By Friday morning, Margot felt like every nerve ending in her body had its own Slack notification.
Her watch buzzed with calendar alerts. Her phone buzzed with texts—Priya confirming, Nina nudging, her mother reminding. Her brain buzzed with the countdown: **Day 23/30.** Seven days.
She downed her first coffee at 7:10 a.m., her second at 8:20, and by 9:00 she was already at her desk, laptop open, two worlds colliding in color-coded blocks.
9:30–11:00: Core integration timeline review – war room. 11:30–1:00: Meeting with Priya & her father to sign. 2:00–3:30: NexTelis operations deep dive. 4:00–5:00: Board finance committee.
She’d shoehorned her father’s appointment into the one hole in her morning like she was playing Tetris with lives.
“You good?” Raj asked, stopping by with his own coffee. “You look like you swallowed a live wire.”
“I’ve been called worse,” she said. “Day?”
He grimaced. “High chance of bullshit with scattered showers of panic.”
“So, normal,” she said.
“Exactly,” he said. “You stepping out?”
“Midday,” she said. “Priya. My father. Signatures and possible explosions.”
His face softened. “You want backup?”
“I’ll have Priya,” she said. “And my mother via telepathic guilt.”
“Stronger than any legal team,” Raj said. “We’ll be here, not burning things down. Probably.”
“Try to keep him from buying anything else while I’m gone,” she said.
“No promises,” he said, winking.
At 9:15, Declan’s office glass flicked clear.
He was already in.
She knocked once and stepped in.
He looked up from a stack of printed decks, eyes shadowed but focused.
“Status?” he asked.
“War room in ten,” she said. “Then I leave you for ninety glorious minutes to sign away my father’s soul.”
He winced. “Dramatic.”
“Welcome to my family,” she said.
“You sure you want to do this today?” he asked. “You can push. Priya won’t—”
“She gave us a week,” she cut in. “We’re at the end of it. The bank’s breathing down his neck. Every day we wait is another fee. Today.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay.”
“You?” she asked. “How are *you*?”
“Plaid-adjacent,” he said. “But functional.”
“You didn’t sleep,” she said.
“Two hours,” he said.
“That’s not sleep,” she said. “That’s a nap with marketing.”
He huffed a laugh. “You’ve used that line before.”
“Recycling is good for the planet,” she said.
He watched her for a beat.
“Margot,” he said quietly. “If you need… to step back after this. From NexTelis. From… me. I’ll understand.”
She stared. “You offering to… fire me?”
His mouth tightened. “No. I’m offering you… an out. If this gets too tangled. Family. Work. Me. Them. All of it.”
She swallowed.
“I appreciate the thought,” she said. “Truly. But you don’t get to scare me into this and then set me free when it makes you uncomfortable.”
He blinked. “I’m not—”
“You *are*,” she said, gently. “Your instinct when something might get messy is to control it or cut it. That’s why you’re good at this. It’s also why you see me as a variable to manage.”
His throat worked. “You’re more than a variable.”
“I know that,” she said. “Do you?”
He looked away, jaw tight.
“Yes,” he said finally. “Unfortunately.”
“Good,” she said. “Then treat me like it. I’m making this choice. If I decide I need out, I’ll say so. Until then, stop trying to be noble. You’re bad at it.”
He almost smiled. “Kline says the same.”
“Then she’s earning her fee,” Margot said.
He eyed her. “You really don’t want me to… smooth this for you.”
“It’s not your to smooth,” she said. “It’s mine. And my father’s. And Priya’s. You did your part. You opened a door. Let me walk through it without you rearranging the furniture.”
He nodded once, slowly. “Okay.”
“Good,” she said. “Now let’s go argue about integration timelines before I go argue about amortization schedules.”
***
The war room at 9:30 was a meat grinder.
Charts. Forecasts. Acronyms.
By 11:05, she was vibrating.
She slipped Declan a note as Victor debated an integration Scenario F with Eliza.
