The first time they called him “broken” in print, they did it with a smile.
Margot saw the headline on a monitor in the gym, of all places.
She only went down there at odd hours, when the Hale building’s fitness floor was mostly empty—early mornings, or workdays when she’d hit such a wall she needed a treadmill more than another espresso.
Today was one of those days.
She’d barely slept, her brain ping‑ponging between Harker’s memo, Luis’s latest email (“I don’t trust your bank, but I’m starting to trust you. Don’t make me regret it.”), and the image of Declan at her parents’ table, chopsticks held just a little too carefully in his long fingers.
On the treadmill, she tried to run it out.
She’d been at it ten minutes, lungs burning in a good way, when the talking head on the big screen above the weight machines said his name.
“—and Hale Innovations’ enigmatic CEO, Declan Hale, shocked some in the industry this year by speaking openly about being on the autism spectrum. Our next guest says this vulnerability is a key part of his ‘broken genius’ appeal…”
Margot’s foot caught.
She grabbed the side rails, cursing under her breath as she punched the speed down.
Broken genius.
She yanked her earbuds out and stared at the screen.
The show was one of those morning “business lifestyle” programs that loved soft focus and buzzwords.
On the left, a graphic: HALE’S BROKEN BRILLIANCE? with a photo of Declan mid‑sentence at TechForward, hands gesturing, eyes intent.
On the right, a man she recognized—some leadership coach with an over‑practiced smile.
“—you see this again and again in Silicon Valley,” he was saying. “These almost savant‑like leaders who struggle with conventional social cues, who are, frankly, broken in certain ways. And they leverage that brokenness into billion‑dollar visions. The question is: should we *celebrate* that? Or is it masking deeper dysfunction?”
The host nodded, sympathetic frown on.
“They certainly make for compelling narratives,” she said. “Hale’s recent op‑ed, for example, revealing his grandfather’s store story, his autism, his commitment to ‘no more collateral damage’—that hit hard in the zeitgeist.”
“Exactly,” the coach said. “He’s branding his deficits. Turning them into assets. It’s smart. But there’s a risk that we romanticize being broken. That we say, ‘You have to be damaged to be visionary.’”
Margot’s hands clenched on the treadmill rails.
“I’ve worked with a lot of executives like Hale,” the coach went on. “They’re intense. Unrelenting. They burn people out. They’ll tell you they’re being ‘honest’ when really they’re just lacking empathy. Autism or not, that’s not healthy leadership.”
Her stomach twisted.
She’d sat in rooms with those men.
She’d seen the way they defended their cruelty with buzzwords.
Declan, for all his issues, was not them.
Not in the ways that mattered.
“Of course,” the host chimed in, “he *does* have that mysterious assistant everyone’s talking about—”
Margot hit stop on the treadmill.
She couldn’t hear this.
Not now.
Not on an empty stomach and a heart that had already been stomped on by too many men with nice voices and bad ideas.
She grabbed her towel and her phone and stalked back to the elevator, ignoring the curious look from the guy on the rowing machine.
By the time she got to her desk, her inbox had sprouted several new emails.
One from Marissa: *“We’re monitoring the segment. Annoying but not catastrophic. Call when you have a sec.”*
One from Nina: *“Seen CNBC? Brace for internal chatter. Prepared some guidelines; looping you.”*
And one from an unfamiliar address with a subject line that made her teeth grind.
> *Subject: Coaching Offer – Helping Declan Manage His ‘Broken Genius’*
She clicked only long enough to see the first line—*“I’ve worked with many leaders like Mr. Hale. With the right coaching, we can turn his deficits into…”*—before sending it to trash.
Her phone buzzed on the desk.
Declan.
She picked up.
“I’m not broken,” he said.
No hello.
No preamble.
His voice was tight.
“I know,” she said.
“CNBC thinks otherwise,” he said. “So does half of Twitter, apparently.”
“Half of Twitter thinks pineapple on pizza is a war crime,” she said. “Their judgment isn’t exactly sacrosanct.”
He huffed something that might have been a laugh.
“Did you see the segment?” he asked.
“In the gym,” she said. “Almost fell off the treadmill. Very cinematic.”
“Sorry,” he said automatically.
“For what,” she asked.
“For… existing in your cardio hour,” he said.
She smiled despite herself. “It’s fine. I needed an excuse to stop running.”
He was silent a moment.
“Does it… bother you?” he asked. “What they said.”
“Yes,” she said honestly. “Because it’s lazy. ‘Broken genius’ is a headline, not a human.”
“Some days,” he said, “I feel broken.”
“That’s different,” she said gently. “Feeling broken isn’t the same as being a brand called Broken. They’re turning your neurology into a marketing angle.”
