The number on the whiteboard flipped from **3** to **2** sometime after midnight.
Margot wasn’t there to see it.
She’d forced herself to leave at nine, pried away from her laptop by Declan’s oddly earnest, “Go. Please. Before I change my mind and hand you another deck.”
Now, Saturday afternoon, she sat at her parents’ kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone lukewarm, and tried not to think about him.
“Stop thinking about your boss,” her mother said without looking up from the dumpling wrappers. “You get wrinkle here.” She pointed at her own forehead.
“I’m not thinking about him,” Margot lied.
Her mother snorted. “You always get that face when you lie. Like you swallowed lemon.”
“My face is just like this,” Margot said. “Genetic. Your fault.”
“You wish,” her mother said. “If you had my face, you’d have five boyfriends.”
“I don’t want five boyfriends,” Margot said. “I barely want one.”
“You want this one,” her mother said, sly.
Her father, at the stove stirring a pot of soup, grunted. “She wants him to stop making her crazy. That is all.”
“That’s not all,” her mother said. “You should have seen her last week. Pacing like tiger. Checking phone every five minutes. Very suspicious.”
Margot pinched the bridge of her nose. “Can we not turn my love life—non-existent, to be clear—into a family sport?”
Her mother made a face. “If you say ‘non-existent’ one more time, I will put your name on prayer list at temple. Ask Buddha to send you nice, quiet man with good job and no emotional baggage.”
“So… nobody,” Margot said.
Her father snorted.
Her mother waved one floury hand. “You think you are so smart. Fine. Don’t listen to your mother. But remember, you not getting younger. Eggs not getting fresher.”
“I came here for dumplings,” Margot said faintly. “Not reproductive doom.”
“Eat,” her father said, ladling soup into bowls with the finality of a gavel. “Less talk, more chew.”
She obeyed.
She’d missed this.
The chaos, the nagging, the food.
It grounded her in a way nothing at Hale could.
Here, she wasn’t the apex organizer, the executive ass-kicker, the gatekeeper to a billionaire.
She was just their daughter.
Annoying. Beloved. Over-scrutinized.
“What about that lawyer boy?” her mother asked around a mouthful of dumpling. “The one with hair. From last year.”
“Elliot?” Margot blinked. “We went on three dates. He tried to negotiate how often I was ‘allowed’ to see my friends. Hard pass.”
“Lawyers,” her father muttered. “Always negotiating. Even when no need.”
Her mother sighed. “Fine. Not lawyer boy. What about HR boy?”
“What HR boy?” Margot demanded, alarmed.
“The one from your last company,” her mother said. “The one who sent you big bouquet when you left. You say, ‘He’s just friend,’ but friends don’t spend three hundred dollar on flowers.”
“That was a corporate arrangement,” Margot said. “He expensed it.”
Her mother waved this away. “Gesture still counts.”
“It doesn’t,” Margot said. “And regardless, I don’t date HR. I’m not suicidal.”
Her father slurped his soup. “What about this one?” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
“Baba,” she said warningly.
He shrugged. “I don’t like him. Yet. But he… tries. He help with bank. With Priya. That is more than other bosses did.”
Her mother’s head whipped around. “What?” she demanded. “He help with bank? You didn’t tell me this.”
Margot cursed inwardly.
She’d hoped to slip that past her mother’s radar.
“My boss connected us to Priya,” she said carefully. “She did the work. She’s the one buying Baba’s loan.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes. “But he send email. He ask favor. He use his name.”
“Yes,” Margot admitted. “He did.”
“Hmph,” her mother said. “Maybe he is not completely useless.”
Praise. From her mother. For a man.
The end times.
Her father shot Margot a sideways look. *See?* it said. *Not just me.*
She stared into her soup.
They fell into other topics—her cousin’s baby, her aunt’s impending hip surgery, the neighbor’s cat who had apparently decided their backyard was its kingdom.
After lunch, her father retreated to his little office to “check on something at the shop.” Her mother bustled in the kitchen, humming as she rearranged the fridge in a way that made no logical sense.
Margot helped, because some wars you didn’t fight.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
She glanced at it.
*D. Hale.*
She hesitated.
Her mother’s eyes sharpened. “Who?” she demanded.
“No one,” Margot said too fast.
Her mother snatched the phone with surprising speed for a woman her size.
“Ma—”
Her mother squinted at the screen. “Declan,” she read slowly. “Sounds like Irish beer.”
“Give that back,” Margot hissed, reaching.
Her mother danced out of reach, thumb tapping.
“Hello?” she said brightly into the phone. “Declan?”
Margot’s blood turned to ice.
“Ma!” she whisper-yelled. “Give it—”
Her mother held up one finger. *Wait.*
On the other end, there was a pause.
Then, “Uh. Hello,” Declan’s voice said, tinny through the speaker. “Who is this?”
“I am Margot’s mother,” she announced. “Chen xiàomā. You can call me Auntie. Everyone does.”
“Oh my God,” Margot whispered, horrified.
Her mother ignored her. “You are boss,” she went on. “Rich man.”
“Technically,” he said. “Yes.”
“Good,” her mother said. “You feed my daughter?”
“Ma—” Margot lunged.
Her mother danced away too fast, laughing silently at Margot’s expression.
“Do I… feed her?” Declan repeated, sounding like he’d been thrown into an alternate dimension.
“You work her like donkey,” her mother said. “You must feed. Buy lunch. Sometimes dinner. She not machine.”
“She… reminds me to eat,” he said faintly. “I try to return the favor.”
“You *try*?” her mother demanded. “Not good enough. You must *do*.”
“Understood,” he said gravely.
Margot buried her face in her hands.
Her mother eyed the kitchen. “Also, you send cake.”
