By Wednesday, Margot knew the rhythm of Hale Innovations well enough to predict its stumbles.
There was the 9:15 lull, when caffeine wore off just as the first wave of meetings ended and people drifted toward the coffee nook with the aimless shuffle of office zombies.
There was the 11:40 surge, when Europe pinged with “quick follow-ups” that were never quick.
There was the 4 p.m. witching hour, when the West Coast truly woke up and every product manager in San Francisco remembered New York existed.
And layered over it all, like a drumbeat no one else quite heard, was Declan’s tempo.
On, on, on.
She’d watched him for three days now. Up close. At a distance. In war rooms, on Zoom calls, in the quiet between.
He was a study in contradictions. Brutally focused until he wasn’t. Detached and then suddenly, piercingly present. Blunt to the point of rudeness, then unexpectedly gentle with a junior engineer who’d clearly wanted to die when a demo crashed.
“You tested locally,” he’d said, after three seconds of scanning the error. “You didn’t test on the staging environment with NexTelis’s legacy API. That’s on me. I didn’t make the requirement explicit. Fix it. Send me the diff.”
The engineer had blinked, stunned. “You’re… not mad?”
“I’m annoyed,” Declan had said. “At the process. Not you. Go.”
Margot had almost fallen out of her chair.
Leo at Veridian would have thrown a fit, and probably a stapler.
Declan had just… adjusted. Moved on.
It was hard, sometimes, to remember that he was also the man pulling together a deal that could upend entire industries.
And that he wanted her right next to him while he did it.
***
Wednesday morning started with a minor crisis.
At 7:45, as she stepped off the elevator with her first coffee of the day, her phone buzzed.
*Raj: Heads up. NexTelis GC moved the call to 9. They “forgot” the time difference. Victor is about to lose his mind.*
She scanned Declan’s calendar. He had a board prep at 9:30. No room.
She typed back with one hand as she walked.
: *I’ll deal with Victor. Does Declan know?*
> Think he saw the email. He turned the glass opaque and hasn’t moved for ten minutes.
Which meant: he was doing one of three things. Rewriting a model. Staring at a wall. Trying not to flip his desk over.
She dumped her coat on the back of her chair and opened her laptop. Emails stacked like bricks.
She filtered. Sorted. Found the one from NexTelis legal.
*So sorry, we miscalculated the time zone…*
Bullshit.
She checked the full headers. The email had been composed yesterday. Someone on their end had realized they could gain leverage by forcing a “last-minute adjustment.”
Amateurs, she thought. Or arrogant.
She pinged Declan.
: *NexTelis GC “needs” to move the 8:30 to 9. That conflicts with your 9:30 board prep. I can: (1) push them to 7:30 their time, (2) reschedule board prep, or (3) keep the slot and tell them we’ll only have 20 minutes. Preference?*
He didn’t reply.
She waited one minute. Two. The little gray “Delivered” check mocking her.
Okay.
She stood, smoothed her skirt, and walked to his door.
The glass stayed opaque.
She knocked.
No answer.
She cracked it open an inch. “Declan?”
His voice came, low and tight. “Busy.”
She opened the door wider.
He sat at his desk, hands flat, breathing shallow. His tie hung loose; his hair was slightly mussed, like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. His laptop screen was black.
Overload.
“Orange?” she asked quietly.
“Red,” he said without looking at her. “I woke up to forty-seven unread messages, three voicemails, and a text from my father about the Wall Street Journal leak.”
“There was a leak?” she said sharply.
“Rumor piece,” he said. “’Unnamed sources suggest Hale is circling a troubled infrastructure player.’ They don’t have the name yet. But they will.”
Her mind flew ahead. Employee panic. Investor speculation. NexTelis using it as leverage.
“We’ll respond,” she said. “Controlled. Minimal. Meanwhile, NexTelis GC is playing games with your calendar. They want to move the call to nine.”
His jaw clenched. “Of course they do.”
