The lobby of Hale Innovations smelled like money.
Not in the obvious way. There was no ostentatious marble, no towering chandelier. The floor was polished concrete. The reception desk was sleek walnut. The art on the walls was modern, abstract, interesting without being aggressive.
But everything was *quality*. The air itself felt filtered. The people at the security desk wore tailored black, their badges discreet. The coffee bar in one corner had a line of employees in muted tech-casual, holding reusable cups emblazoned with the Hale logo.
Margot stepped through the revolving door at 7:52 a.m., took it all in, and squared her shoulders.
New job.
New rules.
Same woman.
Her reflection flashed in the glass as she crossed the lobby. She’d chosen her armor carefully: a charcoal sheath dress that hit just above the knee, low block heels (no one told you about the *walking* in these jobs), a fitted black blazer. Her hair was in a smooth twist, dark and glossy. A single thin gold bracelet gleamed at her wrist.
She looked competent. Unflappable. Which was exactly what she needed to project, because inside, her nerves hummed.
NexTelis.
The word had sat in her chest all weekend like a stone.
She’d gone to Sunday dinner, smiled at her parents, eaten *hóngshāo ròu* and mango cake. She’d listened to her father grumble about suppliers and tooling and how young engineers today didn’t understand tolerances.
She hadn’t told him.
She’d almost blurted it out three times. *Baba, the new company—my new boss—he’s trying to buy NexTelis.*
But every time, she’d pictured the way his face would go still. The way his eyes would go flat, remembering.
So she’d kept her mouth shut and asked him about the Mets instead.
Now, as the elevator whooshed her to the thirty-third floor, she forced herself to breathe.
Thirty days, she thought. That’s what he said.
Thirty days to help him buy the company that had destroyed her father’s dream.
Or, perhaps, thirty days to see whether there was any way to shape what happened next.
The elevator doors slid open soundlessly onto a bright, airy space.
The thirty-third floor of Hale Innovations was a different world from Veridian’s loud, almost manic media chaos. This was… focused.
Open-plan desks, yes, but with high-quality acoustic panels that actually dampened sound. Meeting pods with sliding doors. Screens everywhere, displaying dashboards, timelines, lines of code.
People moved with purpose. No one seemed to be wandering aimlessly with a latte, gossiping. It was almost unnerving.
A woman in a cobalt blouse and black trousers detached herself from a cluster near the reception desk and approached, hand outstretched.
“Margot? I’m Nina. HR business partner for executive ops. Welcome to Hale.”
Her handshake was firm, her smile professional. Hair in tight coils, air of someone who’d seen it all and filed it neatly.
“Nice to meet you,” Margot said.
“We’ll do a quick tour,” Nina said, gesturing. “Get your badge photo, set up your accounts, then I’ll hand you off to Ops. You’ll meet Declan at eight-thirty.”
Not eight, Margot noted. Somewhere in the last three days, his schedule had shifted. Or he’d simply taken for granted that *he* could move the time.
She filed it away. She didn’t mind the delay. It gave her time to get the lay of the land.
Nina walked her through the floor. “Engineering’s mostly on thirty-two, product on thirty-one. This floor’s exec plus corp dev, finance, legal. Your desk is just outside Mr. Hale’s office. We’ll customize it as you like. Most people here prefer standing desks.”
“I’ll take both,” Margot said. “Chair and standing option. I like flexibility.”
“Noted.” Nina’s eyes flicked over her approvingly. “You came from Veridian, right? Must feel like a different planet.”
“That’s one word for it.”
They reached a glass wall. Beyond it, a large room hummed with activity—whiteboards, sticky notes, screens. A few people glanced up, eyes sharp, then back at their work.
“War room,” Nina said quietly. “NexTelis. You’ll be in and out of there a lot.”
Margot’s stomach tightened. She kept her expression smooth. “I assumed.”
“Big deal for us,” Nina went on. “Big deal for him. Don’t be surprised if half your life for the next month revolves around that room.”
“I don’t scare easily,” Margot said.
