By noon, Margot knew four things:
One, Hale Innovations ran tighter than any place she’d worked.
Two, the NexTelis deal was even more complex than she’d realized.
Three, Declan Hale was exactly as intense as advertised.
And four, she was in trouble.
The morning had evaporated in a blur of names, systems, and acronyms. Raj had walked her through their internal tools: an in-house scheduling platform that made Outlook look like a toy, a Slack-equivalent that actually threaded conversations properly, a project management dashboard that synced with financial models in real time.
“It’s like someone took all the tools you hate,” Raj had said proudly, “and made them obey.”
“Did Declan design this?” she’d asked.
He’d given a little half-shrug. “The first version, yeah. Then engineering prettied it up and made it scalable. He still jumps into the repo when he’s stressed.”
“Coding as therapy,” she’d said. “I’ve seen worse coping mechanisms.”
At nine, she’d shadowed him into the NexTelis war room.
The temperature dropped when he entered. Not literally—but the hum of conversation dimmed, the focus sharpened.
He didn’t stride or swagger. He just *was*, and the room adjusted.
“Status,” he’d said, as he took his place at the head of the table.
Voices came in turn. Corp dev, legal, regulatory, HR. Acronyms flew: FTC, DOJ, CMA. Numbers did too: billions, millions, basis points.
Margot had stood by the wall, notebook open, pen moving.
She watched him.
He listened like a machine taking in inputs. No smiles, no nods, no “mm-hmms” of encouragement. Just stillness and that unsettling gaze, darting from speaker to screen to spreadsheet.
When someone wandered, he cut them off with a single word. “Point.”
They got to the point.
When someone repeated information, he interrupted with, “Already covered. Move on.”
No softness. No performative praise.
And yet.
When the corp dev lead stumbled over a number, flushing, Declan had said, “Take a breath. Start again. You know this.”
The man had straightened, inhaled, and continued. Correctly.
Later, when legal had fretted about regulatory timing, he’d said, “You’ve done this before. You’re good at it. Tell me what you need from me to make this work.”
“Your patience,” she’d muttered under her breath.
He’d glanced over, like he’d heard her, and the corner of his mouth had twitched.
She hadn’t missed the looks from the team when he’d introduced her.
“This is Margot,” he’d said. “She’s my new EA. She has full calendar authority and escalation privileges. Treat her time as my time.”
A murmur.
Someone in the back, under their breath, “Poor thing.”
She’d looked straight at the speaker—a young man in a too-tight shirt—and held his gaze until he looked away, embarrassed.
When Declan had outlined the day’s goals, he’d done it with the clarity of a general.
“We have thirty days,” he’d said. “We’re not here to be heroes. We’re here to be exact. Today: finalize the offer structure, lock down debt terms, identify top three integration risks. Everything else waits.”
“How are we managing internal comms?” HR had asked timidly. “People are going to hear things. The rumor mill—”
“Is not my priority today,” he’d said. “If this leaks too early, the deal dies. We keep the circle tight. We don’t speculate. If someone asks, you say: ‘We’re always exploring opportunities to grow. When there’s something to share, we’ll share it.’”
His eyes had flicked to Margot. “You’ll draft the internal talking points,” he’d added.
She’d blinked. “Me?”
“You’ve done it before,” he’d said. “Veridian. Three times. You’re good at telling anxious people just enough to calm them without giving them ammo.”
“You read my case study,” she’d realized.
“Yes,” he’d replied, as if it were obvious.
Now, post-war-room, she sat at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard as she shaped his clipped directives into something humans could digest.
*We’re exploring an acquisition.* Too vague.
*We’re in advanced talks with a legacy infrastructure provider.* Too specific.
She settled on:
> You may have heard rumors about Hale exploring a significant acquisition in the infrastructure space. While we can’t share specifics yet, here’s what we can say…
She wove in reassurance without lying. Hinted at opportunity without overpromising. Left enough room for him to maneuver.
Every few minutes, she flicked her gaze to the glass wall.
His office was opaque again. Inside, his silhouette moved—pacing, stopping, typing, standing.
