Declan didn’t sleep much, even on good weeks.
The week after closing, he barely slept at all.
On Wednesday night, Margot caught him in the war room at 11:30 p.m., alone, staring at a spreadsheet.
The overhead lights were dimmed. The giant screen glowed, casting his face in eerie blue.
She hadn’t planned to be there.
She’d promised herself—promised *him*, even—to leave by nine.
She’d made it to 8:45.
Then her inbox had exploded with overlapping crises, and she’d been sucked back in.
Now, standing in the doorway, she watched him.
His shoulders were slumped.
His tie was gone, top buttons undone.
His hair stuck up in the back.
He looked less like the man on magazine covers and more like the boy who’d cried in a server room.
“Hey,” she said gently.
He jerked, then relaxed when he saw her.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.
“Pot,” she said. “Kettle.”
He huffed.
She walked in, heels clicking softly on the floor.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Modeling,” he said.
“Of course,” she said. “What specifically?”
He gestured at the screen. “Worst-case cash flow scenarios if we implement the supplier remediation recommendations *and* the board forces us to accelerate plant consolidations.”
“So,” she said. “How to not bleed out while trying not to be assholes.”
“Yes,” he said.
She studied the numbers.
They were… brutal.
He pointed.
“If we do everything Hannah and Miguel suggested,” he said, “plus what Priya wants, plus what Alvarez considers the bare minimum, we dent earnings by three, maybe four percent over the next two years.”
“The board will scream,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “They like their percentages.”
“And if we don’t?” she asked.
“Short-term EPS looks great,” he said. “We hit our ‘synergy’ targets. Stock pops. Analysts write glowing notes.” He grimaced. “And ten years from now, someone writes a viral blog post about how Hale ruined their father’s business ‘just like NexTelis.’”
She nodded slowly.
“And you?” she asked. “What does *your* model say about… you?”
He frowned. “I’m not part of the financials.”
“You *are* the system making the decisions,” she said. “Your tolerance for pain—yours and others’—is a variable.”
He sighed. “I can handle… professional pain. Reputation. Board ire. Investor grumbling. I don’t… know yet how much human pain I can sit with and still… function.”
She moved closer.
“You’re not… a saint,” she said. “No one expects you to be. Except maybe yourself.”
He snorted. “I’ve never been accused of saintliness.”
“You’re in a position no one should be in,” she said. “Deciding how much harm is ‘acceptable.’ That would break anyone.”
He looked at her.
“You’re helping,” he said.
“Not enough,” she said.
“It’s more than anyone ever did for my grandfather,” he said quietly.
Her chest ached.
“That’s a low bar,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “But it’s the only one I have.”
She sat on the edge of the table, close enough to read the numbers, far enough not to touch.
“Show me,” she said.
He walked her through the scenarios.
Base case.
Optimistic.
Pessimistic.
Margot listened.
Asked questions.
“What if we space the remediation out more?” she suggested at one point. “Not all in the first year. Some now, some in year two, tied to specific milestones.”
He frowned. “We risk losing momentum. People forget. Get tired.”
“They will anyway,” she said. “We pace ourselves or we burn out. This isn’t a sprint anymore. It’s… a marathon that never ends.”
He rubbed his temple. “I hate marathons.”
“You like systems,” she said. “Think of it as… building one that doesn’t collapse under its own hypocrisy.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re getting good at this.”
“At what,” she asked.
“Reframing my neuroses as… strengths,” he said.
“My mother says it’s a talent,” she said.
He flinched.
“Your mother…” he began.
“Loves you,” she said promptly. “As of last week. Don’t get used to it.”
He laughed, startled.
“She said,” Margot went on, pulling a dumpling from her bag and handing it to him (she’d thought ahead), “that you sounded ‘serious’ on the phone. And that you need to eat.”
He stared at the dumpling.
“You’re bringing your mother’s food into the war room now,” he said. “That feels… significant.”
“Don’t get sentimental,” she said. “Eat.”
He obeyed.
“Color?” she asked, watching him chew.
