She went back on Monday.
No fanfare.
No “welcome back.”
Just the soft click of her heels on the thirty-third floor and the immediate, overwhelming sense that if she didn’t sit at her desk, the building would tilt.
She was five minutes early.
Her screens glowed to life, a cascade of notifications tumbling in.
She triaged with machine-like efficiency.
Unexpectedly, someone slid a coffee onto her desk.
“Peace offering,” Raj said.
She glanced up. “For what?”
“For not telling you to stay home when you clearly needed it,” he said. “Also for taking over your inbox yesterday and realizing I never, ever want your job.”
She snorted. “You couldn’t handle the drama.”
“I handle plenty of drama,” he protested. “I just prefer mine with fewer billionaires.”
She smiled faintly. “You and me both.”
He sobered. “How’s your dad?”
Her jaw tightened.
“He signed,” she said. “He’s… processing. Which is code for ‘grumpy and quiet.’”
“And you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Processing. Which is code for ‘swinging between furious and hopeful every ten minutes.’”
He nodded. “Normal for this place.”
He hesitated.
“Declan was… weird yesterday,” he said. “Weirder than usual.”
“Weird how?” she asked.
“Stared at your empty desk a lot,” Raj said. “Snapped at Victor less. Snapped at himself more. We had three different versions of the same conversation about supplier remediation and he ended each one with, ‘Margot will have thoughts on this.’ It was… annoying. And also… kind of sweet. In a codependent way.”
Heat crept up her neck.
“I’m not… his emotional support human,” she muttered.
“Too late,” Raj said. “You’re in his kernel now.”
She made a face. “Gross. Never use OS metaphors for our relationship again.”
He grinned. “Welcome back,” he said. “Try not to quit today. HR has bets.”
He left.
She took a breath.
Stood.
Walked to Declan’s office.
Knocked.
“Come in,” he called.
She opened the door.
He looked up.
For a second, something flickered across his face.
Relief.
Worry.
Something else.
“Morning,” she said, keeping her voice even.
“Morning,” he said.
They stared at each other.
“You’re here,” he said, like he couldn’t quite believe it.
“Yes,” she said. “For now.”
He flinched.
“Fair,” he said.
She closed the door behind her.
“Status?” she asked, slipping into the familiar script because it was safer than *feelings*.
“Integration hell,” he said. “NexTelis’s EU head is threatening to walk. HR is panicking about cultural clashes. Legal is… legal.”
“So, normal,” she said.
“Day Thirty-Three normal,” he said.
She stepped closer to the desk, resting her hands lightly on the back of the chair opposite.
“Let’s set some ground rules,” she said.
His brows rose. “More?”
“Yes,” she said. “Consider it a patch update. Version 2.0.”
He half-smiled despite himself. “Okay.”
“Rule one,” she said. “We separate *us* from *this*. As much as possible. Which means: no processing my father or your childhood trauma in the war room. No using supplier remediation meetings as therapy. If something is personal, we schedule it. Separate from work.”
He nodded slowly. “Good. Efficient.”
“Rule two,” she went on. “No surprise visits to my apartment.”
He winced. “Noted.”
“Rule three,” she said. “If at any point I say, ‘I need space,’ you give it. No questions. No arguments. No showing up anyway because you think you know better what I need.”
He swallowed. “Okay.”
“Rule four,” she said. “If at any point *you* need space, you say so. You don’t just shut down and leave me guessing whether you’re mad at me, yourself, or the entire world.”
His mouth twisted. “That one will be harder.”
“I know,” she said. “Still a rule.”
He inclined his head. “Fine.”
“Rule five,” she added, holding up a hand when he opened his mouth. “We don’t… escalate… whatever *this* is until after we’ve survived the first ninety days of integration. At least. No blurring. No crossing lines we can’t uncross. We have enough variables.”
His jaw clenched slightly.
“Define… escalate,” he said, voice low.
She swallowed.
He knew.
He *knew*.
“Anything that involves… fewer clothes,” she said dryly. “Or more secrets.”
Heat flared in his eyes.
He looked at her mouth.
Her pulse spiked.
“Agreed,” he said hoarsely.
She exhaled.
“Okay,” she said. “Now we work.”
