Ten days.
The clock on the war room wall flipped to **Day 20/30** while Margot watched, coffee in hand, a faint buzzing in her ears.
Double digits left.
Manageable.
Terrifying.
She’d thought, naively, that the intensity might plateau.
It didn’t.
It spiked.
Every day brought a new fire.
Regulators wanted more documentation.
NexTelis’s board wanted a higher price.
Hale’s board wanted more assurances.
Employees wanted… something. Clarity. Comfort. Cookies.
She could give them the last.
The rest was… above her pay grade. And squarely in the space where she now lived.
She and Declan had fallen into a rhythm.
Work. Eat. Fight. Walk.
They never touched like that again.
Not consciously.
His hand brushed her wrist when she passed him a pen.
Her shoulder bumped his in a hallway.
Each contact felt amplified, like her skin had become an instrument tuned to one frequency.
She tried not to notice.
Failed.
On Day 23, her father called.
She was in the elevator, heading back up after a quick run to the lobby for caffeine, when his name flashed on her screen.
“Baba?” she answered.
“Your mother say I must call you,” he said without preamble. “Before I do something stupid.”
Her heart jumped. “What stupid thing?”
“Sign,” he said. “Or not sign.”
She exhaled. “Priya’s?”
“Yes,” he said. “We read. We argue. We eat. We still not sure.”
“Okay,” she said, stepping out onto thirty-three, angling into a quieter corner. “Talk to me.”
“It’s good,” he admitted. “Better than bank. But there is this…” Paper rustled. “Profit sharing,” he read, murdering the English. “If I make more, she takes piece.”
“Yes,” Margot said. “On revenue above a certain threshold. It’s like… a safety net. You get lower payments now. If business picks up, she gets a cut of the upside. It aligns her with you. She wants you to do well.”
He grunted. “I don’t like someone else in my pocket.”
“I know,” she said. “But someone’s already in there. At least this one is honest.”
He was quiet.
“She wants answer in two days,” he said. “Bank wants answer tomorrow. I want… no answers.”
She smiled sadly. “You want it to be 2008 again.”
He snorted. “You were in high school. You didn’t like 2008.”
“Fair,” she said.
He exhaled. “What do you think, *nǚ'ér*?”
She leaned against the wall, eyes closing briefly.
“I think staying with the bank is like standing in front of a train and hoping it stops,” she said. “I think Priya’s deal gives you a fighting chance. It’s not perfect. It’s not… fair. But it’s… less unfair.”
He chuckled. “You and your sister of words. Less unfair.”
She swallowed.
“I can’t tell you what to do,” she said. “I’m too close. I’m too… angry. If it were up to me, I’d sign just to spite the bank. But it’s your life. Your shop. Your pride.”
Silence.
“For once,” he said quietly, “I want to be… selfish.”
Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to think about bank. Or Priya. Or your mother. Or you,” he said. “I want to think, ‘What do I want?’”
“And?” she asked, heart in her throat.
“And I want to sleep,” he said. “I want to go to shop and smell oil and metal and not… fear letter in mailbox. I want to know if I die tomorrow, your mother doesn’t have men in suits knocking.”
Her eyes burned.
“Then sign,” she whispered.
He laughed, shaky. “That simple?”
“Nothing is simple,” she said. “But if that’s what you want… this is the best path there.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“Okay,” he said finally. “We sign.”
Relief and fear crashed together in her chest.
“I’ll call Priya,” she said. “We’ll schedule. I’ll be there. I’ll read every line again.”
“I trust you,” he said.
The words landed heavy and light.
“I’ll call her now,” she promised.
After they hung up, she stared at the wall for a second, breathing.
Then she called Priya.
“It’s not a yes,” Priya said after listening. “It’s a maybe leaning yes. I’ll take it.”
“That’s my father,” Margot said. “He commits like a cat commits to affection.”
“I like cats,” Priya said. “Tell him I’ll bring my best pen.”
They set a date for Friday.
Three days.
Three days until her father signed away his debt to one entity and bound himself to another.
Three days closer to NexTelis becoming Hale.
She slid her phone into her pocket and almost jumped when someone cleared their throat.
Declan stood a few feet away, watching her.
“How long have you been standing there?” she demanded.
“Long enough to know your father’s going to sign,” he said.
Heat crept up her neck. “You were eavesdropping?”
“I was walking,” he said. “You were talking. Loudly.”
She grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “How do you feel?”
She laughed weakly. “Like I took a step off a cliff and I’m hoping there’s a trampoline.”
“That’s a terrible metaphor,” he said. “Trampolines kill people.”