“I read your file,” Nina said. “I know.”
She led Margot past a cluster of glass offices. Most were empty this early. One held a woman in her forties in a cream suit, already on a call, gesturing with a pen.
“Eliza, CFO,” Nina murmured. “You’ll work with her a lot too. She’s one of the good ones.”
They rounded a corner.
“There,” Nina said.
Declan Hale’s office.
It wasn’t ostentatious. Slightly larger than the other exec offices, corner placement, but the same glass walls, the same sliding door. Right now, the glass was frosted. Opaque.
Outside it, a large desk waited. Dual monitors, empty in-trays, a clean keyboard.
Her desk.
She approached it slowly.
On the monitor, a Post-it note: *Margot – Welcome. - Ops*
Someone had left a small white orchid off to one side, delicate petals arching.
She touched one leaf lightly, then pulled her hand back. She had a poor track record with office plants, but she appreciated the gesture.
“This is you,” Nina said. “Your login details should be in your email. Laptop’s in the drawer. IT will swing by to make sure you’re set.”
“Thank you.”
“Before I go,” Nina added, “I want to say something… off the record.”
Margot turned, eyebrows up. “Okay.”
“You’ve worked with ‘challenging’ executives before,” Nina said. “You know the drill. But Declan is… different.”
“In what way?” Margot asked calmly. “And please don’t say ‘intense.’”
Nina huffed a laugh. “HR’s official line is: he has high standards. He moves fast. He expects everyone to keep up.”
“And your unofficial line?” Margot asked.
“He’s smart,” Nina said, choosing her words carefully. “Very. He sees patterns most of us miss. He’s direct. Sometimes blunt. He doesn’t do well with… fluff. Or politics. Or people who say one thing and mean another. He… misses… some interpersonal cues. And overreads others. It can be… jarring.”
“He told me he’s on the spectrum,” Margot said softly.
Nina’s eyes widened a fraction. “Did he?”
“Yes.”
“On your first call,” Nina said.
“Yes.”
She exhaled. “Huh.”
“That surprise you?” Margot asked.
“A little,” Nina admitted. “He doesn’t hide it, exactly. But he also doesn’t lead with it. He told the exec team years ago. HR knows. A few people he trusts. But he doesn’t advertise it in recruiting. Says he doesn’t want it to be an excuse. Or a shield.”
“That tracks,” Margot murmured.
“He’s not…” Nina searched for the words. “He’s not unkind. But you’ll see sides of him most people don’t. When the mask slips.”
Margot looked at the frosted glass. “And that’s a problem because…?”
“Because that position,” Nina said, nodding at the desk, “is where assistants burn out. They see too much. They absorb too much. Some of them start mothering him. Some of them start resenting him. Some of them… fall for him. None of those end well.”
Margot’s lips quirked. “Meaning they forget he’s their job, not their boyfriend.”
Nina’s mouth twisted. “Exactly. I’ve had to do damage control on more than one ‘but he *needs* me’ situation.”
“He’s my boss,” Margot said. “Not my project. Not my cause. Not my crush.”
“Good,” Nina said. “Hold on to that. Especially when he does that thing where he looks at you like you’re the most fascinating thing in the room. It’s… disconcerting.”
“So I’ve heard,” Margot said dryly.
Nina studied her, then nodded. “You’ll be fine.”
As she walked away, Margot slid into her chair.
The desk felt… empty. Potentially infinite.
She powered up the computer, logged in with the credentials they’d emailed. Her inbox was already seeded: welcome messages, system invites, a calendar share from *D. Hale*.
She clicked it.
His schedule populated her screen.
Blocks of color, back to back. Meetings, calls, war room time. *Focus* blocks too, she noted with approval. Someone—him?—had carved out hours for deep work.
She scrolled.
Monday: Packed. A rare white space from 8:30 to 9:00 labeled: *Margot onboarding*.
Her heart skipped.
He’d put her name on his calendar.
She shook her head at herself. It was practical, not personal.
She opened the attachments he’d sent Friday.
