By Wednesday, Margot’s body had accepted that sleep was a negotiable concept.
Not that she *liked* it. Her spine cracked every time she stood, her eyes burned by three in the afternoon, and she’d started seeing Outlook reminders in her peripheral vision even when she wasn’t at a screen.
But her mind?
Her mind was *on*.
She hated that.
She liked being in control of her focus—when to sharpen, when to fuzz. Years of managing other people’s chaos had taught her to manage her own. To box her attention, label the boxes, and stack them neatly.
Now the boxes were everywhere.
NexTelis. Her father. Declan. Hale. Timelines. Calendars. An internal rumor thread on their Slack-equivalent titled *#bigdeal* that she monitored with one eye, deleting anything that veered too close to NDA territory.
And under it all, like a low-grade fever: him.
How he moved.
How he watched.
How he *listened*.
She’d worked for charismatic men before. Leo had been a walking dopamine dispenser. Her fintech founder had been manic in the way of people who lived on Adderall and fear. They pulled people in with charisma, with the promise of reflected light.
Declan didn’t do that.
He didn’t seem interested in people *liking* him. In fact, half the time, she got the sense he’d prefer they just left him alone with his screens and his thoughts.
But when he focused?
It was like being pinned.
She could feel it now, even with his office glass frosted, as she sat at her desk at 9:13 on Wednesday morning, fingers flying over the keyboard.
“Margot?”
She didn’t look up. “Two minutes, Eliza. I’m finishing an email before I lose the thread.”
Eliza laughed softly and perched on the edge of the spare chair by her desk. “Take your time. I like watching you in your natural habitat. It’s like a documentary. *Planet Apex Organizer*.”
Margot finished outlining a proposed schedule for next week’s executive off-site, hit save, then leaned back.
“Sorry,” she said. “Context-switching gives me hives.”
“Don’t apologize,” Eliza said. “You’re the first person I’ve seen who might actually keep him from self-immolating this quarter. I come bearing gifts.”
She held up a coffee cup.
Margot’s eyes narrowed. “Is that—”
“Triple espresso with a splash of oat milk and exactly one pump of hazelnut,” Eliza said. “Apparently.”
“Who told you that?” she asked suspiciously, taking the cup anyway.
“Declan,” Eliza said. “Yesterday. When I mentioned you looked like you’d been hit by a calendar.”
Margot made a strangled sound. “He noticed?”
“He *notices* everything,” Eliza said. “You’ll get used to it. Or you won’t, and you’ll quit. Jury’s out.”
“I’m not quitting,” Margot said automatically.
“Good,” Eliza said lightly. “Because we need to talk about media training.”
Margot blinked. “For…?”
“You,” Eliza said. “And him. Together.”
A knot formed in her stomach. “Explain.”
“We’re going to have to start laying groundwork externally for the NexTelis deal,” Eliza said. “We can’t announce yet, but interested parties are sniffing. Analysts. Journalists. A couple of senators who like the sound of their own voices.”
“I’ve seen the alerts,” Margot said. “‘Unnamed tech firm in advanced talks with legacy infrastructure provider.’ Subtle.”
“Exactly,” Eliza said. “Declan’s going to need to be out there. Not just in closed-door rooms. On TV. Panels. Maybe a friendly feature. And you…”
She gave Margot a long look.
“Me what?” Margot asked sharply.
“You’re going to be glued to his side for most of those,” Eliza said. “Not on camera, necessarily. But in green rooms. Pre-briefs. De-briefs. You need to know what he can handle and what he can’t.”
“I thought you did that,” Margot said. “You’re his CFO. His right hand.”
“I’m his numbers right hand,” Eliza said. “You’re his *life* right hand. I can’t be with him every minute. If I tried, my own team would mutiny. Also, I like my husband and would prefer to see him occasionally.”
Margot sipped her coffee, buying time. “What exactly are you worried about?”
Eliza snorted. “Have you *met* him?”
“I’ve *worked* with him three days,” Margot said. “That’s like… two years in regular-people time?”
“Pretty much,” Eliza agreed. “Look, he’s gotten better over the years. Coaching, therapy, sheer brute-force experience. But when he’s tired, or stressed, or when someone tries to corner him with a loaded question, he… glitches.”
“Glitches how?” Margot asked.
“Hyper-literal answers,” Eliza said. “Too blunt. No softening. Once, on a panel, a moderator asked him a fluffy question about ‘work-life balance,’ and he said, ‘I think if you want that, you should work somewhere less interesting.’”
Margot choked on a laugh. “He *said* that?”
“On CNBC,” Eliza said dryly. “HR had a stroke. Recruiting had three. He wasn’t wrong, mind you. Still. Not ideal messaging.”
“So you want me to… what?” Margot asked. “Kick him under the table when he’s about to say something honest?”
