Her brother called on a Thursday.
Right in the middle of a budget review.
Her phone buzzed on the table where she’d set it face down, screen lighting with a name that made her breath catch.
DAVID.
She hadn’t seen him in three months.
Not in person.
Texts, sure.
Memes.
A thumbs‑up when she’d sent him the clip of Declan’s first all‑hands.
Her fingers twitched toward the phone.
She pulled them back.
Work.
Now.
Family.
Later.
Always later.
The meeting droned on.
Harker’s “soft target” had held for now, but Eliza was trying to find places to shave a few million off other lines to appease jittery board members.
Marketing.
Travel.
Office perks.
Margot nodded when she should.
Jotted questions.
Watched Declan’s face as he weighed tradeoffs.
Her phone buzzed again.
Then again.
Three calls.
Back‑to‑back.
Her gut twisted.
Her brother was not a triple‑caller.
Her mother was.
Her cousin was.
David?
Never.
“Excuse me,” she blurted, cutting off a VP mid‑sentence. “I need two minutes.”
Heads turned.
Declan’s brows creased.
She grabbed her phone and stepped into the hallway, heart hammering.
She hit call.
He picked up almost immediately.
“Hey,” he said.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
“Three calls,” she said. “Are you dying?”
“No,” he said. “I’m fine.”
She exhaled, some of the panic leaking out. “Then who is?”
A beat.
“Baba’s in the hospital,” he said.
The words hit her like a physical blow.
“What,” she said stupidly.
“Minor heart thing, they think,” David said. “Ma took him in this morning. He was dizzy. Short of breath. They’re keeping him overnight. Running tests.”
The hallway blurred.
“They didn’t… call me,” she said.
“They tried,” he said. “You were in a meeting. As always. Ma said, ‘Don’t bother her, she’s busy.’”
Tears pricked hot behind her eyes.
“Of course she did,” she muttered.
“Hey,” David said. “Don’t… start that now. He’s… okay. Annoyed. Already flirting with nurses.”
A shaky laugh burst out of her. “Of course he is.”
“Ma’s… doing Ma,” he went on. “Worrying. Feeding everyone. Yelling at doctors. I’m here. I just… thought you should know. In case you wanted to… come. Or call.”
Her throat burned.
“I’m coming,” she said immediately.
“You don’t have to—” he began.
“Yes,” she snapped. “I do.”
He sighed. “Okay. Just… don’t speed. Or work while driving. Or whatever you crazy Manhattan people do.”
She wiped at her eyes. “When did you become the responsible one.”
“Since you became the one in charge of the world,” he said lightly.
She laughed. It hurt.
“I’ll be there in forty‑five,” she said. “Text me the room number.”
“Got it,” he said. “Margo?”
“Yeah?”
“He’ll be okay,” David said, voice softening. “Promise.”
She hung up.
Leaning her forehead against the cool glass wall outside the conference room, she inhaled once.
Twice.
Movement flickered at the edge of her vision.
She looked up.
Declan stood inside the conference room, near the door, watching her through the glass.
Concern etched every line of his face.
She straightened.
Opened the door.
“Go,” he said, before she could speak.
She blinked. “You don’t know—”
“Your father,” he said. “Hospital.”
She stared.
“You read my lips?” she asked.
“Your face,” he said. “You don’t do that for anything less.”
Her throat closed.
“He’s… stable,” she said. “David’s with him. Ma too. They didn’t… want to bother me.”
His jaw tightened.
“Of course they didn’t,” he said. “Because you’re always… holding everything.”
She swallowed.
“I’m going,” she said. “I know we have—”
“Nothing we have here is more important than that,” he cut in. “Eliza can handle budgets. You handle… life.”
“You sure,” she asked.
He gave her a look.
“Don’t make me order you,” he said.
A laugh bubbled up, half‑sob, half‑amused.
“You’re scary when you’re… kind,” she said.
“I’m always kind,” he said automatically.
She raised an eyebrow.
He cracked a smile.
“Mostly,” he amended.
She grabbed her bag.
Hesitated.
“What,” he asked.
“Can you…?” She gestured vaguely. “Cover. For me. In there. Just… tell them I had an emergency. No details.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
She turned.
“Margot,” he said.
She looked back.
“You’re… allowed,” he said quietly.
