She didn’t go in the next morning.
It felt like sacrilege.
Thirty days of sprinting, and on Day Thirty-One she… didn’t show.
She typed the email three times before sending it.
> To: D. Hale > Cc: Eliza, Nina, Raj > Subject: Out today > > I won’t be in the office today. Personal reasons. > > I’ll have my phone if there’s a literal fire. > > – M
It was short.
It was honest enough.
She turned her phone face down on the nightstand and curled deeper into her blanket.
Her body hummed with exhaustion.
Her mind pinged with guilt.
She should be there.
Integration planning.
Supplier remediation.
Employee comms.
He’d need her.
He’d manage, a cooler voice said. He ran this company before you. He’ll run it after.
She wasn’t sure she believed that.
Her phone buzzed.
She ignored it.
Her intercom buzzed.
She frowned.
No one used the intercom.
She shuffled to the wall pad and pressed the button.
“Yes?”
“Margot?”
Her stomach dropped.
“Declan.”
“You’re not answering your phone,” he said. “I got… concerned.”
She closed her eyes. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he said. “I’m downstairs.”
Of course he was.
“You can’t just show up at my apartment every time I don’t answer you,” she said, more sharply than she intended.
“Once,” he said. “I did it once. The morning we went to Queens. Today I called three times. Texted twice. You didn’t answer. It’s not like you.”
“I said in my email I’m out,” she said. “Personal reasons. That’s not code for ‘stalk me.’”
Silence crackled over the line.
“Can we… talk?” he asked. “In person.”
She looked down at herself.
Oversized T-shirt, no bra, hair a tangle, eyes swollen.
“No,” she said. “Go home.”
“Already out,” he said. “Don’t make me talk to you through an intercom like we’re in a bad prison movie.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
Some small, traitorous part of her wanted to see him.
Another part wanted to curl into a ball and not be seen by anyone.
“You have five minutes,” she said. “And then you leave. I’m not going to emotionally process you right now.”
“Understood,” he said.
She buzzed him in.
Opened the apartment door a crack and went to splash water on her face.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror.
Pale.
Red-rimmed.
Human.
She shrugged.
Let him see.
When she opened the door fully, he stood in the narrow hallway, out of place and completely himself in dark jeans, a black sweater, and the same boots she’d seen in his office when he didn’t expect visitors.
He held a paper bag.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said.
“I know,” he said. “Can I… come in?”
She hesitated.
Then stepped back.
He entered carefully, as if her apartment were made of glass.
His eyes swept the space—small couch, bookshelf, plants, messy coffee table, throw blanket on the floor.
He didn’t comment.
He held up the bag.
“Bagels,” he said. “From that place you like on Broadway. With the sesame. And scallion cream cheese.”
Her throat tightened.
“You bribing me now?” she asked weakly.
“I’m… feeding you,” he said. “Basic human maintenance.”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“You’re not,” he said.
She sagged onto the couch.
He took the chair opposite, like in his office, mirroring the setup without the desk between them.
They sat in silence for a moment.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he said finally.
“No,” she agreed. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
That took some of the air out of her anger.
“Then why are you here?” she asked tiredly.
“Because yesterday your father implied that I am the enemy,” he said. “And you… agreed. At least partially. And then you disappeared. And my brain did… things.”
“Anxiety things,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Worst-case simulations. ‘She quit.’ ‘She’s hurt.’ ‘She hates me and is packing her things.’”
“All reasonable hypotheses,” she said.
He winced.
“I wanted to…” He hesitated. “Check. That you were… okay. That you hadn’t… left without telling me.”
His honesty made something in her chest wobble.
“I sent an email,” she said. “I’m not… vanishing.”
“I know that *now*,” he said. “This morning, my brain was less rational.”
She sighed.
“Declan,” she said. “My father’s… angry. Scared. He has every right to be. You are, in a very real way, the man who just bought the company that destroyed his life.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I know.”
“He sees me next to you and he sees… betrayal,” she said. “No matter what I do. No matter what you do. That’s… pain talking. Not logic.”
“Yes,” he said again.
“But he’s not entirely wrong,” she went on. “I *am* in the room with you. I *am* helping you. I *am* making it easier for you to do this deal, even as I try to make it less harmful.”
He opened his mouth.
She held up a hand.
“Let me finish,” she said. “I have spent my entire adult life trying to protect my family from the consequences of other people’s power. And now I am… facilitating it. That’s… fucked up. On a level I haven’t fully processed.”
He closed his mouth.
Nodded.
“I’m not here to argue with that,” he said softly. “You’re right. It *is* fucked up. And complicated. And unfair. And inevitable. All at once.”
Tears pricked her eyes.
“I don’t know how to hold loving my father and… respecting you,” she whispered. “I don’t know how to be loyal to both without feeling like I’m betraying one.”
He flinched. “Don’t… put me in that category.”
“What category?” she asked.
“People you have to be loyal to,” he said. “I don’t… want that.”
“You say that like it’s a choice,” she said. “You’re my boss. My work is… my life, most days. Whether we like it or not, part of my identity is tied up in whether you think I’m doing a good job. That *is* a form of loyalty.”