“God, no,” Eliza said. “He’d kick back harder. I want you to anticipate situations where he might get overloaded and build in buffers. Fewer live interviews back-to-back. More controlled settings. A pre-brief so he knows exactly what he’s walking into.”
“That’s… already my instinct,” Margot said.
“Good,” Eliza said. “You’ll also need to learn his tells. I know my version. You’ll learn yours.”
“I’m working on it,” Margot said, thinking of plaid, of the way his hands clenched.
Eliza studied her. “He tell you about colors?”
“Plaid,” Margot said wryly.
Eliza barked a laugh. “Oh, he likes you.”
Margot stiffened. “He likes my competence.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” Eliza said. “Just—be careful.”
“Everyone keeps saying that,” Margot muttered. “Like I’m about to walk into traffic without looking both ways.”
“You’re not stupid,” Eliza said. “You see more than most. But you also… engage. You push. You provoke. That’s great for the company. Less great for your heart, if you let it get involved.”
It was like everyone had formed a support group over the weekend: *How To Warn Margot Without Sounding Like We’re Warning Margot*.
She took a slow breath. “I have a rule.”
“I know,” Eliza said. “Nina told me. No sleeping with bosses. Solid. Keep it.”
“I will,” Margot said.
“Good,” Eliza said. “Now, media training. I’ve booked a session with an external coach for him on Friday. I want you in the room.”
“Won’t that make him…?” Margot searched for a neutral word. “Self-conscious?”
“Probably,” Eliza said. “But he needs to be self-conscious in a safe room, not when he’s live on Bloomberg and someone asks him if Hale is about to become the next NexTelis.”
Margot’s stomach dropped. “They’d… ask that?”
“Oh, honey,” Eliza said softly. “They’re *going* to. You don’t think the people NexTelis chewed up aren’t already drafting op-eds with titles like ‘New Boss, Same As The Old Boss?’”
Heat flared under Margot’s skin.
She’d written those op-eds in her head for years.
“I’ll be there,” she said tightly.
“Good,” Eliza said, standing. “I’ll send you the invite. And Margot?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not alone in this,” Eliza said. “If it gets too heavy, come find me. Or Raj. Or Dr. Kline, if you want the fifty-minute version. Don’t try to white-knuckle your way through thirty days.”
Margot’s throat tightened unexpectedly. “I don’t white-knuckle.”
“Everyone does,” Eliza said. “The smart ones admit it.”
She walked away, phone already in hand, heel clicks fading.
Margot stared at her screen.
Media.
Questions.
NexTelis.
Her father’s company name, black and white on that cold list.
She opened her notebook and wrote, in a neat, controlled hand:
> **To Do:** > > – Map potential external narratives > – Build talking points that acknowledge harm without centering Hale as savior > – Don’t throw up in coach’s office
She stared at the last line, then added, in smaller script:
> – Don’t let him make you forget why you’re here
She capped her pen.
Behind her, glass clicked.
Declan’s office turned clear.
She didn’t look right away.
She could feel him, though. The weight of his attention. The question in it.
She took a sip of her coffee. It was perfect. Of course it was.
Then she turned.
He was standing, jacket off, sleeves rolled. A faint furrow between his brows.
“Status?” he asked.
She stood automatically, already in motion. “You’re on track. Ten minutes until the NexTelis diligence call. I’ve moved your one-on-one with HR to later—I need more time to prep you before they start using words like ‘optics’ and ‘employee sentiment.’”
He made a face. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said. “Also, Eliza wants us both in media training on Friday.”
His expression shuttered. “No.”
She crossed her arms. “Yes.”
“I don’t have time for someone to tell me how to be fake on camera,” he said sharply.
“Then don’t be fake,” she said. “Be *prepared*.”
“I hate that shit,” he said, the edge in his voice sharper than she’d heard it yet. “’Bridge to key message.’ ‘Answer the question you wish they’d asked.’ It’s manipulative.”
“So is editing your own thoughts before they come out of your mouth,” she said. “Which you do. Daily.”
His eyes flashed. “That’s different.”
“How?” she pressed.
“Because that’s *me* choosing what to say,” he said. “Not some media consultant telling me to smile more while I talk about layoffs.”
She stepped closer, irritation sparking. “You think I like media coaching? I’ve sat through hours of men named Brad teaching my bosses how to ‘soften’ their language while they gutted departments. But this isn’t about spin, Declan. It’s about making sure that when someone with a microphone tries to make you the villain *or* the hero, you don’t accidentally help them.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
“You hate NexTelis,” she said, low. “Good. Use that. But if you go out there full-bore ‘NexTelis was evil, we’re here to fix them,’ you erase the people they hurt. You turn their pain into your origin story. And you sound like every other man who thinks he’s going to save the world.”
