The first meeting of the Supplier Remediation Task Force was small.
Deliberately.
Margot sat at the head of a narrow table in a smaller conference room—not the war room, not one of the glossy board spaces. Something more… utilitarian.
Priya lounged to her left, heels kicked off, legal pad covered in already-illegible scrawl.
On her right sat Eliza, pen poised, expression a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
Across, a Hale operations director named Gita, mid-forties, sharp eyes. Next to her, a NexTelis plant supervisor Jess had recommended, a Black man in his fifties named Darryl who’d come up from the floor and never quite lost the grease under his nails.
An external ethics consultant, Dr. Alvarez—not the NexTelis GC, another Alvarez, this one in academia—joined on screen, her background a wall of books.
And Declan sat at the far end.
Not at the head.
On the side.
Watching.
She’d insisted.
“I don’t want you running this room,” she’d said. “I want you… listening.”
He’d bristled, then agreed.
Now, as she flipped open her notebook, she registered the oddness of it.
Him, quiet.
Her, leading.
“Thank you all for coming,” she began. “I know we’re all extremely not bored right now. I’m going to keep this tight. We’re here to answer three questions: One, what *did* NexTelis do to small suppliers and partners that we consider unacceptable? Two, what can we meaningfully do about it now? Three, how do we make sure Hale doesn’t become the same kind of predator, accidentally or otherwise?”
Darryl snorted. “You don’t start small, do you.”
She smiled. “Go big or go home.”
Priya lifted her pen. “First, we define ‘unacceptable,’” she said. “Because some of what they did was shitty-but-legal. Some was shady-but-standard. Some was straight-up abusive. We can’t fix capitalism. We *can* fix specific practices.”
Dr. Alvarez nodded on the screen. “I’d suggest we categorize past behavior into three buckets: structural exploitation, contractual manipulation, and outright fraud. Different tools for each.”
Eliza scribbled. “We also need to quantify. How many small suppliers were impacted? How much money was lost? How many jobs?”
Gita added, “And what about communities? When a plant closes, it’s not just jobs. It’s tax base, schools, local businesses.”
Margot wrote *ripple effects* in her notes.
Darryl leaned back. “Look,” he said. “I’ve been at NexTelis twenty-five years. I’ve seen three ‘restructurings.’ Every time, they said, ‘We’re trimming fat.’ Every time, it was people like my uncle’s shop getting cut. They’d string them along with promises, make them invest in new equipment, then drop them when someone in a corner office found a cheaper guy in Shenzhen. Legally? Contracts allowed it. Morally? Bullshit.”
Priya pointed her pen at him. “That’s structural exploitation,” she said. “Using asymmetrical power to shift all the risk downward. One of my favorite things to break.”
Margot’s pen flew.
She felt… alive.
This was what she’d wanted.
Not just crisis management.
Not just smoothing egos.
This.
Naming.
Understanding.
Changing.
She glanced at Declan.
He sat forward in his chair, hands clasped, eyes sharp, but he didn’t speak.
She’d laid down the rule.
“You get ten minutes at the end,” she’d said. “Before that, you listen.”
He was obeying.
Barely.
After an hour of defining terms, mapping harms, and arguing over whether forgiveness was even an appropriate framework, they broke.
“We’ll reconvene in two days,” Margot said. “Homework: Priya, pull a list of the worst loans tied to NexTelis closures. Darryl, get me an anonymized list of small suppliers we can talk to who haven’t sued yet but wanted to. Eliza, see what legal leeway we have to offer support without triggering a cascade of claims we can’t possibly pay.”
Eliza grimaced. “Legal’s going to have a stroke.”
“I know,” Margot said. “We’ll get them a therapist.”
Gita snorted.
They filed out.
Priya lingered. “You’re good at this,” she said.
Margot raised an eyebrow. “At what. Making impossible lists?”
“Making people talk honestly,” Priya said. “Different skill.”
She shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”
“Just remember,” Priya added, slipping her shoes back on, “you’re not here to fix Declan’s soul. You’re here to protect people from his worst instincts. Let him do his own penance.”
“I know,” Margot said.
Priya’s gaze softened. “Do you?”
She didn’t answer.
Priya laughed. “You’ll learn. Or you’ll burn. Either way, call me.”
When they were alone, Declan finally spoke.
“You’re… terrifying,” he said again.
She smiled faintly. “You keep saying that. I’m starting to think you like it.”
“Yes,” he said, surprising himself.
She blinked.
He didn’t take it back.
“Thoughts?” she asked. “Concerns? Panic attacks?”
“Many,” he said. “Mostly about the billable hours.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Seriously,” he said, sobering. “You… ran that. Well. You pulled no punches. You didn’t… let me hide.”
“That’s the job,” she said.
“I thought the job was… not letting me miss flights,” he said.
“That too,” she said. “Multi-tasking.”
He moved closer, stopping on the other side of the table.
“Thank you,” he said.
She hesitated.