She wondered what it cost him, that performance in the war room. Holding eye contact. Modulating his voice. Juggling threads of conversation.
She remembered Nina’s words. *You’ll see sides of him most people don’t. When the mask slips.*
Her phone buzzed.
*D. Hale – 12:00 check-in?*
She checked the time.
11:58.
: *On my way.*
She saved the draft, hit send to herself and Nina for review, and stood.
Her pulse picked up automatically.
It was ridiculous. She’d spent the morning with him. Sat ten feet away as he dismantled a flawed risk assessment and rebuilt it in half the time it had taken the team to write it. There was no reason walking into his office now should feel any different.
And yet.
She knocked once and slid the door open.
He looked up from his screen.
The shift was immediate.
In the war room, he’d been almost brittle, every angle sharp.
Here, alone with her, something in him eased. Not relaxed, exactly. But… less armored.
“Sit,” he said.
She did.
He eyed her notebook. “You took a lot of notes.”
“Pattern recognition,” she said. “If I don’t write, I miss things. I like to see how people talk to you. Who rambles. Who cuts themselves off. Who looks at you versus the screen.”
“You’re profiling my team,” he said.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Should I be worried?” he asked.
“Not unless you’re hiding something,” she said.
He huffed a half-laugh. “I’m not.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
His eyes flashed.
“Status,” he said, echoing his own war room tone.
She slid into it easily. “You’re twenty-three minutes behind schedule. The minister of energy’s office moved your call to two-thirty. Eliza wants five minutes before that to prep talking points. Legal needs your sign-off on three language tweaks in the NDA before end of day. HR wants to know when they can start whisper-circling the phrase ‘transformational opportunity’ without being more specific.”
He made a face. “Never.”
“That’s what I told them,” she said. “I’ll send you my draft internal note for NexTelis after lunch. Raj is coordinating room bookings for your investor updates tomorrow. Also, you have not eaten.”
He frowned. “How do you know that?”
“Because I’ve been watching you,” she said. “And because there are no coffee rings or crumbs on your desk.”
He glanced at the spotless wood, then back at her. “That level of observation is… unnerving.”
“It’s my job,” she said. “I can stop, if you like. You’ll pass out by Wednesday.”
“Don’t stop,” he said quickly. Then, more measured, “Just… tell me when you’re doing it so I’m not… surprised.”
She nodded. “Fine. I’m observing you right now.”
His lips parted, then pressed together.
“And?” he asked.
She tilted her head, letting herself look.
The lines around his eyes. The tightness in his jaw. The faint indentations on his nose from where his glasses—currently on the desk—usually sat.
“You’re overloaded,” she said. “Not at red yet. But yellow, edging toward orange.”
He stiffened. “How can you tell?”
“You’re blinking less,” she said. “You’re gripping your hands harder than you think. You’re not fidgeting. People who don’t fidget at all are usually suppressing something.”
He glanced down at his hands. They were laced tighter than he’d realized.
“Also,” she added, “you tolerated three people repeating themselves in that meeting instead of cutting them off at the knees. That’s either stunning personal growth or you were too tired to jump in as fast.”
He exhaled, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a curse. “You realize this is the part where most people start backing away.”
“From what?” she asked.
“From seeing too much,” he said. “From saying it out loud. It… makes them uncomfortable.”
“I don’t see the point of noticing things and then pretending I didn’t,” she said.
His gaze lingered on her.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Something hot skittered up the back of her neck.
She cleared her throat. “Eat.”
“What?” he asked.
“Eat,” she repeated. “You have a thirty-minute block now. Use ten for food.”
“I’m not hungry,” he said.
“You will be,” she countered. “About the time you’re on the phone with the minister, your blood sugar will crash, and you’ll snap at him when he asks a stupid question.”
“The minister is not stupid,” he said. “He’s—”
“—political,” she finished. “He’ll say something intentionally provocative to test your response. If you’re exhausted and hungry, you’ll react. If you eat, you might not.”
He stared at her, jaw working.
“I don’t like eating in front of people,” he said finally. “It’s… sensory.”
“I know,” she said. “I read your intake form.”