The room crackled.
His jaw clenched. His eyes went very, very still.
“Is that how you see me?” he asked, voice soft and dangerous. “As another man who thinks he’s going to save the world?”
She held his gaze. “I see you as a man with more power than most who doesn’t always think about how it lands. Media training won’t fix that. But it might keep you from stepping on landmines you can’t see.”
He stared at her.
The urge to look away rose, fierce.
She didn’t.
Finally, he said, through his teeth, “You’re very… sure of yourself.”
“You keep saying that like it’s an insult,” she shot back.
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s… alarming.”
“Get used to it,” she said. “Friday. Two p.m. And before you start, I’ll be in the room. You can glare at me if it makes you feel better.”
He exhaled, the sharpness bleeding out. “Fine. An hour. No more.”
“Fifty minutes,” she countered. “Dr. Kline will be proud.”
A reluctant spark of amusement flickered in his eyes. “You’re going to bring her up every time I resist something, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said. “Think of me as your externalized conscience, but with better shoes.”
His gaze dropped, just for a second, to her heels. Then up, slowly, over her calves, the line of her dress, to her mouth.
Heat prickled up her skin.
He didn’t seem aware he’d done it.
Or he did, and… didn’t mind.
Danger, she thought.
Fault lines.
“Ten minutes to the call,” she said, voice steady. “Want a quick brief?”
“Yes,” he said. “Walk with me.”
He didn’t wait to see if she followed, just turned toward the war room.
She did.
Their strides matched unconsciously.
People moved for him in the hallway. Parts of that were power, title, fear. Parts were just… physics. He took up space, even when he tried not to.
He took up space in her head too.
She hated that.
As they walked, she outlined the key points: NexTelis’s internal resistance pockets, the likely pushback from their general counsel, the rumor she’d picked up from a junior analyst about a quiet courtship from Helix.
“How do you know that?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“Because I listen to people who don’t have titles,” she said. “They see and hear things their bosses don’t.”
“You trust… gossip,” he said.
“I trust patterns,” she said. “Three different junior folks used the word ‘coffee’ in the last twenty-four hours when talking about Helix and NexTelis. That’s not literal. That’s code for ‘informal talks.’”
He looked at her with something like admiration. “You would have been a terrifying intelligence officer.”
“I considered it,” she said. “But the pay was better in capitalism.”
They reached the war room.
He paused with his hand on the door.
“Margot.”
She looked up.
“Don’t stop… arguing with me,” he said.
Her heart skipped.
“I wasn’t planning to,” she said.
He nodded, once, like they’d sealed something, then pushed the door open and walked into the storm.
***
By Thursday night, her apartment felt less like a refuge and more like a foreign country.
She dropped her bag, toed off her heels, and leaned her forehead briefly against the cool metal of her fridge.
Her phone buzzed.
She considered ignoring it.
Then she saw the name.
MOM.
She sighed and answered. “Hi, Ma.”
“You sound tired,” her mother said immediately. “Are they working you like a mule?”
“Define ‘mule,’” Margot said, making her way to the couch.
“Long hours,” her mother said. “No gratitude. Bad lunch options.”
“Check, check, and they have very nice lunch options,” Margot said. “You’d like the salad bar. Lots of pickled things.”
“Pickled is not salad,” her mother said. “How is new boss? He nice?”
Margot hesitated.
How to explain Declan to a woman whose entire reference set for bosses was small-business owners and the occasional government bureaucrat?
“He’s…” She searched for something safe. “Smart. Intense. He listens.”
Her mother made a doubtful sound. “Rich men don’t listen. They are like toddlers. Everything must be ‘now, now, now.’”
Margot laughed despite herself. “Some are. He’s… different.”
“Different how?” her mother pressed.
“He doesn’t waste words,” Margot said. “Or time. He hates bullshit. He tells the truth even when it’s uncomfortable.”
“That is dangerous man,” her mother said immediately.
Margot blinked. “Why?”
“Because he will look at you and say something honest and you will think, *ah, he is special,*” her mother said. “But honest is not same as good.”
Margot went very still.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Her mother sniffed. “Your father was honest. Look where that got him.”
“That’s not—” Margot began, then stopped.
Was it wrong?
Her father had been honest. Straightforward to a fault. He’d trusted contracts to mean what they said, handshake deals to be honored, big companies to respect small ones that did good work.
NexTelis had disabused him of that.
“Your father believed too much in systems,” her mother went on. “He thought if he did everything right, the world would be fair. The world is not fair. Rich men make sure of that.”