“I did that,” he said quietly. “When I talked about it on stage.”
“You talked about it so people like you wouldn’t have to pretend,” she said. “You didn’t do it so men in blazers could sell books about ‘managing your autistic CEO.’”
He made a noise that might have been a strangled laugh.
“Semantics,” he said.
“Semantics matter,” she said. “You keep telling me that.”
He sighed.
“Kline says I’m not allowed to watch any more ‘takes’ about myself this week,” he said. “She says it’s like picking at a scab.”
“She’s right,” Margot said.
“She usually is,” he said. “It’s annoying.”
There was a pause.
“People here… talking?” he asked.
“Some,” she said. “Mostly in DMs. A few in #company‑chat. Nina and I are on it.”
“What are they saying?” he asked.
“That you were brave,” she said. “That you were honest. That they see themselves in you. Also that the coach on TV is full of shit.”
He exhaled, some tension bleeding out.
“Good,” he said.
“And,” she added, “one intern started a thread about neurodiversity resources. Half the responses are cat memes, but the other half are people sharing tips. It’s messy. It’s… sweet.”
“That’s… better than I deserve,” he said.
“Stop,” she said sharply. “You’re not allowed to self‑flagellate before noon.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
She glanced at her calendar.
“You have Ops at nine‑thirty,” she said. “And Kline at three. And supplier calls at four. And a thirty‑minute walk scheduled at one. Don’t skip it.”
“You put that on there,” he accused.
“Yes,” she said. “Because you’re ‘not broken’ but your stress‑response system is shot.”
He chuckled.
“Come by before Ops,” he said. “We’ll triage talking points, just in case someone asks.”
“On my way,” she said.
She hung up, grabbed her notebook, and headed to his office.
***
He was at the window when she walked in, back to the room, mug in hand.
The alarm strobes from earlier in the week had been replaced by their own, internal sirens.
Harker.
CNBC.
Pilot.
Her.
Him.
She closed the door softly.
He turned.
His jaw was set, but his eyes were softer than she’d expected.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” she replied.
They regarded each other for a beat.
Then she stepped into familiar rhythm.
“Okay,” she said, flipping open her pad. “If someone at Ops asks about the segment, you say: ‘I’m aware of it. I appreciate the conversation it’s sparked. I’m not interested in labels that reduce complex people to sound bites.’”
He nodded. “Good.”
“If someone asks if you think autism is a ‘superpower,’” she went on, “you say: ‘No. It’s a way my brain is wired. It gives me strengths and challenges. I try to build systems around that.’”
He smiled faintly. “You’ve thought about this.”
“I’ve been on the receiving end of those questions my whole life,” she said. “For my brother.”
He blinked.
“You have a brother?” he asked.
She froze.
Shit.
She’d never told him.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “You… don’t get all my trauma. Some of it’s reserved for professional help.”
He watched her.
“Will you… tell me?” he asked. “Sometime?”
“Maybe,” she said. “When you stop making everything about you.”
He huffed a laugh.
“Fair,” he said.
They moved through more hypotheticals.
He took it in, absorbing, as always.
Then, out of nowhere, he said, “I’m not broken. But I am… cracked.”
She looked up.
He met her eyes.
“So are you,” he said.
“Rude,” she said automatically.
“Accurate,” he countered gently.
She rolled her eyes.
“Cracks let light in,” she said. “That’s the cliché, right?”
“I hate clichés,” he said.
“Me too,” she said. “But some stick around because they’re… useful.”
He studied her.
“You’re… different,” he said.
“How?” she asked, wary.
“Less… flinty,” he said. “Since… the six‑month talk.”
She thought about that.
“I made a choice,” she said. “Not to run. For now. That… frees up some CPU.”
He snorted. “You’re doing computer metaphors now. I’m a bad influence.”
“You’ve always been a bad influence,” she said.
He smiled, the good side of his mouth quirking.
Her heartbeat did something stupid.
“Ops,” she said, glancing at the clock. “You need to go devolve into acronyms.”
“Come,” he said.
“Always,” she said.
He made a face.
She laughed.
They walked to the war room together.
People looked up.
Watched them.
Whispered.
She felt it.
The scrutiny.
The stories.
She also felt something else.
Stable.
For now.
She’d chosen.
He had too.
The glass cracks were there.
Visible.
They made everything more fragile.
They also made it… more theirs.
For the first time, that felt like an asset.
Not a liability.
Even if Harker disagreed.
Even if the coach on TV disagreed.
Even if half the world thought they were crazy.
They’d walk this anyway.
Together.
On a fault line.
By choice.