His eyes flickered. “HR let you see that?”
“They let me see enough,” she said.
“That’s a violation,” he muttered.
“You authorized it,” she said. “You checked the box: ‘share relevant accommodations with direct support staff.’ I’m your direct support staff.”
He grimaced. “I hate that phrase.”
“What phrase do you prefer?” she asked.
He frowned, thinking. “Team. Colleagues. Partners. Something that doesn’t sound like I need a babysitter.”
She weighed him. “Sometimes you do,” she said. “We all do. The difference is, yours is formalized.”
His mouth twisted. “Fair.”
“Regardless,” she went on, “I’m not asking you to eat a three-course meal in front of the war room. I’m asking you to consume half a sandwich behind glass while I answer three emails.”
He glanced at his screen, then back at her. “You’ll stay?”
“I’m not leaving you alone with food you don’t want,” she said. “You’ll shove it in a drawer and forget it. Or throw it out.”
“That’s… intrusive,” he said.
She lifted a brow. “You gave me full control of your calendar, access to your inbox, and permission to interrupt you when you’re overwhelmed. Watching you eat a sandwich is where we draw the line?”
He glared at her. Then, slowly, his lips curved.
“I’m beginning to see why my previous EAs quit,” he said.
“They quit because you expected them to organize your life without giving them any say in how it was organized,” she said. “I’m not them.”
“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.”
The way he said it made her stomach do something treacherous.
“Fine,” he said abruptly, as if cutting that thread. “Sandwich. Half.”
She rose. “I’ll get it.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I do,” she said. “Because if I send someone else, they’ll get distracted and chat, and you’ll end up discussing Q2 forecasts instead of chewing.”
He frowned. “Do you think I’m that easily derailed?”
“Yes,” she said. “By *interesting* problems. Food is not interesting. Numbers are.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
As she turned to go, he said, “Margot.”
She looked back.
“You know,” he said slowly, “that if this is too much—NexTelis, me, all of it—you can leave. I won’t stop you. I won’t… retaliate.”
Anger flared again, but not at him. At whoever had taught him that “retaliation” was a thing bosses did as a matter of course.
“You don’t get to fire me for having feelings,” she said. “You *do* get to fire me if I stop doing my job because of them. I know the difference. Do you?”
He stared at her.
“Yes,” he said finally.
“Good,” she said. “Then stop trying to pre-break up with me on day one. It’s weird.”
His brows rose. “Pre-break up?”
“You know,” she said. “Laying the groundwork for ‘I always knew this wouldn’t work out, so when you leave, I won’t be surprised.’”
His throat worked.
“Is that what I’m doing?” he asked quietly.
She softened. Just a fraction.
“I don’t know you well enough to say,” she said. “But if you want this to last longer than eight months, maybe don’t treat it like a foregone conclusion that I’ll bolt.”
He blinked slowly.
“That’s… vulnerable,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Welcome to working with people.”
She left before he could respond, heart pounding.
She knew she’d pushed. Hard. Maybe too hard for a first day.
But he hadn’t shut down. He hadn’t called HR. He hadn’t even really bristled.
He’d listened.
At the coffee nook, she grabbed two sandwiches from the stocked fridge—turkey and cheese, nothing with too many textures—and a bottle of sparkling water.
When she returned, he was where she’d left him, but his laptop screen now showed not email but code.
“You code between meetings,” she observed, setting the food down.
“It calms me,” he said. “You’re observing again.”
“Yes,” she said. “Eat.”
He eyed the sandwich like it was a hostile takeover.
She unwrapped it and slid half toward him, keeping the other half for herself.
“Eat *with* me,” she said. “So you don’t feel like an animal in a zoo.”
His eyes flicked to her. “You’re very… prescriptive.”
“Do you want this to be a negotiation?” she asked. “Because I can do that too.”
He exhaled through his nose, a ghost of a laugh. “No. Fine. We’ll eat.”
They did.
In silence, mostly.
He chewed carefully, small bites, like he was paying attention to the mechanics. She ate more quickly, realizing she was hungrier than she’d thought.
