The first time Margot saw her own reflection in a boardroom window and didn’t immediately think “assistant,” it startled her.
She was standing at the far end of the long, glossy table, flipping through slides on the screen for the quarterly review of the remediation task force.
On the surface, she looked like every other executive who’d ever stood in that spot.
Structured navy dress.
Subtle jewelry.
Hair smooth.
Calm.
Inside, she was vibrating.
Half from the caffeine.
Half from the knowledge that her father was watching this live from his shop in Queens, huddled around an iPad Priya had mailed him.
He’d texted her that morning.
> *Your mother made me wear shirt. Says if I’m on “big TV” I must look nice. Don’t embarrass us.*
She’d replied with a selfie in her dress.
> *No promises.*
Now, as she clicked to the next slide, she saw herself, reflected faintly in the glass.
She looked… like someone with authority.
It was disorienting.
She focused on the room instead.
The board.
Eliza.
Gita.
Nina.
Declan.
He sat two seats down from her per her request: “If I’m leading this, you don’t sit at the head. I do.”
He’d agreed.
Reluctantly.
Now, he watched her with that unnervingly focused gaze that made her skin prickle.
“—so in Q1, we’ve received fifty-eight formal legacy harm submissions from former NexTelis partners,” she was saying. “Of those, we’ve closed ten with remediation actions ranging from contract rewrites to facilitated wind-down support. Twenty-two are in active review. The rest are in initial assessment.”
“Cost?” one board member cut in.
She didn’t flinch.
“To date, direct financial outlay is roughly $14 million,” she said. “Projected full-year impact, assuming current acceptance rates, is between $60 and $75 million.”
A low whistle from someone.
The Chair frowned. “That’s… not insignificant.”
“No,” she agreed. “Neither was the harm.”
Another board member—a woman in her fifties with steel-gray hair—leaned forward.
“And what are we getting,” she asked, “in return?”
Margot held her gaze.
“Trust,” she said. “Internally and externally. Reduced litigation risk. Better supplier relationships. A moral high ground when regulators or press ask, ‘What are you doing differently from NexTelis?’”
The Chair pursed his lips. “Moral high ground doesn’t show up in EPS.”
Declan spoke for the first time.
“Neither do reputational landmines until you step on them,” he said. “We’ve all seen what happens when a company ignores small fires until the whole house is on Twitter.”
A few chuckles.
Margot continued.
“We’re also getting data,” she said. “Patterns. Clear evidence of what not to do. Which, if we’re smart, will save us money in other places.”
She clicked to a chart.
“Here,” she said. “Common practices in the legacy contracts we’ve flagged as harmful.”
Short termination windows following major capital investments.
Unilateral pricing changes.
Non-compete clauses that effectively trapped suppliers.
“Every time we avoid replicating one of these patterns,” she said, “we avoid potential lawsuits, protests, and… articles that make us look like NexTelis 2.0.”
There was a murmur of reluctant agreement.
One of the less awful board members—Patel, who’d always had a slightly twisted sense of ethics that at least acknowledged nuance—raised his hand.
“Talk to me about… scope,” he said. “You’re taking on a lot. How do we decide when to say, ‘We’ve done enough’?”
Margot’s stomach clenched.
She’d been dreading this question.
“We don’t have a hard endpoint yet,” she admitted. “We’re defining guardrails as we go. That’s… uncomfortable. For everyone. What we *do* have are criteria. We’re prioritizing cases where NexTelis’s behavior had outsized impact—where they were more than 50% of a supplier’s revenue, where there was clear asymmetry, where there’s evidence of… manipulation.”
“And others?” he pressed.
“We’ll likely have to say no to some,” she said quietly. “Not because they don’t deserve redress. Because we’re human. Limited. Broke, relatively speaking. I won’t pretend otherwise.”
Silence.
The Chair sighed. “You’re honest. I’ll give you that.”
“It’s not a branding exercise,” she said. “It’s… triage.”