“Thank you for that,” she said. “Very soothing.”
He smiled faintly. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” she said. “And no. I feel… relieved. Scared. Guilty. Grateful. Pick one.”
“All,” he said. “You can feel all.”
“Dr. Kline would be proud,” she muttered.
He leaned against the wall beside her, shoulder almost touching.
“You did good,” he said quietly.
“She did good,” Margot said. “Priya. My father. You. I just… facilitated.”
He frowned. “You say that like it’s nothing.”
“It’s my job,” she said.
“It’s… more,” he said.
She didn’t argue.
Before she could deflect, Nina appeared at the war room door.
“Declan,” she called. “Investors are early. They’re on fifteen. They want to ‘drop by.’”
He made a face. “I hate drop-bys.”
“That’s why you have me,” Margot said. “To weaponize politeness.”
He straightened. “Come.”
She followed, sliding fully back into work mode.
Investors.
Smiles.
Scripts.
Fault lines.
She moved through them all.
The day blurred.
At six, as she was about to force herself to go home, her phone buzzed.
Lila.
*SOS. Need wine. And your couch. Guy I was seeing turned out to be engaged. To someone else. Found out via Instagram.*
Margot winced.
: *Come over. I’ll pick up wine. And ice cream. 30 min.*
> *You’re the best. Love you.*
She grabbed her bag.
As she passed Declan’s office, she paused.
He sat at his desk, staring at his screen, shoulders tense.
She knocked lightly on the glass.
He looked up.
“Triage?” he asked.
“Personal,” she said. “My cousin’s having a meltdown. I’m going to go let her cry on my couch and tell her she’s too good for men who can’t commit.”
His mouth curved. “Sounds… healthy.”
“You?” she asked. “Going home?”
“Eventually,” he said. “After I finish this model. And the next. And—”
“Stop,” she said. “No more models tonight. Go home. Sleep. Pet your Roomba.”
He huffed. “I don’t have a Roomba.”
“You should,” she said. “It would be your soulmate.”
He smiled properly then.
“Go,” he said. “Be a good cousin.”
She rolled her eyes. “Bossy.”
“Pot,” he said. “Kettle.”
She laughed.
At home, Lila showed up in leggings and an oversized hoodie, eyes red, mascara smudged.
Margot poured wine, handed her tissues, and listened.
“He posted *engagement photos*,” Lila wailed. “On top of a mountain. With some blonde yoga influencer. I was literally in his bed last month.”
Margot winced. “Men are trash.”
“Not all,” Lila said mournfully. “Just… the ones I pick.”
They talked.
They ate ice cream straight from the carton.
They watched a terrible romantic comedy that ended with a grand gesture at an airport.
At one point, during a lull, Lila squinted at her over her wine glass.
“So,” she said. “Tell me about your trash men.”
“I don’t have any,” Margot said. “I have spreadsheets.”
“Lies,” Lila said. “You have a boss who sends cake and rescues your father from the bank. That’s not spreadsheets. That’s rom-com territory.”
Margot groaned. “Can we not mix my life with your Netflix?”
“You started it,” Lila said. “With your emotional support billionaire.”
“Stop,” Margot said, holding up a hand. “He is not—We are not—It’s complicated.”
“Everything with you is complicated,” Lila said. “Uncomplicate this: do you like him?”
Margot stared at the TV.
“Yes,” she said softly.
“And does he like you?” Lila pressed.
“Yes,” Margot said, even more quietly.
“And are you going to do anything about it?” Lila asked.
“No,” Margot said, firm.
“Why?” Lila demanded.
“Because he’s my boss,” Margot said. “Because of power dynamics. Because of my father. Because of NexTelis. Because of everything.”
“Those are reasons,” Lila said. “Not answers.”
“They’re enough,” Margot said.
“For now,” Lila said shrewdly.
Margot didn’t respond.
Later, after Lila fell asleep on the couch, sniffling into a throw pillow, Margot sat in the dim light of her living room, wineglass in hand, and stared at her phone.
She thought of texting him.
*What are you doing?*
*Are you okay?*
*Do you ever want to burn it all down and start over?*
She didn’t.
Instead, she typed one sentence.
> *My father’s going to sign Friday.*
He replied almost immediately.
> *I won’t fuck it up.*
Her chest ached.
> *You might. We all might.*
> *I’ll try not to.*
She smiled, sad and fond.
> *Try harder.*
> *Bossy.*
> *Learned from the best.*
She put her phone down.
Ten days.
She could do ten days.
She’d done harder.
Maybe.