Halfway through, he said, “You didn’t answer my question Friday.”
She swallowed. “Which one?”
“Conflicts with NexTelis,” he said. “You told me your father’s story. You didn’t tell me if that would impact your work.”
“That *is* the conflict,” she said. “I wasn’t hiding an undisclosed stake. Unless you count emotional capital.”
“I do,” he said.
She blinked. “You… do?”
“People make irrational decisions based on emotional capital all the time,” he said. “Ignoring that would be… stupid.”
“You really are an engineer at heart,” she said. “Treating feelings like variables.”
“They are variables,” he said. “They just have shitty documentation.”
She snorted, nearly choking on her water. “Careful. That almost sounded like a joke.”
“It was,” he said solemnly. “I make them sometimes.”
“I’ll brace myself,” she said.
He watched her wipe a crumb from the corner of her mouth. The movement was small, ordinary.
He felt an absurd flicker of… something in his chest.
He shut it down.
“This weekend,” he said, “did you tell your parents about NexTelis?”
The question caught her off-guard.
“No,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked.
She stared at him. “Do you always ask questions this personal over lunch?”
“Yes,” he said. “If they’re relevant.”
She considered lying.
Then, because she’d just lectured him on honesty, she didn’t.
“Because I didn’t want to see my father’s face when I told him I was going to help the man buying his executioner,” she said flatly. “And because I don’t know yet what I’m going to *do* in this deal. Until I do, I don’t want to bring them into it.”
“That’s protective,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Of him. And of me. If I tell him now, every conversation for the next month will be about NexTelis. He’ll… relive it. Over and over. I don’t have the bandwidth for that and this job.”
“So you’re… compartmentalizing,” he said.
“Welcome to my specialty,” she said.
He studied her, something like respect in his gaze.
“I won’t ask you to do anything that… harms him,” he said. “Specifically.”
She laughed, short and sharp. “You say that like you could. NexTelis already did the damage. There’s not much left to hurt but his pride. And that’s my mother’s job.”
He didn’t smile.
“Still,” he said. “If anything we do intersects directly with his history, tell me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“So I’m not blindsided in a meeting when you go quiet,” he said bluntly. “And so I don’t make a tactical decision that has collateral damage I could have avoided with better data.”
She stared at him.
“You’re not a good person,” she said slowly. “In the boy-scout, sacrifice-yourself-for-others sense.”
“No,” he said.
“But you don’t like unnecessary pain,” she said.
“No,” he said again.
“And you’re willing to listen to someone who tells you when you’re about to cause it,” she finished.
He held her gaze. “Yes.”
Her chest ached, unexpectedly.
“We should schedule your therapy,” she said lightly, to break the moment. “You’ve already done half the work.”
He rolled his eyes. “One therapist is enough.”
“You say that now,” she said. “Wait till you see my color-coded calendar proposals.”
His expression did something that might, in another man, be called fond.
“Show me,” he said.
They spent the next twenty minutes going through his week.
She winced at the density. “Did someone once tell you that free time is for the weak?”
“I used to think sleep was for the weak,” he said. “Then I started hallucinating after two all-nighters and decided maybe… not.”
“Progress,” she said. “Still, this is… aggressive.”
“We have thirty days,” he reminded her. “I can rest when the deal closes.”
“You say that like deals ever actually close,” she said. “There’s always another something.”
“Not like this,” he said quietly.
She believed him.
“This is your white whale,” she said.
“It’s not obsession for its own sake,” he said. “NexTelis is… symbolic.”
“Of what?” she asked.
“Of everything I hate,” he said. “Waste. Corruption. Power used badly. Systems built for extraction, not value.”
Her breath hitched.
“And everything I can’t resist,” he added. “Complexity. Scale. The chance to prove I’m right about how things *should* work.”
“You want to fix it,” she said.
“Yes,” he admitted. “And I know how arrogant that sounds.”
“It sounds… human,” she said. “Even if your version of human comes with spreadsheets and punishment matrices.”
His lips curved faintly. “You’re not going to let me romanticize this, are you?”
“Someone needs to keep your feet on the ground while your head’s in the cloud,” she said.
