The first real crack came on a Thursday night, two weeks before the self-imposed thirty-day deadline.
It had been a long day. Even by their new standards.
The FTC had requested additional documentation. NexTelis’s CEO had thrown a tantrum over “cultural alignment.” A junior analyst had accidentally sent an internal risk memo to an external partner.
By 9 p.m., the war room looked like a crime scene: whiteboards covered, coffee cups everywhere, people slumped in their chairs.
Margot stood at the doorway, watching Declan stand in front of the main screen.
His tie was gone. His shirt sleeves were rolled past his elbows. His hair stuck up in tufts.
He looked like he’d been dragged behind a truck.
He was still sharp.
“Okay,” he said, voice calm. “We have three main issues: regulatory timing, NexTelis board skittishness, and internal morale. We can tackle two tonight. One will have to wait. Prioritize.”
Corp dev voted for NexTelis board. Legal voted for regulatory. HR squeaked something about morale.
He held up a hand. “Morale waits. We’re not hemorrhaging yet. We’ll do a town hall tomorrow. For now: board and regulators. Victor, you’re with me. Eliza, you and Margot draft the FTC response. Everyone else, go home. Sleep. If I see you on Slack after midnight, I’ll revoke your logins.”
A few people laughed nervously.
He wasn’t joking.
Margot shooed people out, answered a dozen “but what about—” questions with “tomorrow,” and then trailed Eliza into a smaller conference room.
They worked.
By midnight, the FTC draft was solid enough. Eliza’s eyes burned. Margot’s fingers ached.
“Go home,” Eliza said, stacking papers. “I’ll give this one more pass and send to legal. You’ve earned a bed.”
“So have you,” Margot said.
“I have kids,” Eliza said wryly. “Sleep is a myth. Go.”
Margot hesitated. “Declan—”
“Is with Victor,” Eliza said. “They’ll argue over slide order until three. They don’t need you for that.”
“But—”
“Margot,” Eliza said, voice gentle but firm. “He hired you to make his life easier, not to martyr yourself. You won’t be any good to him tomorrow if you face-plant on your keyboard tonight. Go.”
Margot exhaled. “Fine. But if he dies, it’s on you.”
“Noted,” Eliza said.
Margot grabbed her bag, her coat, her phone. She walked past Declan’s office.
The glass was opaque.
She paused.
No. She was not knocking. She was not inserting herself where she wasn’t needed. She was not the martyr, per Eliza’s orders.
She kept walking.
The elevator was slow at this hour. The ride down was quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly.
She stepped out into the cool night and hailed a cab. She didn’t trust herself to stay awake on the subway.
Her phone buzzed as she watched the city blur past.
> D. Hale: You left.
She stared.
: *Yes. I was ordered to. By your CFO. She’s scary. I obeyed.*
> You always obey orders from Eliza.
: *She told me you’d be up until three arguing over slides. I chose to live.*
> Coward.
She smiled, exhausted.
: *Go home, Declan.*
> I will. Eventually.
: *Before sunrise.*
> Bossy.
: *Sleepy. Good night.*
He didn’t reply.
She fell into bed, fully intending to just “rest her eyes” for a minute.
She woke six hours later to her alarm, heart pounding, head thick.
Her phone was full of notifications.
No disaster. No emergency alerts.
One text from an unknown number, timestamped 3:17 a.m.
> This is Priya. Your father’s loan is ugly, but not unsalvageable. Call me tomorrow.
Her heart leaped.
She almost dialed immediately. Then saw the time: 6:12 a.m.
She’d wait. For once, she’d let someone else set the pace.
She showered, dressed—dark blue dress, black blazer, the pendant her mother had given her—and headed in.
On the thirty-third floor, the air felt… off.
Too quiet.
She set her stuff down, scanned the room.
Raj’s chair was empty. Eliza’s office dark.
Declan’s glass was still opaque.
Her stomach dropped.
She checked the time. 7:54.
He was usually in by now. Or at least, his lights were.
She pinged him.
: *You alive?*
No response.