---
The next morning, things finally snapped.
Not in the way she’d expected.
Not in a war room.
Not in front of NexTelis.
At *coffee*.
Hale’s executive coffee nook had become an unofficial confessional. People drifted in, vented, refueled, whispered.
Margot walked in at 9:15, craving caffeine like oxygen.
She wasn’t alone.
Two mid-level managers she vaguely recognized—one from product, one from HR—stood by the machine, whispering.
“…saying she’s got him wrapped around her finger,” one was saying. A woman, glossy hair, perfect nails.
The man with her snorted. “You think? He’s not exactly… tactile.”
“I saw them,” the woman said. “Walking out together the other night. Late. Looked… cozy.”
Heat crawled up Margot’s neck.
She froze just inside the doorway.
“They’re always together,” the man said. “She’s in every meeting. Every call. He doesn’t go to the bathroom without her knowing.”
“Classic,” the woman said. “Man in power. Woman in ‘support’ role. Thirty days from now there’ll be a rumor she ‘slept her way into influence.’”
The man laughed. “HR will have a field day.”
“HR already on it,” the woman said. “Nina says they’re ‘monitoring the situation.’”
Margot’s hands clenched.
*Monitoring the situation.*
Like she was a leak.
Or a virus.
“She’s good, though,” the man said grudgingly. “He’s… calmer. Less… murdery.”
“Sure,” the woman said. “That’s what good sex does.”
They laughed.
Margot walked forward.
“Excuse me,” she said, voice cool enough to freeze boiling water. “Are you done talking about me, or should I pretend I didn’t hear the last thirty seconds?”
They jerked like guilty teenagers.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Margot. Hi. We were just—”
“Speculating about my sex life,” Margot said. “At work. In a public space. While ‘monitoring the situation.’”
Color rose in the woman’s cheeks. “It was a joke.”
“No,” Margot said. “It wasn’t.”
The man cleared his throat. “Look, we didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care what you ‘meant,’” Margot cut in. “Here’s what you *did*: you reduced my work to who you think I might be fucking. You turned a professional relationship into gossip fodder. You made it harder for every woman in this building who wants to be taken seriously around powerful men.”
Silence.
“I worked ten years to get here,” she went on, low. “I did not ‘sleep my way’ into anything. I stayed up my way. I out-organized, out-anticipated, and outlasted men who thought they owned the world. If you have feedback on my *performance*, my *behavior*, my *impact*—great. My door is open. If you want to talk about who you *think* I’m sleeping with, take it outside, and don’t be surprised if HR gets a complaint.”
The man swallowed. “We’re… sorry.”
“Are you.” It wasn’t a question.
The woman shifted, uncomfortable. “It’s just… people notice. The way he… looks at you. The way you… are with him. It’s… intense.”
Margot’s jaw tightened.
“Do you complain when two male execs are intense?” she asked softly. “When they spend a lot of time together? Or do you call that ‘mentorship’?”
The woman winced.
“He’s my *boss*,” Margot said. “I’m his EA. We’re in a thirty-day sprint on the biggest deal of his career. Of course we’re in each other’s pockets. That’s the *job*.”
She turned, grabbed a cup, and pressed the button for coffee with unnecessary force.
As the machine whirred, she added, without looking at them, “If you’re truly worried about ‘the situation,’ talk to Nina. Or to me. Don’t whisper in corners like you’re in high school. This isn’t *Gossip Girl*. It’s work.”
She picked up her coffee and walked out.
Her hand shook.
Anger. Shame. Something like… grief.
She’d known, abstractly, that people might talk.
She hadn’t expected to *hear* it.
She barely made it back to her desk before her phone buzzed.
Nina.
> *Can you come to my office? Now-ish?*
Margot closed her eyes.
Of course.
She set her coffee down and went.
Nina’s office on thirty was small but neatly organized, plants thriving in the corner.
Nina gestured to the chair. “Sit.”
Margot did.
“Should I start,” Margot said tightly, “or will you?”
Nina sighed. “You start. Save me from framing it wrong.”
“People are talking,” Margot said. “About me and Declan. About what it means that we work closely. About what they think is happening after hours.”
“Yes,” Nina said. “Some are worried. Some are just… bored.”
“I overheard two of them in the coffee nook,” Margot said. “Vividly. Lots of insinuations about power dynamics and cake.”
Nina winced. “Of course you did.”
Margot leaned forward. “Here’s the thing, Nina. I get it. I do. We are… intense. We’re in each other’s calendars, each other’s inboxes, each other’s physical space. It’s visible. It’s… unusual. But I am *not* fucking my boss. And I resent that my competence is being run through that filter.”