He eyed her. “That was almost a pun.”
“Don’t get used to it,” she said.
They restructured his afternoons—swapping a non-essential networking lunch to Zoom, carving out a thirty-minute walk block, pushing a non-critical press briefing review to his comms lead.
“You don’t need to be in that,” she said. “They can send you a summary. You’re not approving adjectives.”
“Some CEOs do,” he said.
“Some CEOs are idiots,” she said.
“You worked for them,” he pointed out.
“I have bills,” she said. “And a low tolerance for unemployment.”
He tilted his head. “What does your father think you do?”
She hesitated. “He knows I’m an assistant. He… doesn’t entirely understand what that means at this level.”
“Does he approve?” he asked.
She snorted. “He would prefer I be an engineer. Or a doctor. Something with a license. When I got this offer, he said, ‘So you’re still doing… scheduling?’”
He didn’t laugh. His eyes softened.
“That bothers you,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “And no. It’s cultural. Generational. He grew up with a different definition of success. I send money home, I translate documents, I hold their hands through institutional bullshit. That’s how they see my value.”
“That’s… familiar,” he said.
She raised a brow. “Your parents wanted you to be a doctor too?”
“My mother wanted me to be less,” he said. “Quieter. Smaller. Less… much. My father wanted me to be more. More aggressive. More charming. More like him.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I wanted to be left alone with my computer,” he said. “We compromised. I learned to talk to people. They learned to accept that their son would never be normal.”
Her heart squeezed. “Normal is overrated.”
“Tell that to a twelve-year-old who gets punched for correcting a teacher in front of the class,” he said.
“You corrected a teacher?” she asked, half amused, half horrified.
“She was wrong,” he said. “And arrogant. It seemed… important.”
“You would have been a nightmare in my high school,” she said.
“Were you popular?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Smart. Quiet. The kind of Asian girl teachers love and popular kids ignore until they need help with calculus. I had my own circle. Debate club. Orchestra. Kids who also ate lunch in the library.”
“Safe spaces,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “We made our own.”
Their eyes met.
The silence between them stretched, charged.
This was how it started, she thought distantly. Not with grand gestures, but with shared ground, quietly discovered.
Her phone buzzed again.
*12:28 – call with London moved up to 12:45.*
She glanced at the time. “We need to wrap. London pulled your call forward. I’ll move your one-on-one with Victor.”
He nodded, business mode clicking back into place. “Send me the draft we worked on for schedule. We’ll finalize tonight.”
“You realize tonight is only six hours away,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Is that a problem?”
“For me? No,” she said. “For you? We’ll see.”
She stood.
He watched her. “Margot.”
She paused.
“You’re… good at this,” he said. “At… me.”
Heat bloomed low in her belly, unexpected and unwelcome.
“It’s day one,” she said, keeping her tone light. “Don’t fall in love yet.”
He blinked.
For a heartbeat, his expression went utterly naked. Surprise. Something else.
Then the mask slid back.
“Don’t worry,” he said dryly. “I don’t… fall.”
“Good,” she said. “Neither do I.”
She stepped out of his office before he could see that that might be the biggest lie she’d told all day.
***
The afternoon blurred.
She juggled calls, rescheduled meetings, answered questions from people testing her authority.
“Is he *really* unavailable at three?” an investor relations associate asked, voice sugared. “It’s just a quick touch-base with—”
“He is,” she said. “He has a conflict.”
“What conflict?” the associate pressed.
“Breathing,” she said. “Trust me, you want him oxygenated when he talks to your people. He’ll take them at four.”
There was a pause. A huff. Then, grudgingly, “Fine.”
At two-thirty, she watched him on the energy minister call through the glass, his posture a fraction looser than in the morning, hand gestures more fluid. He didn’t snap once.
At three, she emailed Nina and Raj her internal comms draft. They sent back minor edits. She incorporated, then queued it up for his review at four.
At three-thirty, HR pinged her.
*Quick question about your title. Do you prefer “Executive Assistant” or “Chief of Staff”?*
She stared.
