The first week after the deal closed felt like learning to walk on a ship that wouldn’t stop rolling.
Every day had a different kind of gravity.
Monday: integration plans. Tuesday: supplier triage. Wednesday: NexTelis exec departures—some graceful, some messy. Thursday: Hale people complaining that “the vibe” felt off. Friday: Margot waking up with the realization that her calendar had become a living creature with a mind of its own.
She tamed it anyway.
That was what she did.
She colored blocks—red for “do not move under pain of death,” yellow for “negotiable,” gray for “someone else can handle this.” She built routines around chaos. She carved out focus time for Declan like she was defending a fortress.
It helped.
A little.
He still frayed.
She watched him catching breaths like a swimmer who refused to come to the surface fully.
Wednesday, 8:02 p.m., he stood by his office window with his tie undone, staring at the city like it was a puzzle that should have yielded by now.
She tapped on the glass and stepped in.
“You’re still here,” she said.
“So are you,” he replied without turning.
“Someone has to pry you off your laptop,” she said. “You’d graft to it otherwise.”
He huffed something that might have been a laugh.
“Status?” she asked, moving closer.
“Luis is… skeptical,” he said. “We offered to renegotiate his contract under the new framework. He thinks it’s a trick.”
“Of course he does,” she said. “You are, from his point of view, the new head of the beast that bit him.”
“I’m not NexTelis,” he said, jaw tightening.
“Try telling that to his bank statements,” she said. “Trust takes time. You know that. You *said* that.”
“I hate time,” he muttered.
She smiled despite herself. “I noticed.”
He looked at her reflection in the window.
“You’ve been… quiet,” he said. “Since…” He trailed off.
“Since my father called me a traitor,” she finished.
His shoulders tensed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she said.
He turned then, leaning back against the glass.
“I’m not good at… giving space,” he said. “When I care. My instinct is to… fix. Or… hold.”
“I know,” she said. “I’ve noticed.”
“So when you… didn’t come in, and then did, and then kept our rules but also… looked at me like I’d kicked your dog…” He blew out a breath. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You didn’t kick my dog,” she said. “You *are* the dog.”
He blinked. “I’m… what?”
“Big. Loyal. Too much energy. Occasionally chews up furniture without realizing it matters to someone,” she said briskly. “But generally well-meaning.”
He stared.
“That’s… surprisingly… nice,” he said.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said. “You’re still shedding everywhere.”
He laughed outright at that, some of the tension cracking.
She took a breath.
“I’ve been quiet,” she said, “because I’m… recalibrating. My father chose your world. Or at least, to let your world touch his. Priya. Loans. Systems. That changes things. Not enough to make him throw you a parade. But… enough.”
“What about you?” he asked softly.
She met his gaze.
“I chose you before he did,” she said. “That’s the problem.”
His eyes darkened.
“You chose the *job*,” he said.
“Same thing,” she said.
“No,” he said. “It’s not.”
She didn’t answer.
He pushed off the window, came around his desk, and sat, folding his hands.
“Risk management,” he said.
She blinked. “Of…?”
“Us,” he said. “This. Everything.”
“You’re not supposed to say that out loud,” she said. “It makes it real.”
“It *is* real,” he said quietly. “Pretending it’s not won’t make it less… risky.”
She exhaled. “Okay. Talk.”
“I made a list,” he said.
She stared. “Of what?”
“Risks,” he said. “Associated with you staying. With you going. With you… crossing lines. With me crossing lines.”
“You… what?” she said, incredulous.
He pulled a page from his notebook, sliding it across.
In neat, precise handwriting:
> **Risk Matrix – Chen / Hale Relationship** > > 1. Margot quits pre-integration complete → high operational risk, high emotional impact. > 2. Margot burns out but stays → medium operational risk, high emotional impact, long-term cultural damage. > 3. Margot + Declan enter romantic relationship during integration → extreme organizational & legal risk, extreme emotional impact, potential leadership destabilization. > 4. Margot + Declan enter romantic relationship post-integration, with full disclosure and mitigation → medium organizational risk, high emotional risk, potential leadership strengthening or collapse. > 5. Status quo (high emotional tension, no romantic relationship) → ongoing cognitive load for both, moderate risk of impulsive boundary violation under stress.