She frowned.
She walked to his door and knocked.
Nothing.
She cracked it open.
The lights were dim. His desk was empty.
Panic flared.
Then she saw him.
On the couch by the window.
Asleep.
He lay on his side, one arm thrown over his eyes, tie on the floor, shirt half unbuttoned, feet bare. His hair was a mess. His laptop sat open on the coffee table, screen dark.
Relief flooded her. Then something else. Something slower, heavier.
Without the armor of his clothes and his stance, he looked… vulnerable.
His chest rose and fell, slow and deep. His mouth was slack, the hard line smoothed. His feet were long, pale. One big toe twitched.
She should leave.
Close the door. Let him sleep.
Instead, she stepped inside, shutting the door softly behind her.
She moved quietly, years of practice making her footsteps a whisper.
She picked up his laptop, closed it properly, set it on the desk.
His socks lay in a small heap on the floor. She averted her eyes. There was something oddly intimate about a man’s shed socks.
He muttered something in his sleep, turning his head.
“…No… thirty… minutes…"
She bit back a laugh.
Even unconscious, he argued with time.
She stood there for a second, watching him.
He looked younger like this. Less like the man who diced up billion-dollar deals and more like the boy who’d cried in a server room.
Her chest ached.
She shouldn’t be seeing this.
But she was.
And something in her knew he wouldn’t have fallen asleep here, like this, if he didn’t—on some level—trust that she wouldn’t use it against him.
She checked her watch.
8:01.
His first meeting—an 8:30 with Europe—was already sliding.
She hesitated, then made a decision.
She walked to his desk and opened his calendar.
She moved the 8:30 to 9. Added a note: *Urgent internal matter; apologies, will be on at 9 sharp.* Flagged Eliza and Raj.
She pushed the 9:15 back fifteen minutes. The 10:00 by ten.
She cleared a block from 8 to 9: “Rest—non-negotiable.”
She stepped back from the screen.
Boundaries, she thought. Lines.
Sometimes, taking care of someone meant making decisions for them they wouldn’t make for themselves.
That didn’t mean she was his mother.
It meant she was his *assistant*.
She turned back to the couch.
Should she wake him?
He’d be furious if he missed things he truly needed to attend.
But he also needed sleep. Desperately.
She crouched beside the couch, close enough to see the faint line of stubble along his jaw, the tiny scar near his left eyebrow.
She reached out, then stopped, fingers hovering an inch from his shoulder.
“Declan,” she said softly. “You’re safe. You can sleep.”
He didn’t stir.
She swallowed.
Not touching was a boundary. Waking was another.
She chose not to cross either.
She stood, stepped back, and slipped out, leaving the glass opaque.
At her desk, she shot off a flurry of emails to reschedule his morning. Typed fast: *He’s delayed by an internal emergency. He’ll be there. Thank you for your flexibility.*
She was good at making lies sound like truths and truths sound like neutral facts.
At 8:47, her phone buzzed.
> Where am I.
She smiled.
: *On your couch. In your office. Asleep, until thirty seconds ago.*
> Status.
: *I moved your 8:30 to 9. You have a buffer until then. Eat. Shower. Pretend you didn’t spend the night with Victor.*
There was a pause.
Then:
> You saw me.
Her fingers stilled.
She typed carefully.
: *Yes. I also didn’t take photos or draw a mustache on you. You’re welcome.*
> You could have woken me.
: *You needed sleep more than you needed to talk to a supply chain manager in Frankfurt. I made the call.*
> You moved board-adjacent meetings without asking me.
: *Yes. That’s my job. If you’re going to punish me for doing it, do it after coffee.*
Another pause.
She watched the opaque glass, half expecting it to explode.
Then:
> Thank you.
Her shoulders sagged with relief.
: *You’re welcome. Get dressed. You’re indecent.*
> You were looking.
Her cheeks flared.
: *I was assessing your breathing. Don’t be weird.*
> Too late.
She snorted.
Ten minutes later, he walked out of his office, hair still damp, shirt buttoned properly, tie in his hand.