He stared at her for another second, like he wanted to say something else.
Then he opened his laptop.
“FTC wants an updated supplier remediation plan by Friday,” he said. “With specifics. They’re watching us. Closely.”
“Good,” she said. “We’ll give them one. Ours. Not NexTelis’s.”
He tapped a key, pulling up a doc.
“Draft,” he said. “Based on your scribbles last week.”
She stepped around the desk, leaning in to read.
Their shoulders almost brushed.
She smelled his soap.
He smelled her shampoo.
They pretended not to.
The doc was rough.
Bullet points.
Legalese.
She grabbed a pen and started editing.
“’Legacy liability optimization’ becomes ‘legacy partner remediation,’” she said, crossing out words. “Tone matters.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“‘Evaluate’ becomes ‘review with intent to remediate,’” she went on. “Less… weaselly.”
He smiled faintly. “Technical term.”
She shot him a look.
They worked.
For two hours, they hammered out a plan.
Not perfect.
Not painless.
But better than what NexTelis would have done.
At eleven, Nina pinged her.
*We’ve had a request from a group of former NexTelis suppliers. They want a town hall. ‘With someone who has authority.’*
She glanced at Declan.
He raised a brow. “What?”
She slid the message across.
He read.
Exhaled.
“Of course,” he said. “When?”
“Saturday,” she said. “Minnesota. Virtual. They’re organizing a Zoom. They’re not waiting for us.”
He grimaced. “I hate Zoom.”
“You hate accountability more,” she said. “Or should.”
He shot her a look.
“Set it up,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
“Me too,” she said.
He hesitated.
“You don’t have to,” he said. “They don’t know you.”
“They know me more than they know you,” she said. “I *am* them. Or could have been. Also, someone has to manage your mute button.”
He huffed. “True.”
She pinged Nina back.
*We’ll attend. Saturday. Give them my email for logistics. Not his yet.*
She sent, then added, after a beat:
*Also, please remind HR that if they keep ‘monitoring the situation,’ they should at least buy binoculars. Gossip in the coffee nook was amateur hour.*
Nina responded with a string of skull emojis and, *On it. Also, get a therapist. We have options.*
She smiled.
Maybe she would.
When did she have time?
She looked at her calendar.
Integration blocks.
War room.
Supplier calls.
Therapy block?
She could carve thirty minutes.
An hour.
She made a note.
Later.
For now, there was a mess to manage.
***
The supplier town hall on Saturday was… brutal.
Faces in little squares.
Some in suits.
Some in flannel.
Some in T-shirts with company logos that looked like they’d been made on VistaPrint in 2004.
Declan sat at his laptop, headphones on, expression carefully neutral.
Margot sat just out of frame, watching his face and the chat window.
“We’re here to listen,” he said at the start. “Not to defend. Not to explain away. To understand.”
They did.
They heard stories.
One man in his fifties, voice thick with resentment. “They promised us volume. Then cut our margins to nothing and walked when we couldn’t keep up.”
A woman in her thirties, sharp and furious. “They used our patents against us. Took our designs, filed around us, left us with scraps.”
An older woman with tired eyes. “My husband died two years after we lost our biggest contract. Heart. They said it was stress. I say it was NexTelis. You can’t fix that.”
Declan didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t try to correct.
He said, when there was a pause, “I’m sorry.”
The words sounded different from him.
Not performative.
Not polished.
Just… plain.
“I can’t undo what they did,” he said. “I wish I could. I *can* decide how we handle what we’ve inherited. That’s why I’m here. Why Margot’s here. Why we’re building a remediation process that isn’t about dodging responsibility.”
He laid out the plan.
The audit.
The claims process.
The oversight.
He gave them timelines.
Real ones.
Not “we’ll get back to you” vagueness.
Some of them scoffed.
Some nodded.
Some cried.
After, when the call ended and the Zoom window blinked out, he sat very still.
“Color,” she said quietly.
“Black,” he said.
She blinked. “That’s new.”
“It’s… beyond plaid,” he said. “Everything overlapping. No light.”
Her chest ached.
“You did… what you could,” she said. “For today.”
He laughed, harsh. “You think that matters to them?”
