scenario A: full assumption. Pay out every claim, honor every dispute.
Scenario B: negotiate down. Offer settlements to the loudest, wait out the rest.
Scenario C: aggressive stance. Use statutes of limitation and bankruptcy code to block as many claims as possible.
Nothing signed. Nothing chosen.
Just… possibilities.
Still.
Her palms went damp.
Before she could overthink, she grabbed her notebook and walked straight into Declan’s office.
He was on a call, earbuds in, voice clipped.
“—no, we’re not going to commit to a timeline we can’t guarantee,” he was saying. “If the FTC wants a press release, they can draft one with us instead of leaking half-informed comments to the Journal.”
He saw her, took in her face, and held up a finger.
“Excuse me,” he told whoever was on the other end. “I’ll call you back.” He hung up without waiting for protest.
Her chest fluttered at the casual prioritization.
Then she remembered why she was here.
She slapped the printed memo segment on his desk.
He blinked at it.
Then at her.
“Morning,” he said cautiously. “Is this about the leak?”
“You tell me,” she said, voice tight. “Legacy liability optimization. What, exactly, are we optimizing?”
He scanned the bullet points.
Understanding flickered across his face.
He leaned back.
“Legal and corp dev brainstorming,” he said. “Nothing decided.”
“They’re brainstorming ways to *not* pay people like my father,” she said. “And Luis. And everyone on that list.”
“Not exactly,” he said calmly. “They’re outlining the range of options. That’s their job.”
Her hands curled into fists. “And your job is to *choose*.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Which one?” she demanded. “A, we pay? B, we negotiate? C, we fuck them like NexTelis did and call it optimization?”
He flinched at the word.
“Language,” he said reflexively, then grimaced at himself.
She laughed, brittle. “Language? That’s what you’re worried about right now?”
He looked at her evenly. “I’m worried about *you* right now. Sit.”
“I don’t want to sit,” she snapped.
He raised a brow. “You’re pacing in my office with murder eyes. If you don’t sit, you’re going to either punch me or pass out. Neither is efficient.”
She hated that he wasn’t wrong.
She dropped into the chair, legs bouncing.
He laced his fingers, resting his forearms on the desk.
“Margot,” he said, voice level. “Tell me what you’re afraid of. Specifically. Not… globally.”
“I’m afraid,” she said, “that we’re going to use nicer words to do the same thing NexTelis did. That your lawyers and your deal guys are going to convince you that it’s acceptable to trample the small fry because ‘fiduciary duty.’ That my father is going to sign a deal with Priya and then get sideswiped by a decision you make in a room I’m not in.”
His throat worked.
“We’re not going to do Scenario C,” he said.
“You don’t know that,” she shot back. “Pressure changes people. Board members panic. Investors threaten to walk. Suddenly the ‘hard-nosed approach’ looks appealing.”
He looked… hurt. Barely. But there.
“Do you think so little of me?” he asked quietly.
The question hit like a slap.
“No,” she said, then cursed. “Yes. I don’t know. I think you’re… capable of being better. I also think you’re capable of rationalizing almost anything if the model tells you it’s optimal.”
He leaned back, jaw tight.
“That’s… fair,” he said slowly. “I… have.”
She blinked.
“What?” she asked.
“In the past,” he said. “When we were smaller. Scrappier. I made calls that… hurt people. Employees. Partners. I told myself it was necessary. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.”
“You never—” she began.
“Not like NexTelis,” he cut in. “Not with deliberate… cruelty. But impact doesn’t care about intent. I know that. Now.”
She watched him.
“Then why is this paper on your desk?” she asked, quieter now. “Why are we even *considering* the aggressive option?”
“Because I need to know the edges,” he said. “Best case, worst case, and everything in between. If I don’t see the ugliest option, I can’t consciously reject it. I don’t want someone in legal making that call without me. Or without you in my ear.”
Her breath stilled.
“You brought me in,” she said slowly, “to be your ethical constraint.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“You *want* me to yell at you when I see shit like this,” she said.
“Yes,” he said again.
Her anger faltered, confusion edging in.
“Then listen,” she said, leaning forward. “This—” she tapped the paper “—is a slippery slope. You start thinking of people as ‘legacy liabilities’ to be ‘optimized,’ you will *become* NexTelis. No matter how many nice town halls you do. No matter how many Luises you talk to.”
His eyes flashed. “I know that.”
“Do you?” she pushed. “Because sometimes I think you believe you’re immune. That you can sit in a room with people who talk like this and not be changed by it.”
He held her gaze.
“I am not immune,” he said quietly. “I’m… highly susceptible. To rational arguments. To numbers. That’s why I need… you. And Priya. And Kline. And… Luis. To pull me back from the edge when the math looks seductive.”
Her throat tightened.
“And you think that’s fair?” she asked. “To put that on us?”