NexTelis overview. Public filings. Internal memos. Risk assessments.
She skimmed, eyes sharp, breath shallow.
There, buried in an appendix: a list of “affected partners” from a consolidation fifteen years ago. Small manufacturing firms, regional suppliers.
Her father’s old company’s name stared up at her.
*Chen Precision Components – Contract dissolved FY2013.*
The room tilted, just for a second.
She gripped the desk.
It was one thing to know, in the abstract, that NexTelis had eaten people like her father. It was another to see his company’s name in black and white on a list of casualties.
Dissolved.
So clean. So final.
She swallowed hard. The air felt thick.
Breathe, she told herself. *Not here. Not now.*
She forced her eyes away from the screen.
Her gaze landed on a small box on the far corner of the desk. Plain, white, with a Post-it: *From Ops – Tools*.
She opened it.
Inside: fresh pens. A new notebook. A slim, matte-black phone with a Hale logo. And a keycard on a lanyard.
Her badge.
She clipped it on with shaking fingers.
“Hey.”
She looked up.
A man leaned against the edge of her desk. Mid-thirties, light brown skin, kind eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses. Dress shirt rolled at the sleeves, gray chinos, sneakers.
“I’m Raj,” he said. “Ops lead for the exec floor. I keep this circus running.”
“Margot,” she said, standing automatically. “Nice to meet you.”
“I’m supposed to give you the ‘welcome, here’s where the bathrooms are’ talk,” he said. “But I figure you can find those. More important: coffee, snacks, and who not to piss off.”
Her lips twitched. “That sounds useful.”
He pointed down the hall. “Best coffee machine’s in that nook, by the big plant. Kitchenette’s behind you. HR lives on thirty, avoid them unless you need something or are being paid to smile. IT is nice until they aren’t. And as for who not to piss off…”
He glanced at the frosted glass behind her. “You’ve met Declan?”
“Not yet,” she said.
His eyebrows rose. “You… talked to him though.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head, impressed. “You’re already ahead of the curve. Past three he barely grunted at on day one.”
“I can be very insistent,” she said.
“Good.” Raj’s tone warmed. “He needs that. He gets… lost in his head. People either tiptoe around him or push too hard. Neither works.”
“And what does work?” she asked.
“Honesty,” he said. “And structure. He hates surprises, but he hates being managed like a child more. Tell him what you’re doing and why, and he’ll respect it. Usually.”
“And when he doesn’t?” she asked.
“Then you come find me, or Eliza,” he said. “We’re his… guardrails. And his fire extinguishers.”
She smiled, some of the tightness in her chest easing. “Good to know I’m not alone in the blast zone.”
His gaze softened. “You’re not. People make it sound like working with him is some kind of punishment. It’s not. It’s intense, yeah. But it’s also… exhilarating. He’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, and he’s not an asshole about it. Just… weird. In a good way, mostly.”
She thought of that. Weird in a good way. She’d known plenty of weird-in-bad-way bosses.
Her eyes flicked to the frosted glass again. “And the personal stuff?”
Raj’s lips thinned. “You mean the autism. You can say it. It’s not a slur.”
“I know,” she said. “I just… wondered how open people are about it here.”
“He doesn’t hide it, but he doesn’t want it to be his whole personality,” Raj said. “He gets… prickly if people treat it like an excuse. Or a party trick.”
“Party trick?” she echoed.
“Yeah. You know. ‘Look how good he is at patterns, must be the autism.’ Or ‘we can’t ask him to do X, he’s autistic, poor thing.’ Both piss him off.”
“Understandable,” she said.
“Anyway.” Raj straightened. “I’ll leave you to settle in. If you need anything—systems access, conference room bookings, someone to swear with when things go sideways—my desk is over there.” He pointed to a pod near the elevators, covered in sticky notes. “Welcome to the circus.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He left.
She glanced at the time.
8:27.
Her heart thudded.
She stood, straightened her blazer, smoothed invisible wrinkles from her dress.
Then, unable to help herself, she checked her reflection in the black screen.