“We can hold the boundary,” she said. “Your 9:30 is with your own board. That’s more important.”
He laughed once, humorless. “Tell that to Victor. He’s the one who has to keep them sweet.”
“I’ll handle Victor,” she said. “You handle breathing.”
He finally looked at her.
The rawness in his eyes punched the air from her lungs.
“This isn’t sustainable,” he said, voice low. “I’m… losing cycles to bullshit. Rumors. Ego plays. Time zones. I should be thinking about integration matrices, not whether NexTelis GC feels respected.”
“Welcome to being a CEO,” she said gently. “You don’t get to live in pure logic. You have to slog through human mud too.”
“I hate mud,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “That’s why you hired me. To wear boots.”
Something like a smile flickered across his face.
“Let me do my job,” she said. “Tell me: how important is it that you personally attend this call?”
“Very,” he said. “They’re cagey. They’ll use any excuse to read weakness. If I send Victor alone, they’ll assume I’m backing away. Or distracted.”
“Okay,” she said. “So you can’t miss it. But you also can’t blow off the board. So option one: shorten the GC call. Twenty minutes, hard stop. You go in, lay down our position, make it clear we’re not dancing to their calendar. Option two: nudge the board prep ten minutes. They’ll grumble, but they’ll live.”
“They *hate* schedule changes,” he muttered. “Makes them feel… less important.”
“Which they are,” she said. “To this deal, anyway.”
He gave her a sharp look. Then he exhaled. “Option one. Twenty minutes. Hard stop.”
“Good,” she said. “I’ll set expectations.”
She stepped back toward the door.
“Margot,” he said.
She paused.
“What color are *you*?” he asked, eyes narrow in that too-perceptive way.
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been triaging since you walked in,” he said. “Shoulders tight. Jaw too. You’re moving faster than yesterday, but your handwriting on your notepad is messier.”
Her gaze dropped, involuntarily, to the half-scribbled reminder she’d left herself about her mother’s dentist appointment.
He was right. Sloppier.
She forced a breath. “Yellow.”
“Why?” he asked.
She hesitated.
Because my father texted me a photo of the NexTelis letter last night, she thought. Because I stupidly asked for it. Because I spent an hour staring at the words *We regret to inform you* like they could still be changed.
“Because it’s day three of a very big job,” she said aloud. “And we’re juggling a leak, a legacy ghost, and your nervous board. It’s a lot.”
He studied her.
“Eat breakfast?” he asked.
She gritted her teeth. “Coffee.”
His mouth flattened. “That’s not breakfast.”
“It is for most of Manhattan,” she said.
“Not for people who want to function at peak,” he said. “You got on my case about food. Consider this reciprocation.”
“You’re policing my meals now?” she asked, arch.
“I’m… noticing,” he said. “And applying your own logic. If your blood sugar crashes, you’ll be less effective. I need you effective.”
Something twisted in her. Half annoyance, half something softer.
“I’ll grab toast after I deal with NexTelis,” she said. “Happy?”
“Marginally,” he said. “Don’t… skip.”
She nodded once and left, before he could see that his concern did things to her she did not want done.
***
Victor was pacing in the war room, tie askew, when she walked in. A few analysts hovered, glancing nervously at him and then at their screens.
“Finally,” he snapped as soon as he saw her. “We have a problem.”
“Yes,” she said. “We do. And we’re going to solve it.”
He blinked, thrown by her calm.
“NexTelis is jerking us around,” he said. “GC wants to move, their CFO suddenly has a conflict, their CEO is ‘in transit.’ They’re testing us. And Declan—”
“—is busy not murdering the Wall Street Journal,” she cut in smoothly. “He’s aware. We’re holding the 8:30. He’ll join. We’re limiting it to twenty minutes.”
“Twenty?” Victor’s voice rose. “We need at least forty-five to get through—”
“You need twenty,” she said, voice steel. “You’re not negotiating terms yet. You’re setting expectations. You can do that in ten. I’m giving you twenty because I’m generous.”