“We’ll revisit budget at midyear,” Eliza added. “Assess against outcomes. Margot’s team is building metrics beyond dollars—supplier satisfaction scores, dispute reduction, speed of resolution. We’ll have more to go on then.”
The Chair nodded.
“All right,” he said. “Tentatively… keep going.”
It was as much of a green light as she was going to get.
After, as the board trickled out, Declan caught up with her in the hallway.
“You were… good,” he said.
She arched a brow. “Surprised?”
“No,” he said. “Proud.”
Her chest warmed.
“Don’t give me too much credit,” she said. “We haven’t *done* that much yet. We’ve had some good conversations. Sent some checks. Wrote some policies. No one’s life has been un-ruined.”
“Progress, not perfection,” he said.
She smirked. “Puberty, not sainthood.”
He blinked. “I don’t want to think of myself as a teenager.”
“Too late,” she said. “You’re moody and think you’re invincible.”
He laughed.
“Your father watched,” he said then, more softly.
She stilled.
“You… what?” she asked.
“He texted me,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “He has your number?”
“Yes,” he said. “Your mother gave it to him. Don’t kill her.”
“Oh my God,” she muttered, covering her face.
“He said,” Declan went on, “‘She looks like boss. Good. She always was. Now other people see.’”
Her heart clenched.
“He… said that?” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said.
Her throat burned.
She swallowed.
“Of course he did,” she said gruffly. “He’s still mad at me, you know.”
“I know,” he said. “He’s… allowed.”
“I’m… still mad at you,” she added.
“I know that too,” he said. “You’re also allowed.”
Silence hummed.
They walked toward the elevators.
“Dinner,” he said abruptly.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Tonight,” he clarified. “With your parents.”
Her stomach dropped. “No.”
He frowned slightly. “Why not?”
“Because my mother will interrogate you,” she said. “My father will glower. My aunt will ask if you want more rice every five minutes. And you’ll… see too much.”
“Of you?” he asked.
“Of where I come from,” she said. “Of… what this all *means*.”
“I already know what it means,” he said softly. “I met Morales. I talked to Hannah. I saw your father’s loan papers. I read your pilot files. I don’t think there’s much left to… hide.”
“There’s always more,” she said.
“Then I want to see it,” he said. “If you’ll let me.”
Her chest ached.
“This isn’t… a charity visit,” she warned. “They won’t thank you. They’ll feed you and yell at you and possibly blame you for everything that’s wrong with the world.”
“I can take it,” he said.
“Can you?” she asked quietly. “Without… performing. Without… promising things you can’t deliver just to make them like you?”
He winced.
“That’s… fair,” he said. “I’ll… try not to.”
She stared at him.
“You really want to do this?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve met regulators. Board members. Investors. NexTelis executives. I haven’t met the people whose lives we’re… rearranging. I want to start with yours.”
The vulnerability in that undid her.
“Okay,” she said before she could stop herself.
He blinked. “Okay?”
“Yes,” she said. “But we set rules.”
“Always,” he said.
“One,” she said. “No work talk for the first thirty minutes. My mother will want to know if you eat, sleep, have hobbies, believe in God, and know how to use chopsticks. Indulge her.”
He huffed. “Terrifying.”
“Two,” she went on. “You do not, under any circumstances, offer them money. For anything. Loans, investments, ‘help with the house.’ Nothing. If you do, my father will never forgive you. Or me.”
“Understood,” he said.
“Three,” she said. “You don’t… over-promise. No ‘I’ll fix everything.’ No ‘I’ll make it right.’ You can say, ‘I’m trying.’ That’s it.”
He nodded. “Agreed.”
“Four,” she added. “If at any point I say, ‘We’re leaving,’ we leave. No arguing. No staying to win a last debate. They’re my parents. I get to control the exit.”
“Okay,” he said.
He smiled, small.
“I’ll bring cake,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Bribery won’t work twice.”
“It’ll work on your mother,” he said.
“Unfortunately,” she admitted.
***
Flushing on a Friday night was chaos.
Subway rattling overhead.
Cars honking.
People everywhere.
Declan had never been there.