Then typed, *My function hasn’t changed. My pay has. Titles are for LinkedIn. Call me what you like internally, but don’t inflate it if you’re not going to give me actual authority to match.*
HR replied with a smiley she ignored.
At four, she walked back into his office.
He sat very still, eyes closed, hands flat on the desk.
She stopped in the doorway.
“Overloaded?” she asked softly.
He didn’t open his eyes. “Noise. Zoom lag. Minister’s dog barked for five minutes. My head feels like a hard drive trying to spin up on a bad sector.”
“Color,” she said.
He cracked one eye. “What?”
“You said red, yellow, orange,” she said. “Where are you now?”
“Orange,” he said after a moment. “Bordering on plaid.”
She smiled before she could stop herself. “Plaid?”
“Everything overlapping,” he muttered. “Noisy. Ugly.”
She stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her.
“Ten minutes,” she said. “Lights down. No screens. Just breathing.”
“I don’t have ten minutes,” he said, but he didn’t move.
“You have fifteen until your next call,” she said. “You’ll lose more than that if you go into it at plaid and say something you regret.”
He huffed. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“Yes,” she said. “Close your eyes.”
He hesitated.
Then obeyed.
She dimmed the lights a notch more, the office sliding into a softer glow. Outside, the city stretched, hazy in late-afternoon light.
She didn’t sit. She stood by the window, watching him.
His breathing was shallow at first. Then, gradually, deeper.
She counted in her head. In for four, hold for four, out for six. She didn’t say it aloud. She’d seen him do it in the war room, lips barely moving.
“You’re staring,” he said, eyes still closed.
“Yes,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I’m calibrating,” she said. “I need to learn what overload looks like on you so I can see it before you hit plaid.”
“That’s… invasive,” he said.
“Yes,” she said again. “So is this job. You told me not to lie.”
He opened his eyes.
For a second, with the lights low and his face relaxed, he looked… younger. Less like the man on magazine covers. More like the boy who’d corrected a teacher and gotten hit for it.
“You’re going to hurt,” he said quietly.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Being this close,” he said. “Seeing this much. You’re going to hurt.”
The bluntness of it stole her breath.
“I know,” she said. “So will you.”
He watched her, something like resignation and challenge in his eyes.
“Still want the job?” he asked.
She walked closer, until she stood at the edge of his desk.
“Yes,” she said simply.
His pupils dilated, almost imperceptibly.
“Good,” he said, voice low.
The air between them felt suddenly thick. Charged.
Her skin prickled, an awareness spreading that had nothing to do with calendars or acquisitions.
He looked at her mouth.
Just for a second.
Heat shot through her, sharp and humiliating in its intensity.
She forced herself to step back. To break the line.
“You have an internal comms draft to read,” she said briskly, holding out the printed version.
He blinked, focus snapping back to the page.
“Right,” he said. “Work.”
He took the paper, their fingers brushing.
A small shock skittered up her arm.
His jaw clenched.
She pretended not to notice.
He read fast, lips moving just slightly—another tell. At one point, he frowned.
“This sentence,” he said, tapping the page. “’We know change can be uncomfortable, and we’re committed to supporting our people through it.’ It’s… vague.”
“It’s reassuring,” she said. “And true, if you mean it.”
“I do,” he said. “I just hate corporate-speak.”
“Then don’t hide behind it,” she said. “If you prefer, we can say, ‘This acquisition will cause disruption. Some of you will be excited. Some of you will be worried. Both reactions are valid. We’ll tell you as much as we can as soon as we can, and we expect you to hold us accountable to that.’”
He stared at her.
“That’s… honest,” he said.
“People can smell bullshit,” she said. “You of all people should know that. If you pretend this is all upside and synergy and ‘we’re a family,’ they’ll roll their eyes and start updating their résumés.”
“Are we a family?” he asked dryly.
“No,” she said. “You’re a company. You pay them. They work. That’s the deal. Families can be toxic. Companies can too. Don’t use that metaphor unless you’re prepared to invite them over for Sunday dinner and let them argue about politics.”
He made a face. “No, thank you.”
