The second day of the retreat was worse.
Not because of anything he did.
Because of what everyone *else* did.
The morning started with a session on “Emotional Intelligence in Leadership.”
A consultant with perfect hair and a soothing voice talked about empathy, active listening, and self-awareness.
Maya sat in the back, noting which executives took notes and which scrolled through their phones.
Marcus sat in the front row, arms crossed, jaw tight.
He wasn’t checking his email.
He was…listening.
At one point, the facilitator asked for volunteers to share a moment when they’d failed to show empathy as leaders.
Silence.
Then a few carefully curated stories trickled out. Humblebrags disguised as vulnerability.
“I once told my team we had to work a weekend, and I didn’t realize it was a holiday,” one VP said. “Now I check the calendar more carefully.”
Maya rolled her eyes.
Next.
Then, to her utter shock, Marcus raised his hand.
The room stilled.
The facilitator blinked. “Mr. Kane?”
“A few months ago,” Marcus said, voice even, “my assistant of seven years resigned.”
Maya’s spine snapped straight.
“I responded by offering her more money, more responsibility, and a dozen reasons to stay,” he continued. “I told her she was indispensable. That she was the only one I trusted with certain things. That I didn’t know how I’d function without her.”
The room watched him like he was a wild animal that had wandered onto a playground.
“I framed her leaving as a loss for me,” he said. “I didn’t ask what she was gaining. I didn’t really listen when she told me she was exhausted. That she wanted a family. That she’d given this job everything she had to give.”
He paused.
Maya’s throat tightened.
“It took me weeks to realize my…appeals were just…emotional pressure dressed up as appreciation,” he said. “I was making her choice about me. Not her. That’s not empathy. That’s…ego.”
Silence.
The facilitator nodded slowly. “What did you do?” they asked.
“I called her,” he said. “And apologized. For making it about me. For not hearing her when she said no.”
“And how did that feel?” the facilitator asked.
“Like pulling my own teeth,” he said dryly.
A ripple of laughter.
He didn’t smile.
“But it was necessary,” he added.
“Thank you for sharing that,” the facilitator said. “That was a very personal example.”
He inclined his head once.
Maya swallowed hard.
Veronica, seated two rows ahead, glanced back at her. Their eyes met.
Something like respect flickered in HR’s gaze.
During the break, people murmured about it in clusters.
“I didn’t know he could admit he was wrong,” someone from Finance whispered.
“I didn’t know he had…feelings,” someone from HR said.
Maya walked out into the courtyard, heart pounding.
She stood by a low wall, looking out at the ocean.
The sky was a perfect blue. The water glittered.
Footsteps approached behind her.
“You okay?” Jenna asked.
Maya startled. “Yeah. Just…processing.”
“His confession?” Jenna said.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?” Maya asked.
“What would you call it?” Jenna said.
“A case study in late-blooming empathy,” Maya said.
Jenna snorted. “That’s generous.”
“He’s trying,” Maya said quietly.
Jenna studied her.
“You like him,” she said. “As a person.”
“Yes,” Maya said. “Unfortunately.”
“It’d be easier if he were just an asshole,” Jenna said.
“So much easier,” Maya said.
They stood in silence for a moment.
“He cares what you think,” Jenna said eventually. “More than he should. More than anyone else’s opinion.”
Maya’s heart thudded. “You don’t know that.”
“I watch him,” Jenna said. “It’s my job. Yours too, in a different way. He calibrates around you. When you’re tense, he snaps less. When you’re calm, he pushes harder. When you call him out, he…listens. Eventually.”
“That’s just…proximity,” Maya said.
“It’s more,” Jenna said. “Be careful.”
“I am,” Maya said.
“Be *more*,” Jenna said. “Retreats are pressure cookers. People do stupid things in hotels.”
“I said no,” Maya blurted.
Jenna’s brow arched. “To what?”
“Nothing,” Maya said quickly.
Jenna held up a hand. “I don’t need details,” she said. “I just need you to remember that if he screws up, it’s on *him*, not you.”
“The power dynamic is real,” Maya said. “I know.”
“Good,” Jenna said. “And remember: if you ever want out of his orbit, I’ll hire you in PR in a heartbeat.”
Emotion pricked at Maya’s eyes again.
