Six weeks into the six-month ceasefire, Margot realized she’d started measuring time in coffee cups and Kline appointments.
Mondays were double espresso, supplier calls, and Hale/NexTelis integration stand-ups that ran twenty minutes too long. Wednesdays were Priya updates and war room “retros” where everyone pretended they loved Agile. Fridays were therapy—for him at three, for her at five.
Dr. Maya Lin’s office was on the twenty-ninth floor of a building in Midtown that housed a dozen law firms, three consulting outfits, and one Pilates studio that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and regret.
“You look… wired,” Maya said, pushing her glasses up her nose as Margot dropped onto the leather couch.
“I had three coffees,” Margot said. “And an ethics meeting. Those are correlated.”
Maya smiled, the corners of her dark eyes crinkling. Mid-forties, hair pulled back in an efficient knot, she dressed like a partner at a white-shoe firm and swore like a line cook. Margot liked her immediately.
“Tell me about the ethics meeting,” Maya said.
Margot exhaled. “Supplier Remediation Task Force. Week… whatever. Darryl yelled. Priya cackled. Eliza did that thing where she looks like she wants to stab a spreadsheet. It was… productive.”
“Darryl yelling,” Maya said. “About what.”
“About us being too slow,” Margot said. “He’s not wrong. He’s got a list of small shops on the brink. Some of them aren’t going to make it to Q3 no matter what we do.”
“And Priya cackled,” Maya said. “Why?”
“Because the bank she just screwed over on one loan tried to sell her another portfolio without admitting it was full of landmines,” Margot said. “She lives for that shit.”
“And you?” Maya asked. “What did you do while men yelled and Priya cackled?”
“I… translated,” Margot said. “Turned Darryl’s rage into bullet points Legal will read. Turned Priya’s glee into policy. Told Eliza what we can sell to the board without them fainting.”
“And how did you feel?” Maya asked.
“Tired,” Margot said. “Angry. Powerful. Useless. Pick one.”
“Or all,” Maya said.
“Or all,” Margot sighed.
Maya watched her for a beat. “And Declan?”
Of course.
“He sat,” Margot said. “Listened. Said almost nothing. He’s… learning.”
“That sounded almost admiring,” Maya said.
“I do admire him,” Margot said, annoyed at herself. “That’s half the problem.”
“And the other half?” Maya asked.
“That I also want to shake him until his teeth rattle,” Margot said. “For the pilot. For NexTelis. For… everything.”
“And yet,” Maya said. “You hugged him.”
Margot’s cheeks heated. “He told you that.”
“It came up,” Maya said mildly. “In the context of ‘I’m pretty sure I broke our rules and I’m not sure if I should feel guilty or relieved.’”
“He should feel both,” Margot muttered. “I do.”
“Walk me through that moment,” Maya said. “From your body’s point of view. Not your brain’s.”
Margot closed her eyes.
“I could feel his heartbeat,” she said quietly. “Fast. Like mine. His hands were… careful. Like he was holding something fragile. Mine were… not. I grabbed on. Harder than I meant to.”
“And your brain?” Maya asked.
“Alternated between ‘this is so fucking good’ and ‘this is so fucking stupid,’” Margot said. “On a loop.”
“And now?” Maya asked.
“Now I’m… fine,” Margot lied.
“Try again,” Maya said.
“Now I’m… hyper-aware of him,” Margot said. “More than before. Every time he comes too close, I feel it. Every time he pulls back, I feel *that*.”
“And how is he with you?” Maya asked.
“Better,” Margot admitted. “More contained. He hasn’t touched me since. Not even accidentally. It’s like he flipped a switch.”
“And that bothers you,” Maya said.
“Yes,” Margot snapped. “No. I don’t know. I said I wanted boundaries. I *do* want boundaries. I just… hate that he’s better at keeping them right now than I am.”
Maya’s lips quirked. “Control.”
“Story of my life,” Margot said.
“How much of this,” Maya asked, “feels like your father?”
Margot stiffened. “What do you mean.”
“Man whose decisions shaped your life,” Maya said. “Stubborn. Proud. Terrible at apologies. You feel things, you translate them, you try to fix the fallout. Sound familiar?”
“That’s… reductive,” Margot said.
“Accurate,” Maya replied. “Reductive and accurate are not mutually exclusive.”
Margot glared. Then sighed.
“Okay,” she said. “There’s… overlap.”
“How are things with him?” Maya asked.
“My father?” Margot said. “He sends me photos of the shop sometimes. With captions like ‘still here’ and ‘your mother rearranged my tools, send help.’”