Heat flared in Margot’s chest. “Ma, that’s not—”
“Don’t argue with me,” her mother snapped. “I lived it. You were at school. You didn’t see the men who came to the house. The ones from the bank. The ones with the nice shoes. They talk very soft, very kind, but underneath… cobra. They say, ‘We’re sorry, Mr. Chen, this is just business,’ and they take everything. Don’t you tell me about rich men.”
Margot swallowed hard.
“I’m not defending them,” she said, more gently. “I’m just… trying to do my job.”
“You always try to do job,” her mother said, tone softening. “You always work so hard. I worry.”
“I’m fine,” Margot lied.
“Eat,” her mother said. “Sleep. Don’t let them use you up and then throw away like napkin.”
“I won’t,” Margot said.
“You say that,” her mother muttered. “You’re like your father. Once you decide to do something, even if building is on fire, you say, ‘No, no, I must finish this email.’”
Margot snorted. “That is *not* a direct quote.”
Her mother huffed. “Come Sunday.”
“I always do,” Margot said.
“Bring cake,” her mother said. “And maybe… bring your boss.”
Margot nearly dropped the phone. “What?”
“What?” her mother said innocently. “If he is such good listener, let me see him. I will talk. He will listen. Maybe he will give your father job.”
Margot pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ma, no.”
“Why no?” her mother demanded. “You say he is rich. He buys company. Maybe he needs parts. Your father very good with parts. He can—”
“Ma,” Margot said sharply.
Silence crackled.
When her mother spoke again, her voice was smaller. “You’re ashamed of us?”
The words landed like a slap.
“No,” Margot said immediately. “Absolutely not. Don’t ever say that.”
“Then why you never bring anyone?” her mother pressed. “Friends, bosses, boyfriends…”
“You know why,” Margot said quietly. “Because every time I bring someone, you ask them why they don’t eat more and when they’re getting married.”
“That is normal,” her mother said. “We are Chinese, we feed and we ask.”
“I have a very complicated, very high-stakes job right now,” Margot said, keeping her voice even. “I can’t bring my boss to dinner like he’s my date. That’s… weird.”
A pause.
“He handsome?” her mother pounced.
Margot pressed her free hand to her eyes. “Oh my God.”
“He is, isn’t he?” her mother said triumphantly. “You always say my instincts are wrong, but I know. Rich and handsome and intense and honest. Very dangerous. Do not sleep with him.”
“I’m not—” Margot spluttered. “Ma!”
“I mean it,” her mother said sternly. “Rich men are like dessert. Maybe you taste, but you do not make meal from them.”
“That is *not* how metaphors work,” Margot said weakly.
“Don’t be smart with me,” her mother snapped, though there was affection in it. “You think I don’t know? I was young once. Men like that… they look at you like you are puzzle and they want to solve. Feels very flattering. Then when puzzle is solved, they get bored and find new one.”
Her heart thudded.
“He’s my boss,” Margot said. “There is no puzzle. There is a calendar.”
“You say that,” her mother muttered. “Just remember who you are. You are not his toy. You are not his project. You are my daughter.”
Emotion rose sharp in her throat.
“I know,” she whispered.
“Good,” her mother said briskly, like they hadn’t just cracked her chest open. “Bring mango cake Sunday. Don’t work too late.”
She hung up.
Margot stared at the dark screen, fingers numb.
She thought of telling her about NexTelis. About the deal.
The words curdled on her tongue.
Not yet.
She set the phone down carefully, like it might explode.
Then she went to her tiny kitchen and poured a glass of wine she probably shouldn’t drink on a weeknight.
She took a long swallow and let her mother’s words echo.
*Honest is not same as good.*
*Men like that… they look at you like you are puzzle and they want to solve.*
Declan *did* look at her that way.
Sometimes.
Like he was cataloguing, parsing, figuring out how she worked.
She did the same to him.
It was… mutual.
She’d told herself that made it safe.
Her mother’s voice, in her head, said: *No, foolish girl. It just makes it equal.*
She took another sip.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Her heart jumped.
She hated that it did.
She flipped it over.
Not him.
Raj.
*You alive?*
She typed back.
: *Define alive.*
> Pulse? Sarcasm? Ability to suppress urge to strangle Declan?
: *Two out of three. You?*
> Barely. Tomorrow’s going to be a shitshow. Wear flats.
She frowned.
: *Why?*
> NexTelis sending a delegation. In person.
Her stomach dropped.
> Their CEO, GC, and a couple of SVPs flying in. All-day dance. You’ll be in every room. Pack snacks.
Her thumbs hovered.
: *Got it. Thanks for the heads-up.*
She set the phone down.
NexTelis.
In this building.
Tomorrow.
She finished her wine.
Then she double-checked Declan’s schedule, added a fifteen-minute buffer between each NexTelis block, and set three alarms on her own phone.
She wouldn’t sleep well, she knew.
The ghosts were coming.
And she’d be the one opening the door.