*I’m leaving in 15. You’ll have Raj. Don’t scare him. Back by 1:15.*
His pen scratched: *Go. Don’t rush back if you need more time. We’ll hold.*
She wrote: *You say that now.*
He glanced up, met her eyes, and for a moment the room fell away.
Then Victor waved a hand in front of a chart. “Declan, you seeing this? If we push European plant consolidation to Q3, we blow the synergy targets.”
Declan’s jaw tightened. “Don’t say ‘synergy’ in front of me again or I’ll cut your bonus.”
Laughter.
Margot slipped out.
***
Priya’s office felt almost familiar now.
The same plants. The same photo. A different tension.
Her father sat at the small round table, fingers drumming on the wood, papers spread neatly before him. His reading glasses perched on his nose.
He looked up when she entered.
“You late,” he said.
“I’m on time,” she corrected. “You’re early.”
Priya came in a moment later with tea.
“Mr. Chen. Margot,” she said. “Ready to dance with the devil?”
Her father snorted. “Which one are you? Bank or… fund?”
“Depends on the day,” she said. “Today, I’m the one offering you a slightly less terrible deal. Shall we?”
They went through the terms again.
Line by line.
Priya read each clause aloud, pausing for questions.
Margot watched her father’s face.
He frowned at the profit-share. Grunted at the extended term. Sighed at the wind-down option.
“You’re sure,” he asked for the fourth time, “that if I choose to close in three years, you won’t come with sheriff and take stove. And couch. And my wife’s plants.”
Priya smiled faintly. “I have no interest in your wife’s plants. Or your couch. Or your stove. I’m buying your loan, not your life. If you choose wind-down, we structure equipment sale. You keep personal assets. I’m not NexTelis. Or your bank.”
He nodded slowly.
“And if I die before three years,” he said.
“We already discussed insurance,” Priya said. “Small policy. My firm pays the premiums for the first three years. If you die in that window, the payout covers the remaining principal. Your family keeps equipment proceeds. After year three, we reassess. If the balance is low enough, I’ll write it down. If not, we decide together. In writing.”
He grunted. “Writing.”
“Yes,” Priya said. “Paper remembers.”
He sat back.
Silence stretched.
Margot held her breath.
Her father picked up the pen.
Looked at her.
“You sure,” he asked quietly. “This is what you want for me.”
Her throat closed.
“No,” she said honestly. “I want you to have your old shop back. Your old contracts. Your old life. That’s not possible. This is… the best version of this reality. Yes. I think you should sign.”
He studied her.
Then, slowly, nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
He bent over the paper and signed his name.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Stamping his existence onto the lines where a bank’s name used to be.
Margot’s chest felt too tight.
Priya signed next, efficient strokes.
She slid one copy back to him.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You’re now one of mine.”
He snorted. “Should I celebrate?”
“Yes,” she said. “With something stronger than tea, ideally. Also with sleep.”
He sat back, the tension in his shoulders melting by degrees.
“You know,” he said, voice a little dazed, “when I got the first letter from bank, I thought… ‘This is how it ends.’ Quiet. In small print. Now… maybe not. Maybe I get to choose.”
“You do,” Priya said. “That’s the point.”
He looked at Margot.
“Thank you,” he said.
Two words.
Heavy.
“You’re welcome,” she whispered.
They left a little later, papers in a folder, Priya’s card tucked in his pocket “in case of panic.”
Outside, on the sidewalk, her father turned his face up to the sky.
It was still gray.
But his posture was… different.
Looser.
“You did good,” he said, surprising her.
“I didn’t sign,” she said. “You did.”
“You put paper in front of me and told me which devil was less ugly,” he said. “That’s… work.”
She laughed, watery.
“I learned from the best,” she said.
He snorted. “I taught you how to sweep floor and hold flashlight. Not… this.”
“You taught me not to flinch,” she said. “At men with nice suits and bad intentions. That’s everything.”
He grunted, embarrassed.
“Your boss,” he said, after a beat. “He know?”
“That you signed?” she asked. “Not yet.”