“Allowed what,” she asked.
“To choose them,” he said. “Over me. Over this. Anytime. That’s not betrayal. That’s… sanity.”
Her eyes stung.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She left before she could cry.
***
The cab ride to Queens was a blur of honking and red lights and her own heartbeat thudding in her ears.
She watched the city streak past.
Skyscrapers gave way to low buildings.
Glass to brick.
Corporate logos to hand‑painted signs.
Her phone buzzed periodically.
David.
Texting updates.
> *BP stable. He’s complaining about hospital food. Very on brand.*
Her mother sent a single message.
> *Come if you can. Don’t worry if you can’t. He says he is “fine” and that doctors are dramatic.*
She rolled her eyes through the tears.
At the hospital, antiseptic hit her nose as she pushed through the revolving doors.
David met her in the lobby.
He looked tired.
Older than the last time she’d seen him.
“Hey,” he said, pulling her into a quick, awkward hug.
“How is he?” she demanded.
“Annoyed,” David said. “Stubborn. Flirting. Like I said.”
She exhaled sharply.
“Ma?” she asked.
“With him,” he said. “Arguing about salt.”
“Of course,” she said.
They walked down a hallway that smelled like bleach and soup.
Outside a room, her mother hovered, arms crossed, lips pressed tight.
She brightened when she saw Margot.
Then frowned.
“Why you here?” she scolded. “You should be at work. Big important woman. We can handle old man.”
Margot’s heart wrenched.
“I’m here because I’m your daughter,” she said, voice shaking. “Not because I’m… available.”
Her mother sniffed.
“Your boss will be mad,” she said.
“My boss told me to go,” Margot said. “He’d fire me if I didn’t.”
Her mother’s brows drew together. “He’s not stupid, then.”
“Sometimes,” Margot said.
She peered into the room.
Her father lay in the bed, hospital gown askew, hair flattened on one side, face pale.
A heart monitor beeped steadily.
When he saw her, his eyes widened.
“Ah,” he said. “Busy girl.”
“Baba,” she whispered, throat tight.
She stepped closer.
He made a face. “Don’t look like that. I’m not dying. Yet. Doctor says I need less salt. Your mother will use this to torture me.”
“I will,” her mother said from the doorway.
He rolled his eyes.
Margot laughed, the sound wet.
She reached for his hand.
It was warm.
Strong.
Trembling slightly.
“Explain,” she said.
He shrugged. “Felt… dizzy this morning. Short of breath. Your mother insisted. Very dramatic. Doctors say… little arrhythmia. Stress. Old heart.”
“Little arrhythmia my ass,” her mother muttered. “He almost fall in kitchen. Scared me to death.”
“I did not almost fall,” her father protested. “I stumbled.”
“You grabbed counter like ship in storm,” she said.
He made a face.
Margot listened.
Absorbed.
Asked questions.
BP.
Cholesterol.
Medication.
The doctor—a kind‑looking woman with tired eyes—came in, explained the plan.
Observation overnight.
New meds.
Diet changes.
More tests in the morning.
“This is… manageable,” she said. “If he cooperates.”
Her father puffed up. “I always cooperate.”
Her mother snorted. “You never cooperate.”
David stood in the corner, watching them with an amused, tired affection.
At one point, when the doctor stepped out, he moved closer to Margot.
“This is why I called,” he said softly. “You need to… see. Not just… read texts.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
They fell into a rhythm.
Her mother fussed with pillows.
Her father cracked jokes.
David checked his phone periodically, responding to messages from his own boss, who, apparently, was more annoyed at the disruption than Declan had been.
“Corporate America is corporate America,” he said wryly. “Yours just has better snacks.”
Margot looked at her watch around four.
She should go back.
There were calls.
Meetings.
Emails.
She hesitated.
Her father saw.
“If you need to go, go,” he said gruffly. “We’re fine. Old people fall apart. That’s life.”
She swallowed.
“I can stay,” she said.
He studied her.
“You always stay,” he said. “For us. For work. For everyone. It’s… too much.”
She blinked.
“You sound like him,” she said.
“Your boss?” her father asked.
“Yes,” she admitted.
He grunted.
“Maybe he’s right,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t start liking him. It’s weird.”
He smirked.
Her mother hovered.