“And under that,” Maya prompted.
“Under that… he’s still mad,” Margot said softly. “At NexTelis. At the bank. At me. Less than before. But it’s… there.”
“And you?” Maya asked. “Still mad at him?”
“Yes,” Margot said. “For… putting everything in one basket. For trusting men who smelled like money. For not telling me how bad it was until it was crisis-mode. For making my entire adult life an extended cleanup job.”
“And at the same time?” Maya asked.
“At the same time,” Margot said, throat tight, “I love him so much it hurts. And I feel guilty for… building something with the man who bought his nightmare.”
“Guilt,” Maya said. “We should charge extra for that. It’s like heroin in this town.”
Margot laughed weakly. “You’re very… blunt.”
“You pay me to be,” Maya said. “Otherwise I’d be a very expensive friend.”
“Fair,” Margot said.
“How much of your staying,” Maya asked, “is about Declan? How much is about your father? How much is about you?”
Margot stared at her hands.
“Sixty percent me,” she said slowly. “Twenty percent my father. Twenty percent him.”
“That’s… specific,” Maya said.
“I run calendars,” Margot said. “Specific is my kink.”
“And six months from now?” Maya asked. “What do you want those numbers to be?”
“Eighty percent me,” Margot said. “Ten percent father. Ten percent him.”
“Ambitious,” Maya said. “I approve.”
Margot looked up. “You haven’t said once that I should leave.”
“Do you want me to?” Maya asked.
“No,” Margot admitted. “I want… someone to say I’m not insane for staying. And someone else to say I’m insane and then give me a flowchart.”
Maya smiled. “You have Declan for flowcharts.”
Margot groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“Listen,” Maya said. “You are walking a razor. Between power and self-erasure. Between atonement and martyrdom. Between a man who is genuinely trying to do better and a system that will not reward him for that. There is no clean answer. There is only… calibration.”
“I hate that,” Margot muttered.
“I know,” Maya said. “You like clean. Life often isn’t. My job is to help you decide, every week, whether the current level of mess is one you can live with. And to remind you that you can always say no. Even to men who move markets.”
Margot swallowed past the lump in her throat.
“Okay,” she said. “So this week?”
Maya tilted her head. “This week? You’re messy. But functional. You’re not lying to yourself. Much. You’re pissed at him. You haven’t used that as an excuse to sabotage your own work. That’s… good.”
“High praise,” Margot said.
“Don’t get used to it,” Maya said.
They moved on to other things.
Sleep.
Food.
Lila’s attempt to set her up with “a very nice accountant who likes spreadsheets.”
By the time she left, Margot felt… steadier.
Not fixed.
But calibrated.
For now.
***
On Wednesday, the gossip came back.
This time, it was in the form of a Slack message from an unknown handle: *@anontruths*.
> *Heard from a friend in Legal that Hale ran a pilot with NexTelis years ago that helped them screw small suppliers. “Optimization,” they called it. Anyone know more?*
Her stomach flipped.
She pinged Nina.
: *See #random. AnonTruths.*
> *Saw. Legal’s already having kittens. You okay?*
: *Define okay.*
> *Not shoving Declan out a window.*
: *Then you’re technically fine.*
Nina added a 🙃.
Margot stared at the thread.
Replies were pouring in.
> *@ops_guy87:* pilot? wtf > *@nexemployee:* wouldn’t surprise me tbh > *@supplychainnerd:* optimization is just a fancy word for screw you, pay me > *@JessC:* careful with rumors. ask Margot? she’d know.
Her chest tightened.
Everywhere.
Always.
She typed.
> *@MargotC:* Pilot existed. 2013. Limited scope. Was not rolled out broadly. Hale’s frameworks were used by NexTelis afterward without authorization. That doesn’t absolve us. It’s why we’re taking remediation seriously now.
She hovered.
He’d asked for transparency.
This was that.
She hit enter.
The thread exploded.
> *@anontruths:* so you admit Hale helped them? > *@MargotC:* I admit Hale’s early work intersected with NexTelis’s bad practices. Intent & impact differ, but I’m not here to spin. If you want specifics, I’ll ask Legal what we can share without tanking the stock. > *@ops_guy87:* that’s… more honest than I expected ngl > *@randomlurker:* did Declan know? > *@MargotC:* Not at first. He does now. It’s part of why he pushed for the Supplier Remediation Task Force. Again, not absolution. Just data.
She could feel eyes turning toward her desk.
She ignored them.
Her DMs lit up.
Employees.
Curious.
Angry.
Supportive.
She triaged.