“Tell him,” he said. “He deserves… some thanks.”
She raised a brow. “Some?”
“A little,” he said reluctantly. “Not too much. He will get big head.”
She smiled.
“I’ll be careful,” she said.
They parted at the subway.
On the train back to Midtown, she stared at the reflection in the darkened window.
She looked the same.
Inside, something had shifted.
She texted Declan.
> *He signed.*
Dots.
> *Good. How is he?*
> *Lighter. Suspicious. Still himself.*
> *You?*
She hesitated.
> *Untethered. In a good way. And scared. Also in a good way.*
> *Come debrief when you’re back. I want to hear it. All of it.*
Her fingers hovered.
> *You have a board committee at 4.*
> *They can wait ten minutes. Priya > Board.*
Heat crawled up her neck.
> *Don’t tell them that.*
> *I won’t. See you soon.*
She shoved the phone into her bag, pulse racing.
He wanted to hear it.
All of it.
Not just the numbers.
The story.
She wasn’t sure she could tell it without crying.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to try.
***
He didn’t look up when she stepped into his office fifteen minutes later.
He sat at his desk, laptop open, hands still.
Too still.
“Declan?” she said.
He blinked, like coming back from far away.
Then focused on her.
“You’re back,” he said.
“I am,” she said. “He signed.”
Something in his shoulders eased.
“Tell me,” he said. “Everything.”
She dropped into the chair opposite him, folder still in hand.
“Priya walked him through each clause like he was her only client,” she said. “He asked the same questions three times. She answered them three times. He didn’t pretend to understand things he didn’t. He didn’t pretend to be okay. Then he decided he wanted to sleep. And not get surprise letters anymore. So he signed.”
His mouth curved, faint. “Good.”
“He also said to thank you,” she added. “Again. But not too much, or your head will explode.”
He huffed. “Accurate.”
She hesitated.
“And?” he prompted, gentler.
“I watched him get a piece of his life back today,” she said. “Not all of it. Not even most. But… a piece. The part where he’s not at the mercy of a bank that sees him as a rounding error.”
Her voice wobbled.
He didn’t comment.
“He looked… taller when we left,” she went on. “Like the weight on his chest is… at least partially off. You did that. Priya did that. I… helped. But you opened the door.”
His throat worked.
“Don’t make me the hero in this,” he said quietly.
“I’m not,” she said. “I’m making you… part of it. Which you are. Whether you like it or not.”
He looked away briefly, then back.
“How do you feel?” he asked again.
She laughed, short. “Like someone cut one of the ropes tying me to the past. It’s… disorienting. I’ve been angry at NexTelis for so long, it’s like a personality trait. Letting go of even a piece of that feels… weird.”
“You don’t have to let go,” he said. “You can redirect.”
“To you?” she asked archly.
He half-smiled. “If you like.”
She exhaled. “I’m… grateful,” she said. “To Priya. To you. To my father for trusting… any of us.”
He stared at her.
“You keep thanking me,” he said. “It’s… uncomfortable.”
“Too bad,” she said softly. “You deserve some of it. Not all. But some.”
He swallowed.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay,” she echoed.
The moment stretched.
The air thickened.
He broke it.
“Board at four,” he said gruffly. “If I show up late because I was feeling feelings, they’ll revoke my access to capital.”
She snorted. “God forbid.”
He stood.
As he moved around the desk, his hand brushed her shoulder.
Accident.
Not.
It sent a shiver down her spine she pretended not to feel.
“Therapy today?” she asked casually. “Kline will want to hear about this. She’ll probably try to take credit.”
“Tomorrow,” he said. “I moved it. Today is board-fest.”
“Fun,” she said. “I’ll bring popcorn.”
He rolled his eyes.
She stood too.
At the door, he said, “Margot.”
She turned.
He looked at her like he was memorizing something.
“Good work,” he said.
She smiled.
“You too,” she said.
Then left before either of them could make a different kind of signature.
On something neither of them was ready to sign.
Yet.
---