“No,” he said. “But…it’s…where we are.”
She sank back, torn.
“Tell me what you would write,” he said.
She blinked. “What?”
“Instead of ‘legacy liability optimization,’” he said. “If you could dictate the policy. What would it say?”
She stared at him.
“Are you serious?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
She grabbed the paper, flipped it over, and scrawled, words spilling.
He watched.
When she pushed it back, her hand shook slightly.
He read.
> – Conduct full audit of NexTelis’s historic small supplier contracts and associated disputes > – Identify cases where NexTelis used asymmetrical bargaining power to extract unfair terms > – Prioritize remediation for most harmed partners (financial settlements, contract rewrites, or facilitated wind-down support) > – Establish a transparent, time-bound process for former partners to submit claims > – Communicate clearly which legacy liabilities Hale will assume and which fall outside scope (with rationale) > – Build in oversight (internal + external) to ensure process is not used to quietly bury obligations
He looked up.
“This is… expensive,” he said. “Time. Money. Reputation.”
“Yes,” she said. “Being less shitty than NexTelis *will* cost you. If you’re not willing to pay that bill, don’t pretend you’re ‘better.’”
He exhaled.
“I told the board,” he said slowly, “that buying NexTelis would mean eating some shit for things we didn’t do.”
“Wild thought,” she said. “Maybe follow through.”
A reluctant smile ghosted across his mouth.
“You’re infuriating,” he said.
“Also right,” she said.
His gaze softened, something like admiration shining through the frustration.
“Yes,” he said. “Also that.”
He tapped the paper.
“I can’t promise we’ll do all of this,” he said. “Board will push back. Legal will freak out. But I *can* promise this: we will not choose Scenario C. We will not… dodge. We will pick a path that, on balance, leaves more small operators standing than falling. And I will fight my board, if I have to, to make that happen.”
“Why?” she asked, searching his face. “Because it’s… right? Because you care? Or because it’s good PR?”
“Because you’ll quit if I don’t,” he said.
She blinked.
“And because,” he added, “it’s… right. And because I care. And because it’s good PR. All of those can be true.”
She swallowed.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
“Okay,” he echoed.
He hesitated.
“Stay in the room,” he said. “For every discussion about this. Even if it’s late. Even if you’re tired. Even if it hurts.”
“I was planning to,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Yell when you need to. Like you just did.”
She huffed. “You like being yelled at?”
“I like knowing where the edges are,” he said. “Your yelling is… data.”
“You’re impossible,” she muttered.
“Yes,” he said.
She left with the knot in her chest slightly looser.
But as the day went on, a new crack formed.
Not in their trust.
In his armor.
It happened that evening, long after most people had gone home.
The war room was a ghost town. The countdown board ticked to **Day 21/30**.
Margot sat at her desk, eyes gritty, drafting a response plan for the viral blog post.
She’d read it three times. The former NexTelis employee had painted a picture of a company rotted from the inside by greed, fear, and a culture of “just business.”
Commenters were furious.
Some at NexTelis.
Some at Hale.
*Why is he buying them?*
*Won’t he just do the same?*
*Here we go again—new boss, same as the old boss.*
She crafted language that acknowledged without absolving. That said, *We hear you* without, *We promise we’ll never hurt anyone ever again, cross our hearts*.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Dr. Kline.
> *He left my office earlier more spun up than usual. Keep an eye.*
She frowned.
Unusual for Kline to reach out directly.
She looked toward his office.
The glass was opaque.
She checked the time.
7:42 p.m.
He usually stayed later.
She hesitated.
Then stood.
At his door, she knocked softly.
No answer.
She cracked it open.
The lights were dim.
He sat on the couch, tie gone, shirt untucked, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
The sight hit her like a punch.
Declan Hale, billionaire, “dangerous,” the man who danced with regulators and CEOs, looked… small.
“Declan?” she said softly, closing the door behind her.
He didn’t look up.
“Go home, Margot,” he said, voice rough. “You’re off tomorrow. Enjoy it.”
Her heart pinched.
“Dr. Kline texted me,” she said, crossing the room slowly. “Told me to ‘keep an eye.’ Which is very unprofessional of her. I approve.”
He huffed a mirthless laugh. “She’s conspiring with you now.”
“Women’s network,” she said. “We trade notes on difficult men.”
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t move.
She sank into the chair opposite the couch.
“What happened?” she asked.
He shrugged, a jerky movement. “Same as always. She poked. I bled. We called it progress.”
“That’s graphic,” she said.
“You started it,” he said. “With knives and soup.”
She smiled faintly.
He dragged a hand over his face.
“She asked what would happen if this deal fails,” he said. “If I… fail.”
Her chest tightened. “And you said…?”
“That I don’t,” he said simply.
She watched him.
“That’s not an answer,” she said.