Professional. Calm. Ready.
She perched on the edge of her chair, hands folded, and waited.
At 8:31, the frosted glass of Declan’s office flicked to clear.
He was already inside.
She stilled.
He stood behind his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled. Dark gray slacks, white shirt, slim navy tie loosened a half-inch like he’d tugged at it when he walked in.
He was taller than he’d looked in photos. Not towering, but solid. Shoulders broad. Lean, not bulky.
His hair was a little longer than in the promo shots—brown, slightly wavy, pushed back with fingers not product. His jaw was roughened with end-of-week stubble, like he’d forgotten to shave on Sunday. Or decided not to.
But it was his eyes that caught her.
Gray. Very light. Very direct.
For a second, they met.
It was like sticking her finger in a socket.
Not because he was handsome—though he was, in a slightly off-center way—but because his gaze was *intense*. Focused. There and not there at the same time, like he was looking at her and through her, taking in a thousand data points at once.
Then, as quickly as it had locked, his look slid away. He tapped his watch, then his phone, then his laptop. His movements were economical, precise.
The mask, she thought.
He glanced up again, like he’d remembered something. His gaze flicked to her desk. To her.
He lifted his hand. A quick, almost awkward wave.
She stood, smoothing her dress again, and walked to the door.
Her pulse pounded in her ears.
This was it.
Ten years of managing men like him—brilliant, demanding, dangerous in ways they didn’t always recognize.
Ten years of telling herself *never get involved. Never fall. Never forget what they are to you: jobs, not lives*.
And here she was, about to walk into the office of the man who wanted to buy the company that had once broken hers.
She knocked lightly on the glass.
He called, “Come in.”
She slid the door open.
His office smelled faintly of coffee and something clean. The air was cooler than outside, the lights softer.
He looked up from his laptop as she entered, eyes flicking over her in one quick sweep—face, hair, clothes, shoes—then landing on her eyes again.
“Margot,” he said.
Her name in his mouth did something she did not like.
“Yes,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Good morning, Mr. Hale.”
“Declan,” he said. “Behind closed doors. Mr. Hale is for board members and people trying to kiss my ass.”
She arched a brow. “I’m not here to kiss anything.”
He blinked. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth curved.
“Good,” he said. “Sit.”
She sat in the chair opposite his desk. It was comfortable, high-backed but not too soft. She approved.
He watched her for a beat.
“You’re exactly on time,” he said.
“You said eight-thirty,” she replied. “I was outside at eight.”
One eyebrow ticked. “I thought you might.”
He rested his forearms on the desk, fingers laced loosely. Up close, she could see the faint grooves in his knuckles, like he snapped his fingers or tapped surfaces when he thought.
He did not fidget now.
“Ground rules,” he said. “Then questions. Then we work.”
“Efficient,” she said. “Go ahead.”
“Rule one,” he said. “Tell me the truth. I don’t care if it makes me look bad, if it’s uncomfortable, if it means you think I’m making a mistake. I can’t fix what I don’t see.”
“Not a problem,” she said. “I’m not in the business of flattery.”
“Good,” he said. “Rule two: don’t surprise me. If you *have* to surprise me, prepare me emotionally first.”
She tilted her head. “Prepare you how?”
“Context,” he said. “Lead time. ‘In five minutes, X is going to happen. It may make you feel Y. Here’s why it’s necessary.’ Don’t just spring things on me because you think it’ll be fun or test my flexibility. It won’t. I’ll either shut down or snap. Neither is productive.”
She appreciated the specificity. “Understood.”
“Rule three,” he continued. “If you see me spiraling—overloaded, overfocused, losing track of time—interrupt me. I might get irritated. Do it anyway. My irritation is not a valid reason to let me work thirty hours straight and then fall apart.”
She raised a brow. “Do people… not interrupt you when you’re overloaded?”
“They… hesitate,” he said, mouth twisting. “They don’t want to upset me. Or they don’t recognize it until it’s too late. You’ve seen me in videos. That’s the mask. Only a few people see what’s under it.”