He stared at her. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“The person who controls Declan’s time,” she said. “You want to argue with me, fine. But every minute you spend yelling at me is a minute you’re not prepping for the GC’s games.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand through his hair.
“You’re new,” he said, tone shifting slightly. “You don’t understand—”
“Try me,” she said. “I’ve handled divas before.”
“GC’s a snake,” he said. “He’ll pretend not to understand simple concepts, ask for clarifications on things we’ve already agreed in principle, and then leak selective versions of our answers to his board. If Declan doesn’t sound decisive, they’ll smell blood.”
“Then Declan will sound decisive,” she said. “You’re going to prep three bullet points with the exact language you want him to use to signal strength without overcommitting. And you’re going to do it in the next twenty minutes.”
He scowled. “You think you can just—”
“Yes,” she said. “Because that’s what I’m here for. To push you. To make you sharper. You want a pushover who’ll nod and book flights, you hired the wrong woman.”
The room had gone very quiet.
One of the analysts bit back a grin.
Victor stared at her.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
It wasn’t nice. But it wasn’t hostile.
“You’ve got balls, Chen,” he said.
“Figuratively,” she said. “And ovaries. Double the trouble. Pick your metaphor.”
He huffed a laugh despite himself. “Fine. Twenty minutes. But if this goes sideways because we’re rushed—”
“—you can tell Declan you ignored his EA and she said ‘I told you so,’” she said. “Now go write those bullets.”
***
By 8:28, she had a one-page brief for Declan: key points, potential GC plays, suggested responses. Victor had grudgingly contributed language that was both sharp and vaguely non-litigious.
She printed a copy and walked it into his office.
He sat straighter than he had earlier. The redness had drained from his face, but his pupils were still slightly blown—a tell she’d learned meant he was vibrating under the surface.
She slid the paper in front of him. “Talking points. Victor-approved.”
He scanned, eyes flicking.
“’We’re not here to relitigate legacy contracts; we’re here to build a future state that works for both of us,’” he read. “That’s… not terrible.”
“High praise,” she said dryly.
He looked up. “You pushed back.”
“Yes,” she said. “On time. On tone. On trying to cram forty-five minutes into twenty. They’ll respect a hard boundary more than a weak concession.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or they’ll call our bluff and walk.”
“If they walk because you held them to a confirmed time slot,” she said, “they were never serious. And you’d rather find that out now than in week four when we’ve bared everything.”
He considered that.
“True,” he said.
He picked up the paper and tapped it once on the desk, straightening the edge.
“Stay,” he said.
She blinked. “On the call?”
“Yes,” he said. “Mute, camera off. I want you to hear them. See what you see.”
“That’s outside a typical EA role,” she said, testing.
“You said you wanted to be in the room,” he reminded her. “This is the room.”
Her stomach swooped.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll take notes.”
He gave her a brief nod, then clicked the link.
As the video window opened, he inhaled once, deep.
Mask on.
She watched it slide into place: his shoulders squaring, his mouth relaxing into that neutral, unreadable line, his gaze focusing.
“Good morning,” he said, when the NexTelis GC’s face appeared.
The GC was in his fifties, smooth, with salt-and-pepper hair and an expensive tie that screamed *old boys’ club*. Behind him, a nondescript conference room.
“Declan,” he said, oozing charm. “Apologies for the last-minute shift. Time zones get tricky, you know how it is.”
“No,” Declan said. “I don’t. My calendar app calculates them for me.”
The GC’s smile faltered, just a hair.
Margot hid a grin behind her hand.
“We only have twenty minutes,” Declan went on. “Let’s get to it.”
The GC recovered quickly. “Of course. Let’s… revisit the earn-out structure.”
They fenced.
It was almost… beautiful to watch.
The GC tried every trick in the book. Softening language. Faux confusion. “Help me understand”s that weren’t about understanding at all.
Declan parried with crisp, precise responses, never giving more than asked, never less than necessary.