He stopped at her desk.
“You moved my calendar,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “You appointed me gatekeeper. I gated.”
“You could have…” He trailed off, searching.
“Asked?” she offered. “I would have said no.”
He huffed. “Fair.”
“You can yell at me later,” she said. “Right now, you have three minutes to read the summary I sent for Europe.”
He took the printed page she held out.
As he scanned, he said quietly, “You didn’t… touch me.”
Her mouth went dry.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t.”
“I would have woken,” he said. “If you had.”
“Exactly,” she said.
He looked up.
“Thank you,” he said again. Different this time. Softer.
She nodded once.
“Get out of my face,” she said lightly. “You’re blocking my light.”
He smirked and moved on.
The crack, she realized later, wasn’t in him.
It was in her.
Because seeing him like that—unguarded, unmasked, asleep—had lodged something in her chest that wasn’t going to dislodge easily.
It wasn’t pity. Or maternal concern.
It was… recognition.
Of exhaustion. Of the cost of being the person everyone depended on.
She’d always prided herself on keeping her bosses at a distance. On never forgetting what they were to her.
With him, the distance kept collapsing.
She wasn’t sure yet if she was going to shove it back open.
Or step across.
***
That afternoon, Priya called.
“Okay,” she said without preamble when Margot picked up. “I’ve talked to the bank.”
Margot’s heart leapt into her throat. “And?”
“They’re assholes,” Priya said. “But not stupid. They know your father’s loan is a problem. They also know they’re not getting full recovery if they push him into bankruptcy. They’re… amenable to a sale.”
A rush of dizzy relief. “At what price?”
“Forty-five cents on the dollar,” Priya said. “Which is higher than I’d like, but still workable.”
“What does that mean for him?” Margot asked.
“It means,” Priya said, “that if I buy the loan, I can throw out their covenants and write new ones. I’ll lower his monthly payment, extend the term, and give him options: keep working at a sustainable pace, or wind down over two years with a clear exit.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “Why would you…?”
“Because it’s good business,” Priya said. “And because I like fucking up predatory banks’ models. It’s a hobby.”
Margot laughed, shaky.
“What do you need from us?” she asked.
“A meeting,” Priya said. “With your father. I’m not doing this if he doesn’t want it. I am not rescuing someone who wants to drown on principle.”
“He doesn’t,” Margot said quickly. “He just… doesn’t know there’s another option.”
“Then bring him,” Priya said. “Tomorrow, my office. I’ll send you the address. I’ll scare him a little, so he understands this isn’t charity. Then I’ll give him terms his current bank wouldn’t dream of.”
Margot swallowed. “He doesn’t like… being talked down to. Or being made to feel stupid.”
“Good,” Priya said. “Neither do I. We’ll get along fine.”
After she hung up, Margot sat very still.
Then she stood, walked straight into Declan’s office, and shut the door.
He looked up, brows drawing together. “Problem?”
“Solution,” she said.
His mouth curved. “Those are better.”
“Priya’s going to buy the loan,” she said.
He stilled.
“For sure?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Subject to my father agreeing. She wants to meet him. Tomorrow.”
His shoulders dropped a fraction.
“That’s… good,” he said.
“It’s… incredible,” she said. “I didn’t think… I thought at best she’d give us advice. Not… this.”
He watched her like he was memorizing her expression.
“You did that,” he said quietly.
“No,” she said. “She did.”
“You brought it to her,” he said. “Most people in your position would have either ignored it or expected me to… wave a wand. You found the lever and pulled it.”
Her eyes burned.
“Declan,” she said, voice tight. “Thank you. For connecting us. For… seeing that it mattered.”
He looked away, jaw working.
“Self-interest,” he said gruffly. “If your father’s not being slowly strangled by a bank, you’re less distracted. More effective.”
She smiled through the sting. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Yes,” he said. “You told me that.”
The room hummed.
She stepped closer, stopping at the edge of his desk.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “I’ll be out for a few hours. I’ll prep you a detailed brief. Raj can cover anything urgent. You’ll be fine without me.”