“Then call them what they are,” she said. “Colleagues. Partners. People you owe transparency and as much stability as you can manage.”
He nodded slowly. “Write it your way.”
She did, fingers flying over the keyboard as he dictated a few key phrases. They found a balance between his bluntness and her sense of what two thousand employees could handle without panicking.
When they were done, he leaned back.
“You’re… good at my voice,” he said.
“I’m good at listening,” she said. “You tell me what you care about, I’ll translate it so humans don’t revolt.”
He tilted his head. “You’re not a human?”
“Not during working hours,” she said. “I’m a machine.”
His eyes darkened.
“That’s… not true,” he said softly.
She froze.
He watched her, gaze slow, assessing.
“I see your tells too,” he said. “When you’re angry. When you’re… amused. When you’re holding something back.”
She swallowed. “You’ve known me six hours.”
“I’m fast,” he said.
“I’m not one of your algorithms,” she said, more sharply than she intended.
“I know,” he said. “You’re harder.”
Her pulse thudded.
“Color?” she asked abruptly.
He blinked. “What?”
“Overload color,” she said. “Still plaid?”
He exhaled. “Yellow. Maybe green.”
“Good,” she said, standing. “Then you’re ready for Victor.”
“Unfortunately,” he muttered.
She smiled despite herself. “Play nice. Or at least, play efficient.”
As she reached for the door, he said, “Margot.”
She looked back.
“Why did you come?” he asked quietly. “Here. Not just… here as in this office. Here as in my company.”
She hesitated.
“The money?” she said lightly.
He didn’t smile.
“Try again,” he said.
She thought of her father’s company name on that NexTelis list. Of Sunday dinners. Of her mother’s hands.
She thought of the way he’d said, *I don’t miss.*
“You want to change the way things work,” she said slowly. “I want to see if you’re right. And if you are, I want to be close enough to nudge where it matters.”
He held her eyes.
“You think you can nudge me,” he said.
“Yes,” she said simply.
A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth.
“I’m looking forward to watching you try,” he said.
Her heart did a traitorous flip.
“Get used to it,” she said, and slipped out.
***
At six-thirty, the office had thinned but not emptied. The war room still glowed, a hive of exhausted energy. The sky outside had turned bruised purple, lights winking on across the city.
Margot sat at her desk, drafting tomorrow’s schedule. She’d moved three meetings, carved out a morning focus block, and built in a thirty-minute buffer after a potentially contentious call with NexTelis’s general counsel.
Raj dropped into the chair beside her desk with a groan.
“How’s day one?” he asked. “Still upright?”
“So far,” she said. “Ask me again Friday.”
He rubbed his eyes. “He likes you.”
She didn’t look up. “He likes my work.”
“Yes,” Raj said. “And he likes you.”
She sighed. “Define ‘like.’”
“He actually listens when you talk,” Raj said. “He doesn’t do that with everyone. Half the time, he stares past people like they’re furniture. With you? He *tracks*.”
A tiny shiver ran down her spine.
“That’s dangerous language,” she said. “I’m not here to be liked.”
“Bullshit,” Raj said pleasantly. “Everyone wants to be liked. Even robots.”
She shot him a look. “I’m not a robot.”
“I know,” he said. “He doesn’t.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Raj said, “that he’s spent ten years building systems so he doesn’t have to rely on messy human variables. Except he can’t code empathy. Or instinct. Or the way someone like you walks into his office and says, ‘Eat.’”
She stiffened. “Did he say something?”
“No,” Raj said. “He doesn’t have to. I’ve worked with him six years. I know the look he gets when he’s wary. And the one he gets when he’s… intrigued.”
“You’re mixing metaphors like HR mixes appetizers,” she muttered.
“Translation,” Raj said. “He’s watching you. Closely. And I’m not sure he knows what to do with what he sees.”
“Not my problem,” she said quickly.
“Isn’t it?” Raj asked.
She hesitated.
It was. And it wasn’t. She couldn’t be responsible for how her boss processed her existence.
But she *was* responsible for how she responded to it.
“I have rules,” she said.
Raj smirked. “Oh, you’re one of those.”
“One of what?” she asked, offended.