He’d ridden the train out—per Margot’s insistence (“You are not rolling up in a black car. My neighbors will think we’re being raided.”).
The 7 train had been an experience.
He’d stood, gripping the overhead bar, pressed between a teenage couple making out and an old woman muttering about “kids these days.”
He’d watched the city thin, then thicken again.
Now, standing on the cracked sidewalk outside the Chen house, cake box in hand, he took a breath.
Margot watched him, amusement and nerves tangled on her face.
“Last chance to bail,” she said.
“I thought you weren’t going to pre-breakup me anymore,” he said.
“This is different,” she said. “This is pre–parent-in-lawing.”
He blinked. “We’re not—”
“I know,” she cut in quickly. “Bad joke. Panic. Ignore me.”
He smiled.
“You’re… nervous,” he said.
“Terrified,” she admitted.
“Color?” he asked.
“Plaid,” she said. “With glitter.”
He laughed.
“Ready?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “Ring the bell.”
He did.
Her mother opened the door almost immediately.
She’d dressed up.
Nice blouse.
Lipstick.
Hair in a neat twist.
Her eyes lit up.
“Ah,” she said. “Boss.”
“Ms. Chen,” he said, inclining his head. “Thank you for having me.”
“Call me Auntie,” she said. “Come, come.”
She ushered them in with brisk efficiency.
“Shoes,” she said, pointing. “Off. We are not animals.”
He toed off his boots obediently, feeling oddly exposed in his socks.
Her father stood in the doorway of the living room.
He wore a collared shirt.
Tie.
Lucky loafers.
He looked at Declan.
Appraised him.
Then grunted.
“Boss,” he said.
“Mr. Chen,” Declan replied. “Thank you for… allowing me into your home.”
“Allowing?” her father snorted. “My wife would invite stranger off street if he looked hungry. You bring cake. You’re fine.”
He held up the box. “Mango,” he said. “From the place on Broadway. Your daughter says you like it.”
Her father’s lips twitched. “You have good memory.”
“I’m… working on it,” Declan said.
Her mother took the cake with a satisfied nod.
“Sit,” she commanded, gesturing to the couch.
Margot shot him a quick, apologetic look.
He sank onto the plastic-covered cushion.
Everything smelled like garlic and soy and something sweet underneath.
Family.
He’d never liked that word.
Too loaded.
Too painful.
Here, it felt… different.
He watched Margot sit beside him.
Saw her shoulders loosen in a way they didn’t at work.
Her father sat in the armchair opposite, legs spread, hands on his knees.
Her mother flitted around, bringing tea, chopsticks, bowls of something steaming.
Lila appeared from the hallway, in leggings and a T-shirt, hair piled on her head.
Her eyes flicked to him.
Widened.
“Holy shit,” she whispered. “You’re… Declan Hale.”
“Lila,” Margot hissed. “Language.”
“Sorry,” Lila said, not sounding sorry. “Just. Wow. You’re taller than on TV.”
He smiled faintly. “The camera adds… pixels.”
She laughed.
Her father cleared his throat.
“So,” he said. “Boss.”
“Call me Declan,” he said.
“Too intimate,” her father said. “Boss is fine.”
Margot groaned softly.
Her mother smacked her husband’s arm.
“Be nice,” she said. “Sit up straight. Don’t scare him. He’ll choke on dumpling and then we have to call ambulance. Very embarrassing.”
“I’m not scared,” Declan said.
“You should be,” Margot muttered.
Her mother perched on the edge of the coffee table, bowl in hand.
“You eat?” she asked him. “You look skinny. Work too much. Brain too big, body too small.”
“Ma,” Margot said, half-mortified, half-amused.
He smiled. “I… forget sometimes.”
“You forget *food*?” her mother said, scandalized. “What is wrong with you.”
“A lot,” he said dryly.
Her father snorted.
Her mother thrust a bowl at him.
“Eat,” she said. “Soup first. Good for brain. Then dumplings. Also good for brain. Everything here good for brain. And heart. Except maybe pork. But we ignore that.”