He swallowed.
“Yellow,” he said. “With… blue.”
“Blue?” she repeated. “New.”
“Static,” he said. “But… lower frequency.”
She smiled. “Progress.”
He studied her.
“You haven’t asked,” he said.
“About what,” she asked.
“The pilot,” he said softly. “Why I didn’t… stop it. Or walk away. Or… something noble.”
She stiffened.
“I’ve been… avoiding it,” she admitted.
“So have I,” he said.
She looked at him.
“Why didn’t you?” she asked. “Back then.”
He exhaled.
“Because I didn’t see it,” he said. “Not really. I saw… opportunity. A big client. A chance to prove my model worked. I was… a kid with a hammer. They handed me a nail. I didn’t look at what the nail was attached to.”
“That’s not an excuse,” she said quietly.
“No,” he said. “It’s an explanation. The *excuse* is… I let it stay abstract even after things went sideways. When they cut us out and used our code anyway, I was furious. At them. At the injustice. At the theft. I didn’t… think about the suppliers until I saw the lawsuits. Even then, I thought, ‘That sucks.’ Then I moved on. It wasn’t until… I watched my grandfather’s store die that it… clicked. By then, the pilot was a footnote.”
She absorbed that.
“Do you hate him?” she asked.
“Who,” he said.
“Your younger self,” she said. “The one who took the contract.”
He considered.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “Mostly when I see his patterns in me now.”
She nodded.
“I hate mine too,” she said. “The girl who thought she could outwork grief by organizing other people’s calendars.”
He smiled, sad. “She did… okay.”
“She survived,” Margot said. “That’s… something.”
He watched her.
“I’m… sorry,” he repeated softly. “I know that doesn’t fix anything. But I need you to know it’s not a line. I… feel it. Daily.”
She swallowed.
“I believe you,” she said. “That’s… part of the problem.”
He blinked.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“It would be easier if you were… a cartoon villain,” she said. “If you didn’t care. If you shrugged and said, ‘That’s business.’ I’d quit. Hate you. Move on. But you *do* care. You’re trying. You’re… hurting. And I…” She exhaled. “I can’t help wanting to stand next to you while you figure it out.”
His face went soft.
“Margot,” he said.
“Don’t,” she said quickly. “We’re not—this is not—”
He held up a hand. “Okay.”
They fell into work again.
At some point, around midnight, she yawned.
He frowned. “Go home.”
“So should you,” she countered.
“I will,” he said. “After I finish this run.”
She arched a brow. “You said that an hour ago.”
“I mean it this time,” he said.
She snorted.
“Declan,” she said. “If you stay here all night, you’ll be useless tomorrow. Kline will murder me. And I like her.”
“She’s more likely to murder me,” he said.
“With my help,” Margot said.
He smiled faintly.
“Fine,” he said. “Fifteen more minutes. Then we both go.”
“Deal,” she said.
They made it.
At 12:18, she physically closed his laptop.
He let her.
They walked out together into the chilly night.
On the sidewalk, they paused.
“You still owe my mother a dinner,” she said lightly, trying to cut the thickness of the air.
He groaned. “She’ll interrogate me.”
“Yes,” she said. “And feed you. You like one of those things.”
He sighed. “After quarter close. When I’m less likely to have a meltdown about soup temperature.”
“She’ll still judge you,” Margot said.
“I expect nothing less,” he said.
They stood there, under the streetlight.
Close.
Not touching.
“Goodnight, Declan,” she said.
“Goodnight, Margot,” he said.
He hesitated.
Then added, softly, “Stay.”
She blinked. “We’re both going home.”
“I mean… here,” he said. “With me. In this… mess. For a while longer.”
Her chest squeezed.
“I am,” she said. “For now.”
He nodded.
That was all he could ask.
For now.
He’d take it.
And try, with every model, every meeting, every choice, not to use her presence as an excuse.
But as a reminder.
Of what he could be.
Or fail to be.
It was a terrible kind of accountability.
It was also, he realized, the only kind he trusted.