August came in hot.
Literally, with heat that stuck to skin and made subway platforms feel like saunas.
And figuratively, with pressure squeezing Hale from all sides.
Harker dripped his dissatisfaction into the press.
*NexTelis Remediation: Noble or Naïve? Hale’s Shareholders Ask Questions.*
Regulators pinged about union talks.
NexTelis old‑guard execs dragged their feet in subtle, infuriating ways.
And through it all, Declan and Margot orbited the center with increasingly frayed but resolute energy.
“Retreat,” Nina said one morning, dropping into the chair at Margot’s tiny office with a thud.
Margot looked up from her task list. “Excuse me?”
“Exec retreat,” Nina clarified, waving her phone. “Off‑site. Two days. Cabin in the Hudson Valley. Team‑building. Trust exercises. Slides with too much clip art. Shoot me.”
Margot groaned. “Who died and made HR God?”
“The board,” Nina said. “They want to know we’re ‘aligned.’”
“Aligned on what,” Margot asked. “Not murdering each other?”
“Among other things,” Nina said. “You’re going.”
“Obviously,” Margot said. “Glorified chaperone.”
“He’s going,” Nina said. “And he’s…” She grimaced. “Not excited.”
“He hates retreats,” Margot said. “He told me once he’d rather do a colonoscopy prep than a trust fall.”
“He’s not wrong,” Nina said. “But he’s doing this. Chair insists.”
“Fine,” Margot said. “When?”
“Next week,” Nina said. “Thursday to Friday. If it helps, the place has air‑conditioning and reportedly very good pie.”
“Pie softens many blows,” Margot said. “Not all.”
“Just… watch him,” Nina said, more softly. “These things… overload. New spaces. Forced socializing. Activities no one asked for. I’ll be there too, but I don’t have your… calibration.”
Margot’s chest tightened.
“I’ll watch,” she said. “And try not to strangle any consultants.”
“Good,” Nina said. “I like my job. I’d prefer not to lose it for murder.”
When she told Declan about the retreat, he made a face like he’d bitten into a lemon.
“Two days,” he said. “In the woods. With people.”
“You like two of those things,” she pointed out. “Woods and people. Sometimes.”
“I like woods when they’re in pictures,” he said. “And people when they’re quiet.”
“You’ll survive,” she said. “Think of it as a field test for your humanity branding.”
He groaned.
“They’ll make us do trust falls,” he said. “And personality assessments. And those horrible exercises where you have to share ‘a time you failed.’”
“You have plenty of material,” she said.
“So do you,” he shot back.
She smirked. “My entire twenties.”
He smiled.
“Are you… okay with this?” he asked. “Being… stuck in a cabin with me. And my neuroses. And forced fun.”
She thought.
“It’s dangerous,” she said. “But there will be witnesses. That helps.”
He laughed.
“Always thinking of optics,” he said.
“Always,” she said.
* * *
The retreat center was a renovated farm two hours north of the city—white barns, manicured lawns, a small lake that looked picturesque but smelled faintly of algae.
They bussed up the exec team and a smattering of key leaders on a chartered coach.
Margot sat midway down the aisle, laptop closed, eyes scanning.
Declan sat in the front, across from Eliza, earbuds in, staring out the window.
She’d made sure to block him a buffer row.
He didn’t like people in his peripheral when he was stuck in one place.
Nina sat near the back, mentally tallying potential HR disasters.
Victor held court in the middle, regaling anyone who’d listen with a story about a negotiation gone wrong in Singapore.
The consultant running the retreat—a painfully earnest man named Chad—stood at the front with a microphone.
“Welcome, everyone,” Chad boomed. “These next two days are about connection. Vulnerability. Stepping outside your comfort zones.”
Margot resisted the urge to groan.
Declan’s mouth twisted.
“We’re going to do some exercises,” Chad went on. “Small groups. Pairs. Whole team. Please, lean in. The only way this works is if you show up.”
Margot glanced at Declan.
He met her gaze briefly.
His eyes said, *Kill me.*
She smiled serenely back, *No.*
They arrived.
The schedule was full.
Day One morning: “Values Alignment.”
Day One afternoon: “Trust Building in High‑Pressure Environments.”
Day Two morning: “Strategic Foresight: Where Are We in 2030?”
Day Two afternoon: “Commitment Ceremony.”
“Please tell me there will be no candles,” Margot muttered to Nina as they checked in.