He took the bowl.
Sipped.
It was rich.
Savory.
Comforting.
He’d eaten Michelin-starred tasting menus that felt less… nourishing.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“You like?” her mother demanded.
“Yes,” he said honestly. “Very much.”
“Good,” she said. “We feed you. Then we yell.”
He choked on a laugh.
“You don’t… have to yell,” he said.
“Yes we do,” her father said. “This is how we show love.”
Margot groaned.
He looked at her.
She looked back.
There was so much history in this tiny room.
He was intruding on it.
He knew that.
He also knew he needed to see it.
To understand the full cost of the lines he drew in spreadsheets.
Her father leaned forward.
“So,” he said. “Boss. You buy NexTelis.”
“Yes,” Declan said.
“Why,” her father asked bluntly.
He took a breath.
“Because they run critical infrastructure badly,” he said. “Because they’ve hurt a lot of people and no one stopped them. Because if I didn’t, someone worse would. Because I think—arrogantly, maybe—that I can do less harm than the alternatives.”
Her father snorted. “Arrogant is right.”
“Yes,” Declan said.
Her father’s eyes narrowed. “You help them. Before. With code.”
Margot stiffened.
He’d known this was coming.
“Yes,” he said.
Her father stared.
“You know what that did,” he said. “Not just to us. To others.”
“Yes,” Declan said quietly. “I do now. I didn’t… fully see it then. That’s not an excuse. It’s just… true.”
Her father’s jaw worked.
“You are,” he said slowly, “very honest. For rich man.”
“I don’t like lying,” Declan said.
“Especially to yourself,” Margot added under her breath.
He smiled faintly.
Her mother swatted her. “Don’t be smart. He is trying.”
Her father grunted.
“You think you can fix this,” he said.
“No,” Declan said. “Not fully. Not for you. Not for my grandfather. Not for any of the people who’ve already… paid. I can’t… undo that.”
Her father’s gaze sharpened.
“But,” Declan went on, “I can… change what happens next. A little. Make it less easy for people like me, with too much data and not enough perspective, to make calls that break small businesses quietly. That’s… why I’m doing what I’m doing with Margot. With Priya. With the task force. It won’t be enough. But it’s… something.”
Silence.
Her father studied him.
“You know,” he said, “I hated you. When she tell me. ‘My boss buys NexTelis.’ I think, ‘Another one. Another rich boy with numbers for eyes.’”
Margot winced.
Declan didn’t.
“I deserved that,” he said.
Her father’s mouth twitched. “Maybe. But then you send cake.”
Lila snorted.
Her mother smiled.
“And you send Priya,” her father added. “You did not have to. You did. For you, maybe. For her. For us. Doesn’t matter. You did it.”
Declan swallowed. “I… couldn’t not. Once I knew.”
“You *could*,” her father said. “Men do all the time. You didn’t. That… is something.”
He nodded slowly.
“I don’t forgive you,” her father said bluntly.
Margot closed her eyes briefly.
“I don’t expect you to,” Declan said.
Her father’s lips pressed together.
“But,” he said, softer, “I also don’t… hate you as much. That is also something.”
Relief flared, surprising and sharp.
“Thank you,” Declan said quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet,” her father said. “You haven’t survived my wife’s second bowl.”
Her mother smacked his arm again. “Stop. He’s guest. Be nice.”
“He’s rich,” her father said. “He can handle it.”
They bickered.
Margot watched, heart swollen, throat tight.
Declan caught her eye.
There was something like… awe there.
She smiled, small and real.
He smiled back.
Later, after too much food and too many questions (Do you have siblings? Why no girlfriend? Why no wife? Do you want children? Why you so bad at eating regularly? Do you believe in fate? In karma?), her mother cornered Margot in the kitchen while Declan helped her father with the dishes.
“He likes you,” her mother whispered, conspiratorial, as if he weren’t ten feet away.
“Ma,” Margot hissed. “Stop.”
“He is good man,” her mother said. “Complicated. Like you. Good. You need someone who can argue with you without crying.”