When the GC said, “We’re hearing some concerns from our board about reputational risk on your side,” Margot felt her hackles rise.
Declan’s jaw twitched. “You mean the Journal rumor.”
“Well,” the GC said, palms up, “one does wonder what your stakeholders will think when they realize you’re courting a company with our… history.”
“Relaxed,” Declan said, without missing a beat. “They’ll be relaxed. Because I’ll have already told them why your history makes you vulnerable, and why we’re the best possible steward for your future.”
The GC blinked.
Margot’s pen scratched across the page. *He went on offense. Good.*
The call ended at eighteen minutes.
Declan clicked out, exhaled, and let his shoulders drop.
“Well?” he said, looking at her.
She considered.
“You were good,” she said. “Clear. Unmoved by his little guilt-trip. The ‘relaxed’ line was… chef’s kiss. You also almost took the bait when he brought up your board.”
“I didn’t,” he said.
“Almost,” she repeated. “Your voice got colder. Your fingers curled. If I’d been on the other side, I’d have known I found a tender spot.”
He flexed his hands, like he’d only just noticed. “They’re worried about the leak.”
“And he knows that now,” she said. “Which means he’ll push on that. We’ll need to preempt. I’d suggest a direct call from you to their board chair before Friday. Thirty minutes. No lawyers.”
He raised a brow. “Strategic.”
“You want to cut through the GC’s filters,” she said. “Hear the real concerns. Show them you’re… human.”
He made a face. “Do I have to?”
“Yes,” she said. “This is the mud, remember?”
He sighed. “Fine. Find a slot. Not tomorrow. We’re jammed.”
“I’ll make one,” she said.
He looked at her. Really looked.
“You’re… useful,” he said.
A ridiculous flare of warmth flooded her chest.
“Careful,” she said lightly. “You keep complimenting me, I might stay.”
His eyes darkened, just a hair.
“I want you to stay,” he said.
The air thickened.
She swallowed. “Then don’t break me.”
Silence.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Something like conflict flickered across his face.
“I’ll… try,” he said finally.
He sounded like a man promising not to let gravity work.
***
At lunch, she sat with Nina in the cafeteria, a surprisingly pleasant space with natural light, decent food, and a murmur of low conversation.
“So,” Nina said, spearing a piece of salmon. “Day three. Still alive?”
“For the moment,” Margot said, picking at her quinoa. “Check back at day ten.”
“You do know there’s a betting pool,” Nina said. “I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know.”
“Raj told me,” Margot said. “You’re all very mature.”
Nina grinned. “Morale is a KPI too.”
“And where did *you* put your money?” Margot asked.
Nina considered her. “A year.”
Margot blinked. “That’s… generous.”
“You look stubborn,” Nina said. “And you don’t flinch when he’s weird. That’s half the battle.”
“What’s the other half?” Margot asked.
“Not wanting to fix him,” Nina said. “Or fuck him.”
Margot nearly choked on her water. “Jesus.”
Nina shrugged. “HR sees things. I’m rooting for you not to be a statistic.”
“I have rules,” Margot said. “No bosses.”
“Rules are cute,” Nina said. “So were the last three assistants’ planners. Didn’t save them.”
“I’m not them,” Margot said, more sharply than she intended.
Nina’s expression softened. “I know. And for what it’s worth, he seems… different. Calmer. When you’re around.”
“That’s projection,” Margot said. “Or confirmation bias.”
“Or you’re good for him,” Nina said simply.
Margot stared at her plate.
Being “good for him” was not her job description. Being good at her job was.
Still.
Her phone buzzed.
*Mom.*
She hesitated, then answered.
“Hi, Ma. I’m at work, is everything okay?”
“Oh, you’re always at work,” her mother said. “I call now, maybe you not in meeting. Am I interrupting big… what do you call it… meating?”
“Meeting,” Margot said, smiling despite herself. “I’m on lunch break. What’s up?”