“No,” he said. “It’s a… belief. A necessary delusion.”
“Everyone fails,” she said. “Even you.”
“Not publicly,” he said. “Not like this. Not with this much… visibility. This is my white whale. If I miss…” He trailed off.
“What?” she pressed. “If you miss, you’ll… what? Lose some money? Piss off your board? Get bad press for a news cycle?”
He laughed, harsh.
“Nice attempt to minimize,” he said. “But you know it’s bigger.”
“Yes,” she said. “So say it.”
He stared at the carpet.
“If I miss,” he said slowly, “I’ll prove everyone who ever called me ‘too much’ or ‘too intense’ or ‘unrealistic’ right. I’ll confirm that I’m a… freak who doesn’t know his limits. I’ll… become NexTelis. Another man who thought he could fix the world and just… broke more things.”
Silence.
She exhaled.
“Wow,” she said lightly. “No pressure.”
He gave a strangled laugh.
“I know it’s illogical,” he said. “I know missing one deal doesn’t define me. That’s what she says. That’s what *you* would say.”
“Yes,” she said. “Because it’s true.”
“Doesn’t feel true,” he said.
“Feelings are shitty at math,” she said. “Brains are weird like that.”
He looked up finally.
His eyes were… naked.
No mask. No CEO. Just a man drowning in a story he’d built for himself.
“What if I’m wrong?” he asked quietly.
“About NexTelis?” she asked.
“About… everything,” he said. “About my ability to hold this. To… do this without… becoming what I hate.”
Her heart squeezed so hard it hurt.
“You might be,” she said.
He flinched.
“Comforting,” he said dryly.
“You asked,” she said gently. “You might be wrong. You might fuck this up. You might hurt people you don’t mean to. You might wake up in ten years and realize you’ve become a man you despise.”
“Again,” he muttered.
She tilted her head. “Or you might… not.”
He snorted. “Profound.”
“You want certainty,” she said. “Guarantees. There aren’t any. Not here. Not with this. Not with me. You’re making choices with incomplete information. That’s life.”
“Sounds inefficient,” he said.
“It is,” she said. “Live with it.”
He dropped his head back, staring at the ceiling.
“You should go,” he said. “Sleep. Pretend you have a life.”
She hesitated.
“I don’t want to leave you like this,” she said.
He huffed. “I’m not going to walk into traffic, Margot.”
“I know,” she said. “But I also know you. You’ll sit here for three hours, replaying every decision you’ve ever made, and by the time you go home, your brain will be static.”
“That’s efficient rumination,” he said.
“That’s self-harm,” she said.
He flinched.
“Don’t use therapy words against me,” he muttered.
She stood.
“Come on,” she said. “Walk with me.”
He frowned. “Where?”
“Around the block,” she said. “We’re not going to figure out the moral arc of the universe in this office tonight. We *can* get you some fresh air.”
He hesitated.
She extended her hand.
For a second, she thought he’d refuse.
Then he reached out.
Their fingers brushed.
Not a full grasp. Just a contact.
Electric.
He sucked in a breath.
So did she.
She wanted to pull away.
She didn’t.
She let her fingers close around his, warm and rough and too much.
He stood, letting her tug him up.
They walked out together.
Through the empty floor.
Past the dark war room.
Down the elevator.
Onto the street.
The air was cooler, the city humming at a lower volume.
They walked in silence for a while, hands still linked.
She knew she should let go.
She didn’t.
At the corner, he cleared his throat.
“Rule violation,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“Feels… nice,” he admitted.
Her heart stuttered.
“Dangerous,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
They walked.
He didn’t talk about NexTelis.
She didn’t bring up her father.
They commented on a dog in a ridiculous sweater. A busker playing violin. A couple arguing in rapid Spanish about rent.
Normal things.
Small.
Ordinary.
Human.
By the time they looped back to the building, his shoulders had dropped half an inch.
His breathing was slower.
Her hand felt like it was on fire.
At the door, she let go.
He looked down at his hand.
Then at her.
“Thank you,” he said again.
She wanted to kiss him.
Badly.
She didn’t.
“Go home, Declan,” she said instead. “Sleep. Dream about anything but contracts.”
He smiled, tired and crooked. “You too.”
They parted.
Upstairs, as she gathered her things, her phone buzzed.
MOM.
> *You coming Sunday? Your father says if you don’t, he will send loan lady to collect you.*
Margot laughed aloud.
She typed back.
> *I’ll be there. Tell him to hide the paperwork.*
She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed out.
Her hand still tingled.
Her heart still hurt.
Fault lines, she thought.
They were everywhere now.
But maybe, just maybe, they were learning how to build structures that could flex without breaking.
She hoped so.
Because something was going to give soon.
She could feel it.
The question was whether it would be the deal.
Or them.
---