“And you’re inviting me into that,” she said slowly.
His gaze didn’t waver. “If we’re going to be effective, yes.”
She held his eyes. “That’s a lot of trust for someone you met five minutes ago.”
“It’s not about trust,” he said. “It’s about function. This role only works if you have access. I don’t half-do things that matter.”
She filed that away. He’d framed it as practicality, not intimacy. That would help. A little.
“My turn,” she said. “Rule one: I’m not your emotional caretaker. I’ll support your work. I’ll help manage your overload because it impacts your performance. But I’m not your therapist. If you need to process childhood trauma, schedule that with Dr. Kline, not me.”
His eyes widened a fraction. “You know about Dr. Kline.”
“I read your calendar,” she said. “You go every Friday at three. You rarely cancel.”
He studied her, then nodded once. “Fair.”
“Rule two,” she went on. “Respect my time. I will be available during working hours and, as necessary, during emergencies. But if you expect me to answer emails at two in the morning just because you’re awake, you will be disappointed. And I will quit.”
His mouth twitched again. “Define emergency.”
“Something that will blow up a deal, tank a stock, or harm a person if not addressed within the next few hours,” she said. “You being bored at midnight doesn’t qualify.”
A soft huff that might have been a laugh. “I don’t get bored.”
“Good,” she said. “We’ll get along.”
“Rule three?” he prompted.
“Rule three,” she said, “is: I’m not your girlfriend. Or your sister. Or your mother. I won’t pick out your clothes, I won’t soothe your ego, and I won’t mediate your family disputes. I will, however, tell you when your tie clashes with your shirt if we’re about to be on CNBC.”
He glanced down at his tie, reflexively. “Does it?”
She let her gaze flick over him. White shirt, navy tie, gray slacks. Simple. Clean.
“No,” she said. “You’re safe. For now.”
“Good to know,” he said dryly.
She hesitated. Then, because if he’d been blunt with her, she owed him the same, she added, “And I don’t sleep with bosses. Ever. So if that’s something you’ve done with previous assistants, adjust your expectations.”
He went very still.
She watched his face carefully.
His eyes sharpened. “I haven’t.”
“You haven’t slept with an assistant,” she clarified. “Or you haven’t adjusted your expectations?”
“The former,” he said. “I don’t… mix. It’s messy. Inefficient.”
“And yet HR warned me about people ‘falling for you,’” she said, voice cool.
His jaw tightened. “That’s… not… on me.”
“Isn’t it?” she asked softly.
His gaze snapped to hers.
For a second, the air between them crackled.
“Explain,” he said. Flat. Dangerous.
She didn’t back down. “You’re powerful. Smart. You look at people like you’re seeing things no one else sees. For some, that’s… intoxicating. It makes them feel special. Chosen. If you don’t set boundaries, if you let lines blur, they’ll read into it. That may not be your *fault*, but it is your *responsibility*.”
He stared at her.
Then, slowly, his shoulders dropped half an inch.
“You’re not wrong,” he said quietly.
She blinked. She’d expected defensiveness. Maybe anger. Not… concession.
“I don’t… mean to… lead anyone on,” he said, words careful. “I’m… curious. About people. About how they work. Sometimes I get… focused. And they misinterpret. That’s why I don’t… date at work. At all.”
“Good,” she said. “Then we won’t have a problem.”
His mouth quirked. “You’re very sure of that.”
“Yes,” she said. “Because if you cross that line, I’ll walk.”
He held her gaze.
“Duly noted,” he said.
Silence stretched, not uncomfortable exactly, but charged.
He broke it. “Questions.”
“Many,” she said. “Let’s start simple. How do you like your days structured?”
He exhaled. “Mornings are better for deep work. Afternoons for meetings. Evenings…” He grimaced. “Evenings for whatever I didn’t get to.”
“You’re blocking focus time yourself right now,” she said. “Want me to take that over?”
“Yes,” he said. “You have full control of my calendar. If someone insists they *must* have time with me, they go through you. If they don’t like that, they can complain to Eliza. Or the board.”