“You coming Sunday?” her mother asked. “Your father says if you don’t come, he will disown you and give all his love to neighbor’s son.”
“I heard that,” her father’s voice grumbled faintly in the background.
Margot’s throat tightened. “I’ll be there,” she said. “Might be late. Big project. Things are… busy.”
“You eat?” her mother asked, immediate and instinctive.
“Yes,” Margot said. “I’m literally eating right now.”
“What?” her mother demanded. “Rice? Noodles? Not just coffee, ah? Coffee is not food, I tell you every time.”
Quinoa, Margot thought. Salmon. Arugula.
“Yes, Ma,” she said. “Real food.”
“How’s new boss?” her mother asked. “You like him?”
She hesitated.
Her eyes slid, unbidden, to the glass wall of his office across the floor. He sat, back half-turned to her, head bent, pen tapping thoughtfully.
She tore her gaze away.
“He’s… complicated,” she said.
“Complicated is code for ‘handsome and difficult,’” her mother said sagely. “Is he married? Don’t get involved with married men. Bad karma.”
“He’s not married,” Margot said before she could stop herself.
Nina raised her eyebrows, amused.
“Mm-hmm,” her mother said, the sound laden with meaning. “Be careful, ah. Remember your rule. Don’t mix work and… you know.” She lowered her voice. “*Nán rén.* Men.”
“I remember,” Margot said. “Trust me, Ma. I remember.”
“Okay,” her mother said, mollified. “Your father wants to talk to you about some form.”
Her stomach clenched. “What form?”
“Something from the bank,” her mother said, casual. Too casual. “He says is probably nothing. But maybe you look. Sunday. Don’t worry.”
Too late.
“I’ll look,” Margot said. “Text me a photo now.”
“No, no,” her mother said quickly. “You’re working. I don’t want to stress you. Come Sunday. We talk then.”
“Ma—”
“Eat your lunch,” her mother said firmly. “Don’t be like your father. Always work, no food. Then stomach problem. Okay, bye-bye.”
The line clicked.
Margot lowered the phone slowly.
“You okay?” Nina asked.
She forced a breath. “Family stuff. Bank stuff. It’s… nothing.”
Nina’s gaze was shrewd. “Nothing looks a lot like something.”
“Welcome to being a child of immigrants,” Margot said. “Everything is a crisis and nothing is ever talked about clearly.”
Nina’s lips quirked. “Relatable.”
Margot checked her watch. “I need to get back. Declan’s with regulatory at one. They’re probably scaring each other.”
“Have fun,” Nina said. “Don’t let him eat you alive.”
“I bite back,” Margot said.
“I know,” Nina said. “That’s why I bet on you.”
***
By Thursday, the leak had grown tentacles.
The Journal piece spawned a Bloomberg mention, a CNBC speculative segment, and a dozen smaller blogs parroting half-truths.
*Is Hale overreaching?* *Is NexTelis too toxic to touch?* *Who will pay the price if this deal goes wrong?*
Internally, Slack pinged like a pinball machine.
She’d locked down the main channels as much as she could, steering people to the official update, but rumors moved faster than memos.
At ten, she walked into Declan’s office with a stack of printouts.
“Coverage,” she said. “Summarized. I highlighted the few that matter.”
He flipped through. “They’re all wrong,” he said.
“Of course,” she said. “But perception is reality until you shift it. Which you will. Slowly. Deliberately. Not by rage-tweeting.”
“I don’t rage-tweet,” he said automatically.
She gave him a look.
“…Much,” he amended.
“I set a fifteen-minute block this afternoon for you and comms,” she said. “We’ll craft a statement that says nothing and everything at once.”
He made a face. “I hate statements.”
“I know,” she said. “But if you don’t say something, others will speak for you. And they are dumber.”
“You have a dim view of the world,” he observed.
“I work with people,” she said. “Of course I do.”
His eyes crinkled just a fraction. “You slept?”
“Yes,” she lied. “You?”