“This is not—” Margot began.
Her mother waved a hand. “I’m not saying *marry him.* Yet. I’m saying… don’t be stupid. Don’t throw away something that feels… real because of stupid rules.”
Margot’s heart pounded.
“There are reasons,” she said. “Power. History. Ethics. My job.”
“Yes,” her mother said. “Reasons. Always reasons. And then one day you wake up sixty-five and all your reasons gone and you alone on couch with cat. Don’t be like that.”
Margot almost laughed. “You love cats.”
“I love cats because they don’t argue,” her mother said. “You are not cat.”
She left Margot alone with that.
In the living room, her father handed Declan a dish towel.
“You dry,” he said. “I wash. Women cook. Men clean. Equality.”
Declan smiled. “Deal.”
They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes.
Then her father said, without looking at him, “You hurt my daughter, I hurt you.”
Declan stilled.
“Understood,” he said.
Her father glanced at him.
“Not with hands,” he added. “With words. Very sharp. Hurts more.”
Declan’s lips twitched.
“I know,” he said. “She inherited them.”
Her father chuckled.
“Yes,” he said. “She did.”
When they left, standing again on the cracked sidewalk, cake box empty in Declan’s hand (her mother had insisted he take the leftovers), the air between them buzzed.
“That went… better than expected,” he said.
“You didn’t get stabbed with a chopstick,” she said. “I’m calling it a win.”
He smiled.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Full,” she said. “Of food. And… feelings.”
He laughed.
“Color?” he asked softly.
“Green,” she said, surprising herself. “Weirdly.”
He looked… relieved.
“Mine too,” he said.
They stood there, streetlight bathing them in yellow.
Too close.
Not touching.
Again.
“Thank you,” she said suddenly.
“For what?” he asked.
“For… coming,” she said. “For not… performing. For letting them see you… awkward. And… honest.”
He swallowed.
“Thank you,” he said. “For… sharing them. With me.”
“I didn’t… share,” she said. “They insisted.”
He smiled.
She took a breath.
Felt the line.
Saw it.
“I want…” she began.
He went very still.
“…to stay,” she finished.
His chest rose and fell, sharp.
“For now,” she added quickly.
He laughed, breathless.
“For now,” he echoed.
He stepped half a pace closer.
“Margot,” he said, voice rough. “If I asked… again. If we could… escalate. What would you say?”
Her heart pounded.
She thought of her mother’s words.
Her father’s.
Priya’s.
Kline’s.
Her own.
She met his eyes.
“No,” she whispered. “Not… yet.”
Pain flickered.
He nodded.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll… ask again. Someday. When it’s… safer.”
Her lips trembled. “We may never get there.”
He smiled, sad.
“We might,” he said. “Let’s… try not to ruin it before we find out.”
She laughed, startled.
He did too.
They stood there, under the humming streetlight, two complicated, hurting, hopeful people who’d drawn more lines in a month than most did in a lifetime.
They didn’t cross any of them.
Not that night.
Maybe not for a long time.
But as she rode the train back to Manhattan, leaning her head against the cool window, Margot let herself do something she hadn’t allowed in years.
She imagined.
A version of the future where this man did, in fact, manage not to become the thing she feared.
Where she did, in fact, manage to hold her boundaries without building a wall so high nothing could get in.
Where “boss” was only one of his titles in her life.
Not the only one.
It was terrifying.
It was irrational.
It was… hers.
For the first time, the idea of saying *yes* didn’t feel like capitulation.
It felt like possibility.
Far off.
On the edge.
Waiting.
If they could get there.
If they didn’t fuck it up.
If the faults under their feet could hold.
The train rattled on.
The city hummed.
And somewhere uptown, in a glass-walled office that finally, blessedly, sat in darkness, a man who didn’t believe he deserved love lay awake, staring at his ceiling, thinking of chopsticks and mango cake and the feel of a woman’s body, briefly, carefully, pressed to his.
And thought, for the first time in a long time:
*Maybe.*