“No,” she admitted. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. But it matters to you. Or should.”
He looked at her.
“I’m tired of being proud of the bare minimum,” he said. “Of feeling good because I said ‘I’m sorry’ and didn’t outright lie.”
“You didn’t just say ‘I’m sorry,’” she said. “You gave them paths. You didn’t have to. NexTelis never did.”
He exhaled.
“Okay,” he said. “Enough… processing. Work.”
He stood.
She watched him.
His edges were frayed.
So were hers.
“You should take a day off,” she blurted.
He gave her a look. “Hello, kettle.”
“I took one,” she said. “Your turn.”
He snorted. “I’d just pace.”
“Then pace in a park,” she said. “Touch tree. Remember there’s a world outside war rooms.”
He made a face. “Nature.”
“Yes,” she said. “Green stuff. Not on a spreadsheet.”
He eyed her.
“If I go touch a tree,” he said, “will you?”
She hesitated.
She’d been living on screens for months.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually looked at a leaf.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll go to the park. You go… wherever rich men go to commune with their souls.”
“That would be Kline’s office,” he said dryly.
“Double session,” she said. “Bonus points.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Deal,” he said.
They shook on it.
His hand wrapped around hers.
Warm.
Solid.
She felt it in places she shouldn’t.
She pulled away first.
“Work,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
***
Sunday, she went to the park.
Not because he had.
Because she’d promised herself.
And maybe, a little, to prove to herself she had a self separate from him.
She walked through Central Park in sneakers and a hoodie, hair in a messy bun, headphones in but no music playing.
Kids ran.
Dogs chased squirrels.
Couples picnicked on blankets.
She sat on a bench and watched.
Her phone buzzed.
She ignored it.
For once.
She picked up a leaf.
Turned it in her fingers.
Let herself be here.
Just here.
Her father texted, eventually.
A photo of his shop.
The new papers tacked to the wall.
> *Looks same. Feels different. Your mother says I seem “less constipated.”*
She laughed, loud enough that a jogger glanced over.
> *That’s… a horrifying metaphor.*
> *You like metaphors. I give you one. Be grateful.*
> *I am. How are you?*
> *Less angry. Still angry. Aim anger at right place now. Not at you. Maybe not at your boss. Haven’t decided.*
She exhaled.
> *Fair.*
> *You doing okay?*
She looked at the trees.
The sky.
The people.
Her life.
> *I’m working on it.*
> *Good. Don’t work too hard. You turn into machine, I will have no one to complain to.*
She smiled, tears stinging.
> *You’ll always have me to complain to, Baba. Even if I am a machine.*
> *You’re not. Too noisy.*
She pocketed her phone.
Stood.
Touched a tree.
It felt… rough.
Real.
Rooted.
She thought of him.
Sitting in a different park.
Or in Kline’s office.
Or in front of his screens, breaking his promise.
She hoped, irrationally, that he’d touched a tree too.
---
On Monday, she walked into his office at nine with a new energy in her veins.
He looked up.
“You touched a tree,” he said.
She blinked. “How—”
“You have dirt under your nail,” he said, nodding at her hand.
She glanced.
A faint smudge of brown.
“Observant,” she said.
“Always,” he said.
“Did you?” she asked.
“Did I what?” he parried.
“Touch a tree,” she said.
He hesitated.
“Yes,” he said reluctantly.
“Liar,” she said.
“Yes,” he said again, wincing. “I… went to the High Line. Does that count?”
“Plants in planters are still plants,” she conceded. “Barely.”
“Progress,” he said.
She nodded.
“Progress,” she echoed.
They looked at each other.
On the whiteboard, someone—Raj, again—had written under the countdown now stuck at **0**:
*Now it begins.*
And under that, in a different hand—Eliza’s:
*Don’t fuck it up.*
Margot smiled.
She picked up the marker.
Underneath, in her neat script, she wrote:
*And don’t do it alone.*
Declan watched her.
Read it.
Then uncapped another marker and added, in smaller letters:
*Deal.*
They stood there, side by side in front of the board that had ruled their lives for a month.
They weren’t at the finish line.
They hadn’t even really started.
But they’d chosen.
Them.
This.
The edge.
Together.
For now.