“Is this the part where everyone offers me an escape hatch?” she asked.
“Smart people see the cliff,” Jenna said. “They’ll always point out the exits.”
Maya nodded, throat thick.
She went back in for the afternoon sessions feeling like she’d been flayed.
The last workshop of the day was about “After Hours: Setting Boundaries for Sustainable Leadership.”
The irony was not lost on her.
The facilitator talked about burnout, about saying no, about delegating.
Then they broke into small groups to discuss “one boundary you want to set in the next six months.”
Maya ended up in a circle with three mid-level managers and, to her mild horror, Marcus.
He sat across from her, his lanyard askew, his expression a masterclass in polite detachment.
One manager talked about not checking email after nine.
Another talked about not taking work calls on vacation.
It was Marcus’s turn.
He looked at the facilitator’s worksheet, then up.
“I need to stop using work as an excuse to avoid…everything else,” he said simply.
The group went quiet.
“That’s very self-aware,” the facilitator said, a little too eagerly. “Can you be more specific?”
He hesitated.
Maya held her breath.
“I tell myself that my schedule makes it impossible to have a life,” he said slowly. “Friends. Relationships. Hobbies. It’s true to a point. But it’s also…convenient. If I’m always too busy, I never have to risk letting anyone in. Or making space for…complications.”
His gaze flicked to her. Briefly. Sharply.
Her chest squeezed.
“What would setting a boundary there look like?” the facilitator asked.
He thought.
“Not using my title as a shield,” he said. “Not hiring people whose lives I can…consume.”
Her breath stuttered.
“Making room for things that don’t directly benefit the company,” he added. “Even when it feels…wasteful.”
“Like…?” the facilitator prompted.
He looked right at her then.
“Sleep,” he said. “Family. Other human beings.”
The group chuckled.
Maya didn’t.
She felt like he’d reached across the circle and put his hand on her throat.
After the session, she fled to her room.
Closed the door. Pressed her back against it.
She didn’t want to cry.
She did anyway.
Quiet, angry tears that had nowhere to go.
She wasn’t angry at him.
Not exactly.
She was angry at all of it.
At timing. At power. At the way the universe had decided the first man who’d really *seen* her in years should also be the one whose name was on her paychecks.
A soft knock jerked her back to herself.
She scrubbed at her face and opened the door a crack.
Marcus stood there, tie gone again, hair mussed by his hand.
“We need to talk,” he said.
She almost laughed. “Of course we do.”
He stepped in when she opened the door, closing it behind him.
They stood in the middle of her room, the bed a silent, glaring presence beside them.
He didn’t look at it.
“Today,” he said, “was…a lot.”
“No kidding,” she said.
“I shouldn’t have talked about Rachel,” he said. “In there. That was…unfair.”
“She doesn’t work for you anymore,” Maya said. “And you didn’t name her. It was…vulnerable. People ate it up.”
“I wasn’t thinking about people,” he said. “I was thinking about you. In the back. Listening.”
Her chest tightened. “Marcus…”
“You keep asking me to be better,” he said. “This is me trying. Fumbling. Failing. Trying again.”
“I’m not asking you to do it for me,” she said. “Do it for you.”
He shook his head. “That’s not how it works. We don’t improve in a vacuum. We do it because someone stands in front of us and says, ‘Be better or you don’t get to have me in your life.’”
She swallowed.
“That’s…manipulative,” she said weakly.
“It can be,” he said. “If the stakes are unfair. If the power is skewed. In our case…” He laughed once, bitter. “Skewed is an understatement.”
“You’re my boss,” she said. “You hold my future in your hands. That’s not…level.”
“On paper,” he said. “In practice? You hold something in yours that I don’t know how to quantify.”
Her heart pounded.
“Don’t say that,” she whispered.
“It’s true,” he said.
“Don’t put that on me,” she said. “I can’t carry your…redemption arc, Marcus. That’s not my job.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he said. “I’m telling you why this—” He gestured between them. “—feels impossible and inevitable at the same time.”
Silence.
He took a step closer.
“If I asked you,” he said, voice low, “to leave. To find another role. Somewhere that doesn’t report to me. Somewhere that makes this…less dangerous. What would you say?”
Her stomach dropped.
“You’re…asking me to quit?” she said.