Nina held up her hands. “I know. I know you’re not. And even if you were, I resent that *that* is somehow more scandalous than the deals we’ve done that actually hurt people.”
Margot almost laughed. “Preach.”
Nina exhaled. “HR’s concern isn’t your morality. Or his. It’s optics. Liability. If something *did* happen, consensual or not, we’d be fucked. Legally. Culturally. People are already… sensitive.”
“Because of NexTelis,” Margot said.
“Yes,” Nina said. “There were… stories there. Affairs. Harassment. Power abuses. People are projecting. They see you two and they think, ‘Here we go again.’”
“We’re not them,” Margot said.
“I know,” Nina said. “Declan is not Rourke. You are not some twenty-two-year-old assistant being ‘mentored’ into his bed. But perceptions matter.”
Margot’s hands curled on her knees.
“What are you asking me to do?” she asked. “Stop doing my job? Step back so he can revert to meltdown mode?”
Nina shook her head. “No. I’m asking if *you* feel… safe. Respected. In control.”
The question disarmed her.
“Yes,” she said. “Mostly. As much as anyone can be under the circumstances.”
“Mostly?” Nina prodded.
Margot hesitated.
“We’ve… crossed some lines,” she said. “Emotionally. Not… physically. But we’ve… acknowledged attraction. We’re both… white-knuckling.”
Nina didn’t flinch. “Okay. That’s honest.”
“Too honest?” Margot asked.
“No,” Nina said. “Useful. That means we’re not dealing with a predator and a victim. We’re dealing with two competent adults in a pressure cooker trying not to blow up.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Margot muttered.
Nina tapped a pen against her notebook. “HR’s formal position is: as long as there’s no relationship, and as long as your work performance remains high and he’s not giving you preferential treatment in ways that screw others, we don’t intervene. Informally…”
She leaned forward.
“Informally,” she said, “I’m going to say this as a woman, not an HR rep: you have the right to be close to power without people assuming you slept your way there. You also have the responsibility, if you *choose* to get involved with someone like him, to think three steps ahead. For *you*. Not for us.”
Margot exhaled. “You sound like Priya.”
“Priya’s smart,” Nina said. “Listen to her.”
“I am,” Margot said. “And to you. And to my mother. And to my therapist, if I had one.”
“Get one,” Nina said bluntly. “We cover it. Declan shouldn’t be the only one processing this with a professional.”
Margot blinked. “You know about Kline.”
“Everyone on the exec floor knows about Kline,” Nina said. “She’s like our off-site trash bin. We send her our emotionally constipated geniuses, she sends them back slightly less likely to implode.”
Margot snorted.
Nina’s expression softened. “You okay?” she asked again.
“Yes,” Margot said. “Angry. Tired. But… okay.”
“Good,” Nina said. “I’ll handle the coffee gossips. Discreetly. Consider this your official ‘we know, we’re watching, don’t fuck up’ chat.”
“Comforting,” Margot said.
“Do you want me to talk to him?” Nina asked. “Directly.”
Margot considered.
Part of her wanted to shield him. To keep HR out of his head when he was already overloaded.
Another part recognized that if this blew up and she hadn’t looped him in, it would be worse.
“Yes,” she said. “But… gently. He’ll either overcorrect and freeze me out or double down out of stubbornness.”
“I know how to calibrate,” Nina said. “You think you’re the only one who handles intense men?”
Margot smiled faintly. “Fair.”
As she left Nina’s office, her phone buzzed.
Declan.
> *Nina just scheduled a ‘quick alignment’ with me. Should I be worried?*
She smirked despite everything.
> *Always. But less about HR than about me.*
> *Noted.*
She added, after a beat:
> *People are talking. About us. About me. About cake.*
Dots.
> *Of course they are.*
> *HR has to cover their asses. So do we. Nothing changes about work, but… be aware. Watch your tone. Your looks. Your… walks.*
> *My walks?*
> *No more moody Saturday morning pick-ups outside my apartment.*
> *I thought that was already a rule.*
> *Now it’s in the employee handbook.*
> *You write the handbook now?*
> *Always have.*
> *Bossy.*
She smiled.
Then set the phone down.
Ten days.
She could do ten days.
If she made it through without throttling a gossip, kissing her boss, or burning down NexTelis, she’d count it as a win.
The bar, she thought, had never been lower.
Or higher.
Depending on your view.
She straightened her shoulders, picked up her notebook, and walked back into the war room.
Into the fire.
Where she belonged.
For now.