“Good,” she said. “I assume they will.”
“They will,” he agreed. “Ignore them unless it’s actually important. You’ll need to learn to distinguish real urgency from ego.”
“I’m very good at that,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
There it was again—that flicker of… something in his eyes. Interest. Recognition.
“How do you prefer people communicate with you?” she asked. “Email, Slack, in person?”
“Written,” he said. “Short. Clear. I don’t like people dropping by unannounced. If they must, they go through you first. You can decide if it’s worth disrupting me.”
“I become the bouncer,” she said. “Got it.”
His lips twitched. “Yes. With fewer muscles.”
“You haven’t seen me carry a case of paper,” she said.
Another huff of surprise-laughter. It did something unpleasantly warm to her chest.
“The NexTelis deal,” she said, sobering. “Where am I in that?”
He watched her closely. “How much did you read?”
“Everything you sent,” she said. “Plus whatever I could find in public filings. Including that list of dissolved contracts.”
He didn’t look away. “Your father’s company was on it.”
The words landed in the room like a dropped weight.
Her mouth went dry.
He *knew*.
She’d forgotten, for a moment, that she’d accepted a job with a man whose company specialized in pattern recognition. Of course he’d cross-reference her background. Of course he’d notice that her first job had been at a mid-size manufacturer that vanished around the same time NexTelis had consolidated.
“You did your homework,” she said, evenly.
“Yes,” he said. “I don’t like unknowns.”
“And what conclusion did you draw?” she asked.
“That NexTelis hurt your family,” he said. “And that you might have feelings about that.”
“Might,” she echoed, a bitter little smile. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Is it a problem?” he asked quietly.
She wanted to lie.
To say, *No. I’m a professional. I can separate business from personal.*
But he’d just told her not to.
She took a breath. “It’s… complicated.”
“Complicated how?” he pressed.
“My father built his company from nothing,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “He worked sixteen-hour days, seven days a week, for years. We didn’t take vacations. We didn’t buy new clothes unless something tore. Everything went back into the business.”
She swallowed.
“He got a contract with NexTelis,” she went on. “Huge. Life-changing. He thought he’d finally made it. Then they undercut him on price, used his designs to spec their own parts with a bigger supplier, and called it a ‘strategic realignment.’ He couldn’t fight them. He didn’t have the lawyers. Or the money.”
Declan’s eyes were very, very still.
“He lost the business,” she finished. “We lost the house. My parents lost… more than that. He’s never been the same.”
Silence fell like a blanket.
“I’m sorry,” Declan said.
She looked at him sharply. Not at the words. At the way he said them.
Flat. But not dismissive.
“How many times have you said that?” she asked, more bitter than she meant. “As part of acquisitions. ‘I’m sorry your company’s being bought. I’m sorry you’re being laid off.’”
“Not like this,” he said. “Not about this.”
She watched his face.
No pity. No flinching. Just… attention.
“NexTelis was a predator,” he said. “They used size to crush smaller operators and then abandoned them when something shinier came along. What they did to your father was wrong. Full stop.”
Her breath caught.
“You know,” she said faintly.
“I’ve read the cases,” he said. “Not just the big ones. The small suits. The complaints that went nowhere. They did a lot of damage.”
“And you want to buy them,” she said.
“Yes.”
Rage flared, hot and sudden. “To do what? Finish the job? Strip them for parts and call it synergy?”
His eyes flashed. “No.”
“Then what?” she demanded. “Because from where I’m sitting, this looks like you profiting from their sins.”
“If we don’t buy them, someone else will,” he said. “Helix. Caelum. Another giant that doesn’t give a damn about collateral damage. At least if it’s us, we can decide how to handle the legacy contracts. The old debts. The—”
“The bodies?” she bit out.
He exhaled sharply. “Yes. The bodies.”
He leaned forward, suddenly very intent.
“I won’t pretend this will magically fix what happened to your father,” he said. “It won’t. Nothing I do with NexTelis will give him his company back or erase those years. But I can stop them from doing it *again*. I can cut out the parts that made that possible. The loopholes. The kickbacks. The perverse incentives.”