“You keep saying that,” she said quietly. “Like you think it’s… a spell. That if you’re grateful enough, it’ll make up for everything.”
He winced.
“It won’t,” she went on, softer. “But it… doesn’t hurt.”
He nodded.
They looked at each other.
The air shifted.
She could feel it.
That pull.
That dangerous, undeniable thing humming between them.
He seemed to feel it too.
His pupils darkened.
“Margot,” he said.
She inhaled sharply.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“Don’t… what?” he asked.
“Don’t make this about us,” she said. “Not… here. Not in this room. This is for them.”
He exhaled. “Okay.”
Silence.
“After hours, then,” he said.
Her lips quirked. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Yes,” he said. “You knew that when you took the job.”
She sighed.
“Seven o’clock,” she said. “Your office. No interruptions. We talk.”
His heart stuttered.
“About…” He gestured vaguely.
“About everything,” she said. “The pilot. The thirty days. The… thing we’re not naming.”
His jaw clenched.
“Okay,” he said. “Seven.”
She left.
He watched her go, pulse thudding.
Seven.
He had six and a half hours to decide if he was going to try to convince her to stay.
Or to let her walk.
He didn’t know yet which was… kinder.
To her.
To him.
To whatever this was.
***
At 6:52, her heart was in her throat.
She sat at her desk, scanning the last of his emails for the day, fingers moving by muscle memory.
Her mind was elsewhere.
On his face in therapy.
On her father’s kitchen.
On that first phone call.
On his hands on the table that morning.
*Don’t fuck this up*, the whiteboard had said.
She didn’t know if that injunction extended to her heart.
At 6:58, she stood.
Her legs felt like rubber.
She smoothed her dress—a deep navy today, simple lines—and walked to his office.
The glass was opaque.
She knocked.
“Come in,” he said.
She slid the door open.
He stood by the window, jacket off, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled. The city glowed behind him, a wash of gold and blue.
Her breath caught.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she echoed.
She closed the door.
Did not toggle the glass.
Let the room be half-private, half-exposed.
Felt right.
He turned fully.
His eyes were… naked.
No mask.
No CEO.
Just… him.
Her chest ached.
“You wanted to talk,” he said.
Coward, she thought. Making her start.
“Yes,” she said. “About… terms.”
His mouth twitched. “Of… what.”
“Us,” she said, letting the word hang. “If… there is an ‘us.’”
He swallowed.
“You said thirty days,” she went on. “To make me want to stay. It’s been… thirty. I’m still here. That doesn’t mean I’m… yours. Or that I forgive you. Or that I’m… safe.”
“I know,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Because here is what you’re getting. And what you’re not.”
He nodded, bracing.
“You’re getting my work,” she said. “My brain. My ability to see your blind spots and shove them in your face. You’re getting my *yes* when you’re right and my *no* when you’re wrong. You’re getting my time. A lot of it.”
His throat worked.
“You’re not getting my body,” she said, voice steady despite the heat crawling up her neck. “Not as long as you’re my boss. Not in this office. Not on your couch. Not in a hotel on a ‘business trip.’ Not. At. All.”
He flinched, but didn’t argue.
“You’re not getting my unpaid emotional labor,” she continued. “You have a therapist. Use her. I’ll support you as my CEO because it’s my job and because I… care. But I am not your midnight crisis call when you spiral about your childhood. I am not your mother. Or your priest.”
He almost laughed at that. Almost.
“You’re not getting my silence,” she said. “If you fuck up, I’ll tell you. If you hurt people, I’ll tell you. If you *hurt me*, I’ll tell you. And if you try to make that my fault, I will walk.”
He nodded, jaw tight.
“And,” she said, softer now, “you’re not getting guarantees. I can’t promise I’ll never leave. Or that I’ll never stop… feeling whatever this is. I can’t promise I’ll always be here to catch you when you fall. I’m human. I break too.”
His face crumpled, just a little.
“Okay,” he said hoarsely. “That’s… fair.”
She took a breath.
“Here’s what *I* need,” she said. “If I’m going to stay.”
He straightened.
“One,” she said. “Respect. Not the performative kind. The real kind. When I say no, you listen. When I say stop, you stop. When I say ‘not here, not now,’ you put the feeling in a box and take it to Dr. Kline.”
A humorless smile flickered. “She’ll be thrilled.”
“Two,” she said. “Transparency. No more half-truths about things that affect me. If you realize Hale did something that hurt my family, my community, *me*—you tell me. Immediately. Not when I accidentally read it over your shoulder.”
He grimaced. “Agreed.”
“Three,” she said. “Room. To be… me. Not just your fixer. Not just your reflection. I need friends. Family. Time that isn’t about you. You do not get to be the center of my universe, even if sometimes you are the center of my day.”
He nodded slowly. “That… will be hard.”
“I know,” she said. “You like being the center.”
He huffed. “Yes.”
She swallowed.
“Four,” she said, surprising herself. “An exit plan.”