His eyes flashed. “I know.”
“Do you?” she asked, tilting her head. “You didn’t sound… convinced.”
He held her gaze.
“I don’t like you gone,” he said. Not a plea. A statement.
The words landed low in her belly.
“You’ll survive,” she said gently.
He huffed. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
“Because it’s true,” she said. “Survival is your superpower. You build systems. You fix things. You keep going.”
He watched her, something like frustration and something like awe mingled on his face.
“What’s yours?” he asked.
She blinked. “My what?”
“Your superpower,” he said.
She thought of calendars. Crisis. Coffee. Smiles that hid knives.
“Making men like you listen,” she said lightly.
He smiled. Slowly. “Then use it.”
“How?” she asked.
“Tell me something I don’t want to hear,” he said. “Right now.”
She hesitated.
His eyes challenged.
“Fine,” she said. “You’re not going to fix everything NexTelis broke.”
His jaw clenched. “I know that.”
“Do you?” she pressed. “You talk like you can. Like if you just optimize hard enough, you can undo decades of damage. You can’t. Some people—like my father—will always carry scars. Some companies will never come back. Some communities will never trust again. You can’t spreadsheet that away.”
He looked like she’d slapped him.
Silence rang.
“You asked,” she said quietly.
He exhaled, a rough sound.
“I did,” he said.
He leaned back, hands flat on the desk.
“It’s… intolerable,” he said. “Knowing I can’t.”
“Welcome to being human,” she said.
He gave her a look. “You keep saying that like it’s a prize.”
“It is,” she said. “It means you care. It means you’ll hurt. It also means you’ll stop yourself from becoming the thing you hate.”
He stared at her.
“You’re infuriating,” he said softly.
“So I’ve been told,” she said.
He stood.
The room seemed to shrink.
He came around the desk, stopping a foot from her.
Her breath stuttered.
He was close enough that she could smell him. Soap. Coffee. Something warm underneath.
He lifted a hand.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
He didn’t touch her.
He reached past her, fingers brushing the edge of the whiteboard behind her, and picked up a marker.
“Twenty days,” he said, writing the number in big, black strokes. “That’s how long we have.”
She forced a breath. “To do what?”
“To close,” he said. “To integrate. To decide if we’re building something worth you staying for.”
Her chest squeezed.
“That’s not on you alone,” she said. “You don’t have to… perform… for me.”
He snorted. “Have you met me? Performance is… default.”
He looked at the number.
“Twenty days,” he repeated. “And then… we reassess.”
“Time-boxing emotions,” she said. “Very on-brand.”
His mouth twitched. “It’s how I cope.”
He capped the marker, set it down.
When he turned back to her, his eyes were dark.
“Go save your father,” he said. “Then come back and help me save what we can.”
She swallowed past the lump in her throat.
“Yes, boss,” she said.
He flinched at the word.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?” she asked.
“Don’t call me that when you look at me like that,” he said hoarsely.
“Like what?” she whispered.
“Like you see me,” he said.
Her heart pounded.
“I do see you,” she said. “That’s the job.”
“It’s more than the job,” he said.
Silence stretched, taut.
The line between them glowed, visible and fragile.
She stepped back.
“For now,” she said, voice steady with effort, “let’s pretend it’s not.”
He shut his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, the mask was back. Not the full one. A lighter version. A compromise.
“Fine,” he said. “For now.”
She turned, hand on the door.
“Margot,” he said.
She looked back.
“Be careful,” he said. “With Priya. With your father. With… everything.”
She smiled, small and real.
“I’m always careful,” she said.
She left.
He watched the door shut behind her.
Then he looked at the number on the board.
Twenty days.
He’d built companies in less time.
He’d destroyed them too.
He didn’t know yet which side of that line this story would fall on.
Only that, for the first time in years, the success metric wasn’t just stock price or market share.
It was whether, at the end of it, she was still here.
And whether he could look at himself in the mirror without seeing NexTelis looking back.
The crack had become a fault line.
And it was only a matter of time before something gave.