He didn’t answer.
She arched a brow. “Declan.”
He looked away. “Four hours,” he muttered.
“That’s not sleep,” she said. “That’s a nap with delusions of grandeur.”
He smirked. “You’re very quotable.”
“Yes,” she said. “Put that on a mug.”
His gaze snagged on her face. “You have circles,” he said.
“So do you,” she shot back.
“I always do,” he said. “Yours are new.”
She resisted the urge to touch her under-eyes. “Thanks.”
“You talked to your parents,” he said. Not a question.
She stilled. “How do you know?”
“You’re more… brittle,” he said. “Like you’re holding something fragile and heavy and pretending it’s not there.”
She swallowed. “You’re very… intrusive.”
“You said that yesterday,” he said. “You keep working for me anyway.”
She exhaled. “My mother mentioned a bank form. Wouldn’t send it. Said I should come Sunday. Which means it’s serious enough she doesn’t want to talk about it over the phone.”
“Debt?” he asked quietly.
“Probably,” she said. “Maybe a refinancing. Maybe… worse.”
Guilt flashed across his face, sharp and sudden.
“This isn’t on you,” she said quickly. “NexTelis did the damage years ago. Anything now is just… fallout.”
“Fallout *I’m* choosing to walk into,” he said. “And drag you with me.”
“I walked,” she said. “And I knew what shoes I was wearing.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“What do you need?” he asked.
She blinked. “From you?”
“Yes,” he said. “To make this… bearable. Or at least… less… much.”
She stared.
She’d expected him to plow ahead. To compartmentalize. To treat her family’s pain as an unfortunate variable, then move on.
Instead, he was… asking.
“Information,” she said slowly. “Transparency. If there are any moves planned that specifically involve small suppliers tied to NexTelis’s old deals, I want to know in advance.”
“Done,” he said instantly.
“And time,” she added. “Sunday night. I may be late. Or… wrecked. Or both.”
“I’ll block your calendar,” he said.
“You don’t have to—”
“I do,” he said. “Because if I don’t, you’ll book yourself solid to avoid thinking. And then you’ll crash at a worse time. This way, you crash on my schedule.”
She glared. “You’re very controlling.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “That’s the job.”
A reluctant laugh escaped her. “You’re impossible.”
“Yes,” he said again. “And yet, here you are.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” he murmured.
She wasn’t entirely sure he was joking.
***
Friday came too fast.
The week had been a blur of paging alarms, status pings, late nights, and early mornings. Her to-do list bred while she slept. Her dreams, when they came, were a disconcerting mashup of war rooms and her parents’ kitchen.
She hadn’t decided yet how much to tell them Sunday.
Every time she pictured her father’s face, her resolve cracked.
Tell them nothing. Keep it clean. It’s just a job.
Tell them everything. Let them rage. Let them see it coming.
She toggled, back and forth, like a stuck switch.
Friday afternoon, as Declan’s therapy block approached, she pinged him.
: *Reminder: Dr. Kline in 20. Don’t “accidentally” join the wrong Zoom.*
> I never do that accidentally.
: *Then don’t do it on purpose.*
> You’re bossy.
: *You like it.*
There was a pause.
Then:
> Yes.
Her cheeks warmed.
She put her phone down just as Raj appeared at her desk, hands full of folders.
“End-of-week joy,” he said. “Also, HR wants to schedule your ninety-day check-in.”
She snorted. “Optimistic of them.”
“I told them to pencil it in,” Raj said. “I put money on you, remember. Don’t make me lose face.”
“You all act like he’s some kind of dragon,” she said. “He’s… a very smart, very tired man with shitty sleep hygiene and too much power.”
“Who happens to trigger people’s deepest insecurities just by existing,” Raj said. “Don’t underestimate that.”
“I don’t,” she said. “I underestimate myself sometimes. Not him.”
He gave her a sharp look. “Don’t do that either.”
She shrugged, deflecting. “How’s the pool, anyway? Anyone drop out yet?”