She stared at him.
“And you want me to help you,” she said.
“I want you to help me manage the process,” he said. “Not because of your father. Despite it. Because you’re good at what you do. If this is a deal-breaker, say so now. I won’t hold it against you.”
“You won’t?" she said skeptically.
“No,” he said. “I’d respect it.”
The simplicity of it disarmed her.
“You could find someone else,” she said, testing.
“Yes,” he said. “It would cost me time. But I’d do it.”
“And you’d go after NexTelis with or without me,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
She sat back, the breath leaving her lungs in a slow hiss.
There it was.
The cold, inexorable logic of scale.
He would buy them. Or someone would. NexTelis was ripe. Weak. Attractive.
Her personal history did not change that.
What her presence *might* change was how much he saw of the ground-level impact.
“You said you read the small suits,” she said, voice low. “The little complaints no one cared about.”
“Yes,” he said.
“You *cared*?”
“I… noted,” he said. “I don’t like waste. Pain is… inefficient.”
She huffed a laugh that was part sob. “That is the most autistic thing I’ve ever heard.”
His mouth twitched. “Probably.”
She scrubbed a hand over her face, careful not to smudge her makeup.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Here’s where I am. I hate NexTelis. On a level that is not rational. I know they’re a corporation, not a person. I know the executives who made those decisions are probably retired or dead. But a part of me is still twenty-one, watching my father read that letter and break.”
She met his eyes dead-on.
“And another part of me,” she continued, “is thirty-two and very, very good at making powerful men listen to things they don’t want to hear.”
He watched her, unblinking.
“If I walk away from this job because of NexTelis,” she said slowly, “someone else will sit in this chair. Someone who might see this as just another deal. Another win. Another notch. They won’t see the names on that list as… real.”
“And you do,” he said.
“I do,” she said. “And if I take this job, I’m going to remind you. Every time you’re tempted to abstract them away.”
His jaw flexed. “That’s… acceptable.”
She barked a short, surprised laugh. “Acceptable.”
“Yes,” he said. “Maybe even… necessary.”
They looked at each other.
Something in the room shifted.
It wasn’t forgiveness. Or absolution. Or even agreement.
It was… an understanding. Fragile. New.
“I stay,” she said, more to herself than him. “On one condition.”
“Name it,” he said instantly.
“If there’s ever a conflict,” she said, “between what’s good for Hale and what’s right for the people NexTelis hurt, I get to be in the room when you decide. You don’t make that call in a vacuum.”
He didn’t hesitate. “Done.”
“You don’t even know what that will look like,” she said.
“I know I need someone to argue the other side,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t see everything as numbers on a spreadsheet. You have a stake. That gives you leverage.”
Her throat tightened. “You realize that might make me a problem for you.”
“I like problems I can see,” he said. “It’s the hidden ones that kill you.”
Her phone buzzed on the table where she’d placed it. A calendar alert.
*8:50 – NexTelis war room sync.*
She glanced at it, then up at him. “We should move. You have ten minutes to spare?”
“I have you,” he said simply. “Time is now your problem, not mine.”
It was… intoxicating, the way he said it. Like he was handing her something heavy and valuable and dangerous.
She stood. “Then let’s get to work.”
As she reached for the door, he said, “Margot.”
She looked back.
He watched her from his chair, eyes oddly naked for a second.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she asked.
“For not lying,” he said.
She swallowed.
“Get used to it,” she said. “You hired me for my mouth.”
His pupils flared, just a fraction.
Heat crawled up her neck.
She turned quickly and slid the door open, the cool air of the office brushing her hot cheeks.
“You know what I mean,” she added over her shoulder.
“Unfortunately,” he murmured, voice almost too low to catch, “yes.”
She pretended not to hear that.
But as she walked toward the war room, trying to ignore the burn under her skin, one thought lodged itself in her mind, refusing to move.
This was going to be dangerous.
Not just for her father’s ghosts.
For her.