He blinked. “What?”
“If this stops working,” she said. “If I can’t… be here anymore. I don’t want to have to burn it all down to get out. I want to know we can… step back. Humanely. Without you… trying to pull me back with guilt or money or… need.”
He looked like she’d just stabbed him and then handed him a bandage.
“You’re… planning your own escape,” he said weakly.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s how I survive men like you.”
He shut his eyes briefly.
“I hate that,” he whispered.
“I know,” she said. “It still stands.”
He opened his eyes.
Met hers.
“Okay,” he said. “I can… do that.”
She searched his face.
“Can you?” she asked quietly. “Really? Let me go if I need to? Without… chasing?”
He swallowed.
“Truth,” she said.
He exhaled.
“No,” he said. “I don’t… know if I can. But I’ll… try. I’ll… want to. For you. Even if it… kills me.”
Her heart twinged.
“Honest,” she said. “Terrible. But honest.”
Silence stretched.
“So,” he said, voice low. “What… are we?”
She laughed softly. “You and your need for labels.”
“I like… definitions,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
She thought.
“We are… boss and assistant,” she said. “Partners, sometimes. Adversaries, sometimes. Two people who… feel too much and are trying not to destroy each other with it.”
“Catchy,” he said dryly.
“Needs work,” she said.
He stepped closer.
Slowly.
“Can I… ask for something?” he said.
“You can ask,” she said. “See above re: ignoring.”
He almost smiled.
“Not… a kiss,” he added quickly. “I remember the rules.”
“Good,” she said, heart thudding anyway.
“Then… what,” she asked.
“A hug,” he said quietly. “Just… once. Without… everything else. Then… we put it away.”
Her breath caught.
Such a small thing.
Such a huge one.
She’d hugged other bosses.
On holidays. At weddings. After big wins.
It had never felt… like this.
“Declan…” she started.
“Please,” he said. “I… need to know what it feels like. To… hold you. Once. So when I… don’t later, it’s… a choice. Not an absence.”
Her eyes stung.
“That’s ridiculous,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “So am I.”
She stared at him.
At his open hands.
At his face.
At the fragility he wasn’t bothering to hide.
“This is a terrible idea,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
She stepped into his arms anyway.
He moved slowly.
Carefully.
As if she were made of glass.
His hands settled, light, on her back.
Her head fit under his chin.
He smelled like soap and coffee and something undeniably him.
Her hands hovered for a second.
Then slid around his waist.
He shuddered.
They stood like that.
Breathing.
Her chest against his.
His heart pounding under her ear.
For a moment, the world stopped.
No NexTelis.
No pilots.
No boards.
Just this.
This impossible, dangerous, necessary thing.
He exhaled, slow and shaky.
“Color,” she murmured into his shirt.
“Green,” he whispered. “For the first time in… I don’t know how long.”
Her throat closed.
She let herself relax.
Just for a second.
Let herself feel it.
The rightness.
The wrongness.
The inevitability.
His hand slid, the barest inch, up her spine.
She shivered.
“Declan,” she warned, voice muffled.
“Sorry,” he said. “Reflex.”
She pulled back.
Reluctantly.
He let her go.
Reluctantly.
They stood, inches apart.
Breathing hard.
“I’m… glad we did that,” he said hoarsely. “And I’m… terrified we did that.”
“Same,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, more to himself than to her. “We… put it away.”
“Yes,” she said. “We put it away.”
She stepped back further.
Crossed her arms.
Armored up.
“So,” she said briskly, because it was that or kiss him. “Tomorrow. First official task force report. Board meeting prep. Jess’s email. Your sleep schedule. Pick one.”
He huffed a laugh. “You’re very bad at transitions.”
“I’m excellent at them,” she said. “You’re just… distractible.”
He smiled, slow.
“Stay,” he said.
She arched a brow. “We just went over this. Boundaries.”
“Stay and… work,” he clarified quickly. “On… things. Not… this.”
She hesitated.
She should leave.
Walk away now, before the imprint of his body faded from her skin.
Instead, she moved to the table.
Opened her notebook.
“We start with the board,” she said. “They’re going to hate my report.”
He grinned, wolfish.
“Good,” he said. “They should.”
As they bent over the pages together, shoulders almost touching but not quite, Margot realized something terrifying.
She wasn’t staying because of the money.
Or the challenge.
Or even the chance to change NexTelis.
She was staying, at least in part, because she liked him.
All of him.
The brilliant, infuriating, autistic, power-drunk, guilt-ridden, evolving mess of him.
And that, more than anything, might be the most dangerous truth of all.
Because men could fix companies.
They could fix code.
They could fix systems.
They could not, no matter how smart, promise not to break a heart.
She picked up her pen anyway.
Drew a new line in her notes.
*Fault lines* she wrote.
Then, under it, in smaller letters:
*Rewritten.*
And next to it, without thinking, a tiny, dangerous word.
*Us.*