“I make no promises,” Nina said. “If they start chanting, I’m invoking HR’s right to flee.”
The first session was in a barn converted into a conference hall.
Lofted ceiling.
String lights.
A whiteboard with the words WHAT DO WE STAND FOR? in big, hopeful letters.
Chad clicked his clicker.
A slide appear: HALE — PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE.
“We’re going to start with an exercise,” he said. “One word. Each of you. To describe Hale’s culture today. Then one word for where you want it to be.”
Groans.
Eye rolls.
Margot sat in the back, taking notes.
Declan, at the table with Eliza, Raj, and Jess, looked like he wanted to be anywhere else.
Still.
When his turn came, he didn’t dodge.
“Relentless,” he said for the present.
“Responsible,” he said for the future.
The room quieted.
People scribbled.
Margot’s heart squeezed.
In the afternoon, they did trust games.
Not literal falls.
Thankfully.
But vulnerability exercises.
“Turn to the person next to you,” Chad intoned. “Share a moment in your career when you felt completely out of your depth, and how you handled it.”
Raj told a story about a failed launch in India.
Jess talked about the first time she had to lay off a friend.
Eliza admitted, to general shock, that she’d once cried in a bathroom stall after a board member had told her she was “too emotional” about a cost‑cutting decision.
Declan, when prompted, said, “The first time we lost a major client after a system outage. I froze. My EA dragged me out of a server room and made me call them back.”
Margot’s throat tightened.
He didn’t name Taylor.
He didn’t name her.
But the pattern was there.
Afterward, in a break, she caught him by the coffee urn.
“You’re… doing well,” she said.
“You sound surprised,” he said.
“A little,” she admitted. “You haven’t bitten anyone yet.”
“I’m saving that for Chad,” he said.
She laughed.
“Color?” she asked.
“Yellow,” he said. “Maybe a hint of green. Being forced to talk about feelings with other people is… oddly… relieving.”
“Group therapy,” she said. “Cheaper than Kline, more irritating.”
“She’d charge extra for this,” he said.
They moved through more sessions.
In the evening, dinner in a rustic dining hall with long tables and mason jar centerpieces.
People loosened.
Wine flowed.
Stories came easier.
Declan stuck to one glass.
Margot nursed hers, eyes always half on him.
At one point, Jess plopped down next to her.
“You realize you’re the emotional thermostat in this place,” Jess said, shoveling mashed potatoes. “He looks at you every time things get weird.”
“I’m the calendar,” Margot said. “He just wants to know what’s next.”
“Sure,” Jess said, unconvinced.
Later, when the official program wrapped, a group drifted toward the fire pit outside.
It was cooler now, a hint of autumn in the air.
Someone produced marshmallows.
Chad tried to get them to sing.
Nina shut that down with a glare.
“Absolutely not,” she said. “We are not Kumbaya‑ing.”
Margot wandered to the edge of the lit area, where the grass sloped down toward the lake.
Away from the noise.
She needed… air.
Footsteps crunched behind her.
“Escaping?” Declan asked.
“Always,” she said.
They stood side by side, looking out at the dark water.
Crickets chirped.
Voices murmured behind them.
“I thought this would be worse,” he said.
“Praise indeed,” she said.
He smiled faintly.
“The part where they made us write letters to our future selves was… excessive,” he said.
“I wrote, ‘You’re probably still working too much. Stop,’” she said.
He huffed. “I wrote, ‘Did we become NexTelis? If yes, burn this.’”
She laughed.
They fell into a quiet that was almost comfortable.
“This was… Kline’s suggestion,” he said after a moment.
“The retreat?” she asked, surprised.
“Not this specific one,” he said. “But she told me to… allow spaces where people see me as… human. Outside crisis.”
She snorted. “So she conspired with HR.”
“Probably,” he said. “Terrifying alliance.”
“You’re doing it,” she said softly.
“Doing what?” he asked.
“Letting people see you,” she said. “Not just the CEO. The… person.”
He swallowed.
“You sound… proud,” he said.
“I am,” she said.
Heat sizzled at the back of her neck.
She’d crossed something, admitting that.
He looked at her.
Moonlight caught the planes of his face, softening the angles.
“You keep… calibrating,” he said.
“So do you,” she said.
They tilted toward each other, slightly, as if drawn.
Her body hummed.
She could feel the warmth radiating off him.
Smell his aftershave—clean, subtle, something she’d come to associate with safety and danger in equal measure.
His hand twitched at his side.