“We had two people move their bets,” Raj said. “After seeing you tell Victor to shut up in the war room.”
She smirked. “And?”
“They extended your window,” he said. “From six months to a year.”
“Progress,” she said.
He hesitated. “There’s a side pool, you know.”
She eyed him. “I don’t think I want to know.”
“On whether or not you’ll sleep with him,” he said bluntly.
Heat slammed into her face. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope,” he said. “Humans are trash. Also bored.”
“That’s disgusting,” she said. “And unprofessional.”
“Completely,” he agreed. “Also extremely human. I shut it down in my team. But I can’t police thirty floors.”
She swallowed acid. “What are the odds?”
“Too high for my comfort,” he said. “Some people think no woman can work that closely with him and not… cross the line.”
Her spine went rigid. “Watch me.”
Raj’s expression softened. “I *am* watching you. So is half the building. You’re under a microscope. Not just because of him. Because of what you represent. Competence. Control. A different way of doing this job.”
She sighed. “That’s heavy.”
“Welcome to being good,” he said. “We’ll carry some of it with you.”
Her throat tightened. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “Wait until week three.”
She laughed weakly. “If we get that far.”
“You will,” he said. “You’re too stubborn not to.”
***
At 3:55, Declan’s office glass cleared.
He stood by the window, arms crossed, looking out over the city. His reflection ghosted on the glass, superimposed on the skyline.
She knocked once and stepped in.
He didn’t turn.
“How was Dr. Kline?” she asked.
“Annoying,” he said. “As usual.”
“That means she’s doing her job,” she said.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You two would get along.”
“Probably not,” she said. “I don’t like being analyzed.”
“You’re doing it to me constantly,” he pointed out.
“That’s work,” she said. “My psyche is off-limits.”
“For now,” he said.
She arched a brow. “Is that a threat?”
“A prediction,” he said. “You can’t parse me without me parsing you back.”
Her heart stuttered. “I’m not parsing you. I’m… mapping workflows.”
He turned fully then, leaning back against the window ledge.
“Liar,” he said softly.
She bristled. “Excuse me?”
“You’re watching my tells,” he said. “Cataloguing my reactions. Anticipating my triggers. That’s not just workflow. That’s… me.”
“And you’re doing the same,” she said. “Watching my handwriting. My shoulders. My circles. Do I get to call you a liar too?”
“Yes,” he said. “You should.”
The honesty disarmed her.
They stared at each other across the room.
“I told Kline about you,” he said suddenly.
Her breath hitched. “Why?”
“Because she asked what was different this week,” he said. “And you’re the only new variable.”
She swallowed. “And what did you say?”
“That you’re… easier,” he said.
She frowned. “Easier than what?”
“Than the others,” he said. “To be around. To… be… with.”
Her chest went tight. “That’s not… necessarily a compliment.”
“It is,” he said. “For me.”
“Dangerous, too,” she said. “For me.”
He pushed off the glass, taking a step closer.
“How?” he asked, low.
She held her ground. “If you’re more comfortable, you’ll… drop your guard. With me. More than with others. And I…” She forced a laugh. “I have a history of… overinvesting in my work.”
“Overinvesting,” he repeated. “Define.”
“Caring too much,” she said. “About outcomes. About people. About bosses who don’t deserve it.”
“Do I deserve it?” he asked.
She met his gaze, heart pounding.
“I don’t know yet,” she said. “It’s day five.”
Silence fell.
He was close enough now that she could see the faint flecks of green in his gray irises. The way his pupils widened slightly when he focused on her.
“Do you want to care?” he asked quietly.
Her breath caught.
“About my job?” she said. “Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
“About me,” he said.
The room seemed to shrink.
“This is inappropriate,” she said, voice low.
“Yes,” he said. “Answer anyway.”
Her fingers curled at her sides.
“No,” she lied.
He tilted his head. His eyes searched her face.
“Liar,” he said again, almost gently.