Declan sounded even more confused. “Cake?”
“That mango cake,” her mother said. “Last week. Very good. But expensive. You don’t need to spend so much. Just come eat here. I cook better.”
Margot’s head snapped up.
“Ma,” she croaked. “What.”
Her mother waved her off. “You free Sunday?” she asked into the phone. “Come Flushing. We have *hóngshāo ròu*. And interrogation.”
“Dinner,” Margot hissed. “She means dinner. Not interrogation. She doesn’t—”
“Interrogation?” Declan repeated weakly.
“Yes,” her mother said cheerfully. “My husband ask why you hurt my daughter. I ask when you marry, how many babies, what your intentions.”
Margot thought she might actually die.
There was a sound on the other end that might have been a strangled laugh.
“I… have a… full schedule,” he said carefully. “But… thank you. For the invitation. And for the cake feedback.”
“Think about it,” her mother said. “We not young. We want see grandchildren before we die.”
“MOM,” Margot shouted.
Her mother jumped, startled, then cackled and finally handed the phone over.
Margot grabbed it, mortified.
“Sorry,” she blurted. “She’s… she got your number. Somehow. Don’t ask.”
“I asked,” he said. “I regret it.”
She half-laughed, half-groaned. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “She’s… formidable.”
“That’s one word for it,” she muttered.
There was a small pause.
“You told her about the cake,” he said.
“She noticed the logo on the box,” Margot said. “She notices everything. I didn’t tell her who sent it. She… guessed.”
“She’s smart,” he said.
“Terrifying,” Margot corrected.
“Also that,” he said.
She slumped against the counter, turning away so her mother couldn’t read her face.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
“I will be once the ground opens and swallows me,” she said.
He chuckled softly.
“She invited me to dinner,” he said. “And interrogation.”
“She did,” Margot said helplessly. “You are under no obligation to accept. In fact, I *forbid* it.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because she’s… a lot,” she said. “She will ask you about your salary, your intentions, your blood type. She will guilt you into thirds of pork. She will make jokes about grandchildren. It’s… intense.”
“I’m used to intense,” he said. “I work with you.”
Her heart skipped.
“Declan,” she said. “You have three days until the biggest deal of your life closes. You do not have time to be devoured by my mother.”
“I’m not afraid of your mother,” he said.
“You *should* be,” she said. “Trust me.”
He was quiet a second.
“I like that she worries about you,” he said softly. “Even if it’s… mortifying.”
Margot’s throat tightened.
“Of course she does,” she said. “She’s my mother.”
“Yes,” he said. “But some mothers… worry by trying to… fix. Or control. Or… cure.”
Ah.
His.
“That’s not her,” Margot said. “She nags. She feeds. She… invites herself into your conversations with your boss.”
“I noticed,” he said wryly.
“I really am sorry,” she said again. “She doesn’t understand boundaries when it comes to family.”
He paused.
“Sometimes,” he said, “that’s… good.”
Her heart thumped.
“What’s up?” she asked, shifting away from dangerous emotional territory. “You didn’t call just to be ambushed by my mother.”
“No,” he said. “I… wanted to hear your voice.”
Heat shot up her neck.
“That’s not… professional,” she said weakly.
“I know,” he said. “I’m trying. To… keep lines. I just… today is… loud. In my head. Your voice is… grounding.”
The honesty of it punched the air out of her lungs.
“Color?” she asked quietly.
“Orange,” he said. “Flashing.”
“Take a walk,” she said. “Outside. No screens. Ten minutes.”
“I have—”
“No,” she said. “You have *time.* You’re not in a meeting for twenty minutes. You can spare ten. Consider it an order from your Executive Ass-Kicker.”
He huffed a laugh. “You’re going to make that stick, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Now walk.”
“Fine,” he said. “You… eat.”
She glanced at the table, piled with dumplings.
“My mother would kill me if I didn’t,” she said.
“Good,” he said. “Talk Monday.”
“Talk Monday,” she repeated.
She hung up.
Her mother was watching her with naked fascination.
“What?” Margot demanded.
“He sounds… serious,” her mother said in English, testing the word.
“He *is* serious,” Margot said. “About everything.”
Her mother studied her.
“You like him,” she said.
“Ma—”
“Not just as boss,” her mother went on. “You like him like… old movies. Forever kind.”
“There is no ‘forever kind’ with my boss,” Margot said. “There is thirty days and then… chaos.”
“Thirty days is how long lasts noodle in my kitchen if your father find it,” her mother said. “Not very long.”
“That analogy makes no sense,” Margot groaned.
Her mother sighed. “Fine. Don’t admit. But I see. Just… be careful, ah? You already work too hard. Don’t work on his heart too. That one very messy.”
Margot thought of his Op-Ed. Of his parents. Of the way he’d looked at her when he’d said, *You scare me too.*
“Too late,” she said under her breath.
***
Sunday, she did what he’d told her.
She didn’t go in.
She didn’t answer email.
She did, once, almost answer a text at six a.m. from Raj that said simply, *Mayday,* but then saw it was about IT’s streaming platform being down and decided that if the world burned without her for one day, so be it.
She slept until nine.
She went for a run by the river, the cold air burning her lungs, the city a hazy backdrop.
She thought.
Of him.
Of her father.
Of what would happen if this deal went through the way he wanted.
Of what would happen if it didn’t.
That night, lying in bed, her legs sore in a satisfying way, she stared at the ceiling and whispered to the dark, “Don’t fuck this up.”
She didn’t know if she meant him.
Or herself.
Or all of them.
Maybe all of the above.
On Monday morning, when she walked into the office and saw the whiteboard.
**1.**
Her heart climbed into her throat.
This was it.
Thirty days.
Impact.
And she was standing directly in the blast radius.
---