“Go,” she said suddenly. “We have each other. You have… world. Boss. Suppliers. Crazy investors. Don’t let old man’s bad heart stop you.”
Tears stung Margot’s eyes.
“I want to be here,” she said.
“Then come back tonight,” her father said. “After your… big important day. Bring stories. Better than these soup stories.”
She laughed weakly.
“Okay,” she said.
“You little,” her mother added, softer, “are always here. Even when you’re not. We know that.”
Her throat burned.
David squeezed her shoulder.
“Go be Margot the Magnificent,” he said lightly. “We’ve got Margot the Daughter covered.”
She smiled through tears.
“Call me if anything—” she began.
“Changes, yes,” David said. “I’m not an idiot. I’m the other Chen child, remember.”
She kissed her father’s forehead.
He made a face. “Don’t be sentimental.”
“Too late,” she whispered.
She hugged her mother.
Who pretended to resist.
Then held on tight.
As she walked out into the late afternoon light, her phone buzzed.
Declan.
> *How is he?*
She stopped on the sidewalk.
Exhaled.
: *Stable. Annoyed. On a low‑salt diet he will definitely cheat on. They’re keeping him overnight.*
> *You okay?*
She stared at the words.
: *No. But… functional.*
> *Come back or go home?*
She hesitated.
: *Back. For a bit. Then I’ll head out again. Don’t move any meetings just for me. I’ll triage.*
> *Too late.*
She snorted.
: *Of course.*
> *Meet in my office when you’re in. Ten minutes. Then you can yell at me for rescheduling your life.*
She smiled.
Despite everything.
: *Deal.*
***
“Next time,” he said an hour later, “you don’t ask permission.”
She sat across from him in his office, hair slightly mussed from the hospital, blazer wrinkled.
“I didn’t,” she said. “I told you I was going.”
“You… asked,” he said. “Not overtly. But… you did. You always do. Ask for forgiveness instead of permission.”
“That’s backwards,” she said. “The saying is the other way around.”
“I know,” he said. “You wrote it correctly. You live it incorrectly.”
She frowned.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
He leaned forward, forearms on the desk.
“When something… hits,” he said slowly, “your first instinct is always, ‘How do I make this work for everyone else?’ Not, ‘What do *I* need?’ That’s… unsustainable.”
She rolled her eyes. “You and Kline have been talking.”
“She’s annoyed you don’t have a martyrdom diagnosis,” he said.
She laughed, startled. “Is that in the DSM now?”
“Unofficially,” he said. “Mostly in executive‑adjacent women.”
Her smile faded.
“You’re… worried,” she said.
“Yes,” he said simply. “About you.”
“You’re allowed one worry at a time,” she said. “NexTelis is enough.”
“They’re… connected,” he said. “If you break, this breaks.”
She sighed.
“You keep saying that,” she said. “It’s flattering. And terrifying.”
“It’s… truthful,” he said.
She studied him.
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For… forcing me to go. And… for not second‑guessing it.”
He shrugged, a little awkward.
“Basic human decency,” he said. “Low bar.”
“You’d be surprised how many men trip over it,” she said.
He snorted.
“I’ve met them,” he said.
She hesitated.
“Baba… said something,” she said.
He looked up sharply. “What?”
“He said you were… not as stupid as he thought,” she said.
A laugh burst out of him.
“I’ll take that,” he said.
“He also said,” she added gruffly, “that if you hurt me, he’ll hurt you. With words. Very sharp. Hurts more.”
His smile softened.
“I deserve that,” he said.
“You don’t,” she said.
They both paused.
Looked at each other.
“Maybe a little,” she amended.
He laughed again.
They sat there, the weight of the day settling around them like dust.
“Color?” he asked.
“Orange,” she said. “But… with green undertones.”
He smiled faintly. “Artist.”
“You?” she asked.
“Yellow,” he said. “Bordering on… something else.”
“What something else?” she pressed.
He held her gaze.
“Hope,” he said.
Her heart stuttered.
“Gross,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he agreed.
They smiled.
Then, as always, went back to work.
Because the world didn’t stop for heart arrhythmias.
Or ethics.
Or almost‑love.
It rolled. Relentless.
All they could do was roll with it.
Together.
On purpose.
Even when control was an illusion.
Especially then.