Hers did too.
“So,” he said quietly. “Six months.”
She huffed. “We already did that talk.”
“Time passes,” he said. “Variables change.”
She laughed. “You’re talking about us like a financial instrument.”
“We’re… volatile,” he said. “High risk. High potential return. Harker would have a stroke.”
She smiled.
“Do you ever wish…” she began, then stopped.
“What,” he asked.
“That we’d met… differently,” she said. “Not like this. Not boss/assistant. Not… on opposite sides of my father’s disaster.”
“Yes,” he said immediately. “Every day.”
Her throat tightened.
“And?” she asked.
“And,” he said slowly, “if we had… I might not have hired you. Or listened to you. Or… done half of what we’ve done. I’m not sure I’d trade that. Even for… less mess.”
She swallowed.
“That’s… honest,” she said.
“Always,” he said.
She looked at him.
At the man who’d walked into her parents’ kitchen.
Who’d held her hand in a smoking lab.
Who’d let the world call him broken and then stood up and said, *You’re not entirely wrong, but you’re not right, either.*
Her heart did something foolish.
“You asked,” she said, voice barely above a whisper, “if I’d ever want to… do anything about… us.”
He stilled.
“Yes,” he said.
“I still… don’t know,” she said. “Not… fully. But I… think about it.”
His breath hitched.
“Margot,” he said.
“Don’t,” she said quickly. “We’re not… here. Not yet.”
He clenched his jaw.
“Okay,” he said.
She exhaled.
“We should go back,” she said. “Before Chad comes to drag us into ‘sharing circles.’”
He groaned. “Please no.”
She smiled.
As they turned, a drunken voice floated across the lawn.
“Hey, look,” someone from Ops slurred. “The power couple.”
She stiffened.
Declan’s hand brushed her arm, subtle.
Grounding.
“Let them talk,” he murmured. “We know what we are.”
“Do we?” she asked.
He smiled, painful and sweet.
“We know what we’re not,” he said. “Yet. That’s enough for tonight.”
She laughed softly.
“Ever the optimist,” she said.
“Ever the masochist,” he corrected.
They walked back into the glow of the firelight together.
Close.
Not touching.
Enough.
For now.
* * *
The second day brought rope courses.
“Absolutely not,” Declan said when Chad cheerfully announced the “optional” high‑ropes activity.
“It’s actually great for building trust,” Chad insisted. “You rely on the team. They rely on you. You confront fears together.”
“My fear is falling to my death on a corporate‑sponsored outing,” Declan said. “That seems… valid.”
Margot snorted.
“I hate heights,” she said. “I’ll be over there, validating ground‑based emotions.”
Chad, to his credit, backed off.
Some execs went up.
Some stayed down.
Margot sat on a log at the edge of the course, watching Darryl haul himself across a wobbly bridge while Eliza shouted encouragement.
Declan sat beside her, hands loosely clasped.
“Thank you,” he said suddenly.
“For what?” she asked.
“For… not pushing,” he said. “To do that. Or… any of this. At least, not more than is… useful.”
She smiled faintly.
“I push where it matters,” she said. “Not where it makes good Instagram.”
He huffed.
“And thank you,” she added, surprising herself, “for not… asking more of me. Than I can give. Right now.”
He looked at her.
“I want to,” he admitted. “All the time.”
“I know,” she said.
They sat there.
While above them, some brave souls screamed.
Below, the world kept turning.
On the bus ride back, he dozed for the first time in weeks.
Head leaned back.
Mouth slightly open.
His face looked younger.
Less burdened.
She watched him, heart soft.
Then forced herself to look away.
Focus on her own reflection in the bus window.
Strong.
Tired.
Still here.
Still choosing.
When the skyline reappeared, he stirred.
Blinking.
“Are we… home?” he asked.
“As close as you get,” she said.
He smiled.
“Good,” he said. “I have a lot of work to ignore tonight in favor of thinking about you.”
Her mouth dropped open.
He grinned.
“I’m kidding,” he said.
“Are you,” she asked.
“Mostly,” he said.
She shoved his shoulder lightly.
He laughed.
The city swallowed them again.
Neon and glass and noise.
And somewhere between the barns and boardrooms, river and river of code and contracts, they’d carved out something fragile.
Fault‑tolerant.
For now.
It would have to be enough.
Until one day, it wasn’t.
And then—
They’d decide.
Together.
Or apart.
On whatever side of control they landed.