Her cheeks burned.
“You made a *matrix*,” she said slowly. “About… us.”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s how I think.”
She pressed her fingers to her temples. “You are… the worst.”
“Probably,” he agreed.
She read the rest.
Under each item, he’d scribbled mitigation strategies.
For her quitting: “Cross-train Raj. Document systems. Avoid over-reliance.”
For her burning out: “Mandate days off. Enforce therapy. Reduce emotional dumping.”
For an ill-timed relationship: “Don’t.” Underlined twice.
For a later one: “Wait. Build scaffolding. Consult Nina & Kline. Draft disclosure.”
For the status quo: “Develop coping mechanisms. Reduce proximity when possible. Channel tension into productivity, not… rumination.”
She let out a shocked laugh. “You really thought this through.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “Because I can’t afford to… not.”
She looked up.
“Which option do you like?” she asked.
He grimaced. “This is not a menu.”
“Pretend it is,” she said.
He hesitated.
“Not three,” he said. “Definitely not three.”
“Agreed,” she said.
“Not two,” he added. “I refuse to watch you… erode.”
Her chest tightened.
“One,” he went on slowly, “would be… efficient. Clean. Hurt like hell. But… tidy.”
She flinched. “You really are a robot.”
He winced. “It’s how I think. Not how I feel.”
She sighed. “And four?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“Four is… tempting,” he admitted. “Later. When this… doesn’t hang over us. When you’ve had time to… choose outside crisis.”
She swallowed.
“And five?” she asked. “The status quo.”
He exhaled, long. “Unsustainable. Long-term.”
“So we can’t stay here,” she said.
“No,” he said. “We’ll crack. Or… drift. Or… explode.”
She sat back.
“Why are you showing me this?” she asked. “You could have kept it in your head. Treated me like an unknown variable you needed to constrain.”
“Because you’re not an unknown,” he said. “And because you keep telling me you’re not my project. Which means I can’t… model you without your consent.”
Her breath caught.
“That’s… bizarrely respectful,” she said.
“High praise,” he said dryly.
She stared at the paper again.
“You realize,” she said slowly, “that the only option in this list that doesn’t fuck me is four.”
“It might,” he said. “Just on a longer timeline.”
She laughed weakly. “Optimist.”
He studied her.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Her heart thudded.
“I asked you first,” he added.
She snorted. “You’re impossible.”
“Yes,” he said. “Answer anyway.”
She looked at the window.
At the skyline.
At the whiteboard with its scrawled “Don’t fuck it up” and *And don’t do it alone*.
“I want… my father not to regret signing with Priya,” she said. “I want suppliers like Luis to get a fair shot. I want Jess and people like her not to get blindsided by decisions made a thousand miles away.”
“I know that,” he said softly. “What about… you?”
She swallowed.
“I want… to not feel like my life is something that happens around men,” she said. “Bosses. Bankers. Deals. Fathers. I want to be… the protagonist. For once.”
He blinked.
“You are,” he said, almost offended. “In this.”
She laughed humorlessly. “I’m still the one holding your calendar. Your life. Not the other way around.”
“It’s… mutual,” he said. “You hold mine. I hold yours. Different ways. Same weight.”
She looked at him sharply.
“What do *you* want?” she asked, deflecting back.
He hesitated longer this time.
“Ethically?” he said. “Professionally? Personally?”
“Yes,” she said.
He sighed.
“Ethically: to not become the monster,” he said. “Professionally: to pull this off without leaving a trail of bodies that will haunt me more than I can tolerate. Personally…” He trailed off.
“Personally,” she pressed.
He met her eyes.
“Personally,” he said quietly, “I want… you. In my life. In some form that doesn’t destroy you. Or me. Or this company.”
Heat bloomed low in her belly.
“Define… some form,” she said, stalling.
He huffed a dry laugh. “I don’t… know yet. That’s the problem. If I rush, I’ll mis-spec. If I wait too long, I’ll… lose the window.”
“You talk about relationships like product launches,” she said.
“It’s what I know,” he said.
She rubbed her forehead.
“Here’s the thing,” she said. “I don’t trust myself. Not… with you. Not yet. My record with men is… not stellar. I fall for potential. For intensity. For men who look at me and say, ‘I see you.’ Then I end up rearranging my life around their needs and calling it ambition.”