“People who think rules will protect them from feeling things,” he said. “Spoiler: they won’t.”
“I don’t need protection,” she said. “I need structure.”
He held up his hands. “Okay. Structure. Just… remember, structures can trap as easily as they support.”
She glared at him. “Do you talk like this to all the new hires?”
“Only the ones who move their pens when he moves his,” Raj said.
Her heart skipped. “What?”
“You’re synced,” he said. “Already. You don’t realize it, but you’re matching his rhythm. It’s what good EAs do. They attune. That’s why it hurts when they leave. Feels like someone cut your metronome.”
She swallowed hard.
“What happened to the last one?” she asked, before she could stop herself.
Raj’s face shuttered a bit. “Burnout. She took on too much that wasn’t hers. Tried to be his filter and his shield and his conscience and his crutch. Didn’t set boundaries. He didn’t either. It imploded.”
“Did he…” She hesitated. “Did they…?”
“No,” Raj said firmly. “Nothing physical. Maybe some… emotional entanglement. On her side. Hard to say. He was oblivious until very late. Then felt guilty. And shut down. That’s when HR started using words like ‘intense’ and ‘concerning interpersonal dynamics.’”
She exhaled slowly. “Good to know.”
Raj studied her. “You’re not her.”
“I know,” she said.
“Make sure *he* knows,” Raj said.
She nodded.
Her phone buzzed.
An email. *Subject: Re: NexTelis note – approved.*
From Declan.
She opened it.
> Margot, > > Approved with one change (see highlight). > > Sentences 3-5 are better than anything comms has written in two years. > > D.
Heat prickled at the base of her neck.
She typed back.
> Declan, > > I’ll pretend that compliment isn’t a bid to get me to write your speeches. > > Updated version attached. Ready to send when you are. > > M.
Before she could overthink it, she hit send.
A moment later, he replied.
> It’s not a bid. Yet. > > Send it. > > D.
She queued the email to the all-staff list, hovering over the button for a second.
This was it. The first step in pulling two thousand people into the orbit of his obsession.
Her thumb pressed.
Sent.
She watched it vanish into the system.
The die was cast.
***
At eight, the office was mostly empty. The cleaners moved quietly, their carts rattling softly. The skyline outside glowed.
Declan was still in his office. Of course he was.
Margot stood, stretching, vertebrae cracking.
She’d planned to leave by seven. That had slipped. It would slip a lot in coming weeks.
She gathered her things.
Her phone buzzed.
*D. Hale – Are you still here?*
She looked at the glass. Opaque.
: *About to leave. Why?*
> I moved tomorrow’s 8am. We’ll start at 8:30. You need sleep.
She stared.
He’d moved his own meeting. For *her*.
Her first instinct was to protest. She could handle 8 a.m. She’d done earlier for less.
Her second was… gratitude.
She typed.
: *Thank you. Was that Dr. Kline’s homework?*
> Maybe.
She smiled.
: *Good night, Declan.*
His reply came a moment later.
> Good night, Margot. > > Don’t dream about NexTelis. Or me. Both are bad for your health.
Her breath caught.
She typed before she could censor herself.
: *Too late.*
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.
Then:
> Try harder.
She shoved her phone into her bag, heart hammering.
This. This was the line. The edge.
Bantery. Charged. Not yet inappropriate.
Not yet.
She had to keep it that way.
She turned off her monitor, grabbed her coat, and headed to the elevator.
As the doors slid shut, cutting off the floor, she allowed herself one small, treacherous thought.
*If he weren’t my boss…*
She shut it down.
He *was* her boss.
He was also the man trying to buy the company that had once ruined her family.
And she had thirty days to keep her head, her heart, and her soul.
She wasn’t entirely sure which would be hardest.
Outside, the city wrapped around her as she stepped into the night.
Above her, on the thirty-third floor, a man who didn’t believe he could fall stared at his reflection in the dark glass and, for the first time in a long time, wondered what would happen if he let someone see him when the mask slipped.
The clock on the NexTelis deal kept ticking.
Thirty days.
It already felt like forever.
And no time at all.