Anger flared, hot and sharp. “You don’t get to tell me how I feel.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I’m telling you what I *see*.”
“What you see is biased,” she snapped. “You’re used to people wanting things from you. Money. Access. Validation. You assume attraction because it’s familiar.”
“Are you attracted to me?” he asked.
Her heart slammed against her ribs so hard it hurt.
She could have laughed. Deflected. Thrown a joke like a shield.
Instead, she made the mistake of hesitating.
His eyes darkened. Victory and something like pain flashed across his face.
“Don’t,” she said, more plea than command. “Don’t do this.”
“Do what?” he asked, voice rougher now.
“Make it a test,” she said. “See how far you can push before I bend. I’m not a stress model. I’m a person. And I have a rule.”
“No bosses,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “You knew that when you hired me.”
“I didn’t hire you to sleep with me,” he said. “I hired you because I need you. At work.”
“That’s the problem,” she said. “Need bleeds. Lines blur. We’re not special. We’re not exceptions.”
He flinched, almost imperceptibly.
“I don’t… want to hurt you,” he said.
The rawness in his voice undid her.
“Then don’t,” she said softly. “Stay on your side of the line. I’ll stay on mine.”
His jaw clenched. His hands flexed.
“I don’t always do well with lines,” he said. “They… move.”
“Then I’ll nail this one down,” she said.
He huffed a low laugh that held no real humor.
“How?” he asked.
“By telling you no,” she said. “Every time you cross it. Even if it costs me my job.”
He stared at her.
“You’d leave,” he said. “If I push too far.”
“Yes,” she said. “I’d have to. For me. For you.”
“For me?” he echoed, incredulous.
“If I stay after you cross a line,” she said, “I teach you that it’s okay. That you can ignore my boundaries and I’ll… adapt. That’s bad for you. For the next person. For everyone.”
His throat worked.
“No one’s ever said that,” he whispered.
“Maybe they should have,” she said.
He looked suddenly… young. Lost.
“I don’t want to be… that guy,” he said. “The one everyone whispers about. ‘Don’t work too close to him, he’ll…’”
“Then don’t be,” she said. “You get to choose. Every day. Every look. Every text. You decide who you are.”
His eyes shone, just briefly, like a light catching water.
“And if I… fail?” he asked.
“You go back to therapy,” she said. “You apologize. You learn. You do better. But you don’t get to… *practice* on me.”
He nodded, once. Twice. Like he was fixing the words in place.
“Okay,” he said finally. “Line. Nail. No.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Good,” she said, voice a little shaky. “Now. The minister of trade moved his dinner to Tuesday. And HR wants to know if they can schedule your diversity training before you buy a company famous for being terrible to small suppliers.”
He snorted softly. “Of course they do.”
“They have a point,” she said. “Optics matter.”
“Fine,” he said. “Put it on the calendar. Ninety minutes. Not three hours. I refuse to participate in trust falls.”
She smiled, tension easing by degrees. “I’ll warn them.”
As she turned to go, he said, “Margot.”
She looked back.
He stood behind his desk, the city behind him.
“I am attracted to you,” he said, tone even. “That’s… data. I can’t unknow it. But I can decide what to do with it.”
Her heart stumbled.
“And what are you going to do with it?” she asked, hating how breathless she sounded.
He met her gaze, mask off for once.
“Nothing,” he said. “If I can help it.”
The honesty burned.
“Good,” she said, though the word scraped out.
She shut the door behind her and leaned against the cool glass for a second, catching her breath.
He was dangerous.
Not because he didn’t understand lines.
Because he did.
And he was choosing—for now—to respect them.
That was so much worse.
Because it meant if something happened anyway, it wouldn’t be an accident.
It would be a choice.
Hers.
His.
Both.
The thought scared her more than any leak, any board, any GC.
She pushed off the glass and went back to her desk.
Work. Structure. Schedules.
She could do those.
Desire would have to wait its turn.
For as long as she could make it.
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