Answered what she could.
Deferred what she couldn’t.
Her heart pounded.
Her email pinged.
> From: D. Hale > Subject: Slack
> You didn’t have to jump on that grenade. > > Thank you. > > Can we talk before 4?
She considered.
: *You’re welcome. 3:30?* she replied.
> *3:30. My office. With the glass clear this time.*
Her lips twitched.
***
He looked… raw.
Not physically.
Physically, he looked like a CEO in full.
Navy suit, white shirt, tie knotted precisely. Hair tamed. Watch gleaming.
But his eyes.
His eyes were tired.
“I was going to address it at the all-hands,” he said as soon as she closed the door. “When we had a narrative. Legal wanted time.”
“Legal always wants time,” she said. “Rumors don’t.”
“You didn’t have to answer,” he said. “You could have… ignored.”
“I could have,” she said. “But then someone else would have filled in the blanks. Probably badly.”
He exhaled.
“Are you… okay?” he asked tentatively.
“You keep asking that,” she said. “You know I’m not.”
“Less not?” he tried.
She laughed despite herself. “Less not.”
He glanced at the glass walls.
They’d left them clear.
People could see them.
See *him*.
With *her*.
Transparency as risk management.
“Do you want me to say something?” he asked. “On Slack. Or at the town hall tomorrow.”
“Both,” she said. “But not as a defensive maneuver. If you open with ‘Contrary to rumors…,’ you’ll sound guilty. Because you *are.*”
He winced.
“Honest,” he muttered.
“Try,” she said.
He thought.
Out loud.
“‘In 2013, we did a pilot,’” he said. “’We thought we were testing code. We weren’t paying enough attention to the human cost. NexTelis took what we built and used it in ways we wouldn’t have chosen. That’s on them. Not on the code.’”
“Too soft on you,” she said immediately. “You’re still centering your intent. No one gives a shit about your twenty-three-year-old naivete right now. They care about whether you see the blood on the gears.”
He swallowed.
“‘We helped,’” he amended. “’Even if we didn’t mean to. That’s on us. I’m not proud of it. We’re doing the work now to mitigate that damage as much as we can. You can judge us on what we do, not what we say.’”
She nodded slowly.
“Better,” she said. “Still a little self-flagellating. But that plays better than defensiveness.”
“I’m good at self-flagellation,” he said dryly.
“I’ve noticed,” she said.
He watched her.
“I hate that you had to walk into that Slack fire,” he said.
“It’s my job,” she said.
“It’s not,” he said quietly. “Your job is to manage my time. Not my sins.”
She swallowed.
“You keep conflating those,” she said. “Time. Sin. Me.”
“I know,” he said.
“So stop,” she said.
He huffed. “I’m… trying.”
“How’s that going?” she asked.
He smiled faintly. “Badly.”
She smiled back.
They stood there for a second, the crisis settling into a manageable hum.
“Dr. Kline asked about you,” he said abruptly.
She blinked. “You talk about me a lot in therapy.”
“Too much,” he admitted. “She says you should bill my insurance.”
She snorted. “Noted.”
“She also said,” he went on, “that I need to… expand my support network.”
“Oh?” she said. “Going to replace me with three lesser assistants?”
“Impossible,” he said. “I meant… friends. People I can be… less on with. So I don’t… default to you with everything.”
Her chest warmed.
“Hence… poker night?” she guessed. “I saw the calendar invite.”
He grimaced. “You weren’t supposed to.”
“You literally invited half the exec team,” she said. “On shared calendars. Subtle.”
“It was Eliza’s idea,” he said. “’Male bonding’ she called it. I told her I don’t bond. I… connect patterns.”
“Maybe you can pattern-match your way to a straight flush,” she said.
He tilted his head. “You play?”
“Enough to know never to play with you for money,” she said.
“Noted,” he said.
They lapsed into silence again.
Comfortable.
Almost.
She broke it.
“Town hall tomorrow,” she said. “Eleven. You ready?”
“No,” he said. “But I’ll… show up.”
“Story of your life,” she said.
He chuckled.
“Margot,” he said.
She raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Again. For… stepping into fire. For… not leaving.”
She sighed.
“You keep thanking me for staying in hell with you,” she said. “Maybe focus on making it less hell.”
“I am,” he said. “With you.”
“And therapy,” she said.
“And therapy,” he echoed.
She nodded.
“We’ll… see,” she said quietly.
He watched her walk out.
He didn’t reach for her.
He didn’t call her back.
He just sat.
And stared at the matrix.
And tried to remember how to breathe.
---