He flinched like she’d slapped him.
“I don’t want to be that,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “That’s what makes this worse. You’re *not* the asshole. You’re… you. Which means if I fall and get hurt, I can’t even blame you. Just… me.”
Silence hummed.
He dragged a hand through his hair, eyes closing briefly.
“What if,” he said slowly, “we don’t… decide right now.”
She blinked. “We just… keep wobbling?”
“No,” he said. “We set… parameters. Milestones. Like a… delayed launch.”
She stared. “You’re project-managing our feelings.”
“Yes,” he said bluntly. “Because freeform has not… worked.”
She almost laughed.
“Okay, Agile,” she said. “What’s your proposal?”
“We give it time,” he said. “Six months. Integration. Supplier remediation. Your father’s first three payments to Priya. We see how we are. If you still… want anything to do with me then, we talk. If you don’t, we don’t. If either of us crosses lines before then… we stop.”
“Stop what?” she asked.
“Everything,” he said. “This. Work. Us. It’s too entwined. We can’t… half-change.”
Her heart spiked with panic.
“You’d fire me,” she said.
He flinched. “I’d… reassign you. With a generous package. And therapy. Lots of therapy.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “But is it… wrong?”
She thought about it.
Brutal.
Simple.
Maybe unrealistic.
Also… something.
A guardrail.
“Six months,” she repeated. “Nothing. No crossing. No… escalation.”
“Yes,” he said.
“That’s… long,” she said.
“Shorter than the loans,” he said.
She rolled her eyes.
“And after six months?” she asked.
“After six months,” he said quietly, “we check in. If you still… feel… anything. If I do. If the power dynamics look different. If the board hasn’t fired me and your father hasn’t disowned you. We… choose. Together. With eyes open.”
Her chest ached.
She looked down at the matrix.
At the underlined “Don’t” next to option three.
At the messy scribble under four.
“Cliff,” she murmured.
“Edge,” he corrected. “With a rope.”
“Terrible metaphor,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
She tapped the paper, mind racing. “This is… risk management.”
“Yes,” he said. “You love risk management.”
“I love control,” she said. “Different.”
He smiled faintly. “Same.”
She met his eyes.
“How do we handle… this,” she asked, gesturing between them, “in the meantime?”
“Work,” he said. “Transparency. Therapy. Trees. No… more… almosts.”
Her breath caught.
“You mean…” she began.
“No more… late-night handholding,” he said. “No more… hair behind ears. No more… watching your mouth when you talk about ethical frameworks.”
Heat flared in her cheeks.
“That last one might be involuntary,” she muttered.
“I’ll try,” he said.
She looked at him.
Really looked.
At the effort written in the tightness of his jaw. The sincerity in his eyes.
His fear.
Her own.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Six months.”
His shoulders dropped a fraction.
“Okay,” he echoed.
“We’re really… doing this,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “We are.”
She stuck out her hand.
“Deal,” she said.
He hesitated.
Took it.
Their palms met.
Held.
Electric.
He swallowed.
“Deal,” he said.
He let go.
Faster than she expected.
She felt the absence like a drop in altitude.
She took a breath.
“Now,” she said briskly, before either of them could drown in it, “Luis is waiting for your call. And Priya sent an email about creating a supplier advisory council that I think we should read very carefully, because she’s terrifying.”
He smiled.
“Back to work,” he said.
“Always,” she said.
As she stepped out of his office, her phone buzzed.
Nina.
> *How’s risk management?*
She smirked.
> *Ongoing. High variance. Moderate confidence.*
> *Story of my life. Also, Kline recommended a therapist for you. Sending deets.*
A contact popped up: *Dr. Maya Lin – Executive-adjacent therapy (no bullshit).*
She raised her eyebrows.
> *You’re all very invested in my mental health.*
> *You’re holding our favorite weirdo together with sheer force of will. We’d like you not to shatter.*
She laughed.
> *No promises. But I’ll try.*
> *Bossy,* Nina sent back.
She smiled.
Bossy.
Risky.
On the edge.
She could live there.
For a while.
As long as she wasn’t alone.
And—for now—she wasn’t.
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