He looked stricken.
“I don’t… deserve that,” he said.
“Maybe not,” she said. “You have it anyway.”
Silence stretched.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Take today,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow. However long you need. If you decide this is too much, that you can’t… be in the room with me on this, you can walk. No hard feelings. No retaliation. I’ll write you the best damn reference anyone’s ever seen.”
She laughed, wet. “You and your pre-breakups.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “Your father is right about one thing: you don’t owe me. Not this. Not *us*. Not NexTelis. You owe yourself not to burn out in someone else’s crusade.”
“It’s not *just* your crusade,” she said. “It’s mine too. That’s the problem.”
He exhaled. “I know.”
He looked around her apartment, taking it in.
“This is… nice,” he said. “Real.”
She snorted. “That’s one word for IKEA.”
“It’s… you,” he said. “Not… me.”
He said it like he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.
“It’s small,” she said. “Manageable.”
“Do you want… bigger?” he asked.
She frowned. “What?”
“In life,” he clarified. “Not… square footage. In… scope. Do you want… more?”
“I have more,” she said. “Through you. Through work. That’s the trade-off. I get small at home, big at the office.”
He nodded slowly.
“That’s… what scares me,” he admitted.
She blinked. “What?”
“That your ‘big’ is tied to me,” he said. “To Hale. To this deal. That if I… implode, or… lose, or… change… I take that with me. I don’t want your entire sense of… scope… to live in my shadow.”
Her heart twisted.
“Too late,” she said, trying for lightness and failing. “That’s how capitalism works. You’re the billionaire. I’m the… ‘support staff.’ My shadow’s under your fluorescent lights.”
He flinched.
“Not if you don’t want it to be,” he said. “You could—”
“Start my own company?” she cut in. “Go to grad school? Become a therapist? Sure. In some alternate universe where I’m not paying off my parents’ mortgage and my own rent.”
He exhaled. “I hate this.”
“What?” she asked.
“Power,” he said. “Money. The way it… distorts everything. I have it. You don’t. No matter how much I pretend we’re… equals in a room, we’re not. Not really.”
“That’s new,” she said dryly. “Awareness.”
He half-smiled. “Kline. Again.”
She rolled her eyes.
They sat in silence for a moment.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she said again, softer now.
“I know,” he said. “I… wanted to be.”
“Because you want to fix it,” she said.
“Yes,” he admitted. “And because… I care.”
Her heart clenched.
“That doesn’t… help,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said.
He stood, suddenly restless.
Paced once in her tiny living room.
Stopped by the bookshelf, eyes scanning titles.
“Jia Tolentino,” he said. “James Baldwin. Octavia Butler. Self-help for children of immigrants. On-brand.”
“Judgy,” she said.
“Observant,” he corrected.
He turned back to her.
“I can’t… untangle this for you,” he said. “I can’t make your father forgive you. Or me. I can’t… make this choice less heavy.”
“I know,” she said.
“What I can do,” he went on, “is… promise you that I will not use your presence in my life as an excuse to justify shit I’d otherwise question. That I won’t say, ‘Margot’s okay with it, so it must be fine.’ That I will… do the work myself. With you. Not… on you.”
Tears blurred her vision.
“And if you decide you need to step back,” he added, voice roughening, “I’ll let you. Even if it… hurts. Even if it makes this harder. I won’t… hold you to some unspoken contract you never signed.”
She swallowed.
“You’re making it very hard to walk away,” she said wryly.
“I’m not… trying to sell you,” he said. “I’m trying to… be less of a mistake.”
She laughed through the tears. “Aim high.”
He sat again.
Reluctantly, she was grateful.
Her small living room couldn’t hold him pacing much longer.
“Eat,” he said, nodding at the bag. “Please. It’s all I know how to do when people cry. Offer food.”
She stared at him.
“At least you’re self-aware,” she said.
She unwrapped a bagel.
They ate.
It wasn’t normal.
Nothing about this was normal.
But there was something… grounding about sesame seeds and cream cheese between them.
After a while, she said, “You should go.”
He nodded.
Stood.
“Thank you for… letting me in,” he said.
“You let yourself in,” she said. “Literally. I buzzed you.”
He almost smiled.
At the door, he paused.
“Margot,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Do you hate me?” he asked.
The question landed like a stone.
She thought.
“No,” she said slowly. “I hate what you represent. Sometimes. I hate what you can do. Sometimes. I… question your choices. Often. But I don’t… hate you.”
Relief flashed across his face.
“And you don’t… love me,” he said, more as a statement than a question.
Her breath hitched.
She forced a laugh. “That’s… a big word for Day Thirty-One.”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
“I… don’t know what I feel,” she said honestly. “Yet. Give me a minute.”
He nodded.
“Take more than a minute,” he said. “Take… however long you need.”
He left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
She slid down it, back to the wood, heart pounding.
She didn’t know what she felt.
She only knew that whatever it was, it scared her more than NexTelis ever had.
Because NexTelis had been a faceless enemy.
He was… a man.
Flawed.
Trying.
Dangerous.
And, worst of all, hers to choose.
Or not.
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