“No,” he said quickly. “I’m asking if you’d *want* to. If the only thing keeping you here is money and obligation.”
She stared at him.
“Do you want me to leave?” she asked, voice very small.
“No,” he said, almost violently. “Christ, no. You’re…you’re the best thing that’s happened to this place in years.”
Her eyes burned.
“Then why are we talking about this?” she asked.
“Because every time I stand outside your door,” he said, voice rough, “I have to decide whether I care more about keeping you or having you. And I don’t trust myself to keep making the right call forever.”
The words hit her like a physical blow.
Keeping you.
Having you.
She closed her eyes for a second, then opened them.
“What if,” she said carefully, “we stop pretending those are two separate things.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What if the only way you *get* to have me,” she said, “in any capacity, is if you prove you can keep me without owning me.”
His brows drew together. “That sounds like a Zen koan.”
“It’s not that deep,” she said, a shaky laugh escaping. “I’m saying: I’m not going to leave this job for the *chance* that you might handle dating me like an adult. If you want me in your life beyond this desk, you have to earn that *here* first.”
“How?” he asked. “What does that look like?”
She thought of all the small things. The way he’d called Rachel. Taken Sunday off. Sent money to Miguel’s family. Shown up at the party.
“It looks like trust,” she said. “Like you not checking my phone records. Like you not testing me to see how far you can push. Like you not showing up at my door drunk at midnight because you had a bad day.”
He flinched.
“I wasn’t drunk,” he said. “Just…impaired.”
She gave him a look.
“Fine,” he conceded. “Fair.”
“It looks like you being able to handle me going on a date with someone else without tanking my career,” she added impulsively.
His face shuttered. “Is that something you’re…planning?”
She lifted her chin. “I thought about it.”
Silence.
He stepped even closer.
“If you do,” he said quietly, “I won’t sabotage it. I won’t punish you. I’ll sit in my very expensive chair and grind my teeth and let you live your life.”
Her breath hitched.
“That sounds…painful,” she whispered.
“It would be,” he said. “For me.”
“And for me,” she said. “If I went out with someone and spent the whole time thinking about you.”
His eyes darkened.
“This isn’t…normal,” he said.
“No,” she said. “It’s not.”
“What do you want, Maya?” he asked. “If you take away the job. The debt. Your mother. HR. What do you want?”
Her mouth went dry.
She could lie.
She didn’t.
“You,” she said. “I want you.”
The words hung there, scorching.
He closed his eyes briefly. Exhaled shakily.
“And yet,” he said, “we’re still here. Not…there.”
“Because wanting isn’t enough,” she said. “Not this time.”
He opened his eyes.
They were dark and aching.
“What if I said I was willing to wait,” he said. “However long it takes. For the power to balance. For you to trust that I won’t…wreck you.”
Her heart stuttered.
“You don’t wait for anything,” she whispered.
“I can learn,” he said.
“Marcus—” she started.
He stepped forward, closing the last inch between them.
Not touching. Just…crowding her space.
“I will not lie,” he said. “If you ever walk into my office and say ‘I quit,’ I will be on you before the ink is dry.”
Heat flared through her, sharp and immediate.
“I didn’t ask you to be subtle,” she managed.
“But until then,” he said, “I will do everything I can to make sure this job is a place you *want* to stay. Not a cage you can’t afford to leave.”
Her throat worked. “Why?”
“Because you deserve that,” he said simply. “With or without me.”
Tears stung her eyes.
“That’s…dangerously close to love, you know,” she said, half joking, half pleading.
He flinched.
“Don’t,” he said, voice raw.
She swallowed. “Okay.”
They stood there. Breathing. Not touching.
“We’re at a breaking point,” she said softly. “A fork. This doesn’t feel…sustainable.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t.”
“What do we do?” she asked.
He took a breath.
“We hold,” he said. “For now.”
“Until when?” she whispered.
“Until you decide,” he said.
She laughed once, helpless. “You keep putting it on me.”
“I have to,” he said. “I’ve taken too much from people without asking. This time, I won’t move unless you tell me to.”
“That’s not fair,” she said, tears spilling over now. “That’s not…kind. It makes me the villain no matter what I choose.”
“You’re not the villain,” he said. “You’re the one with something to lose.”
“So do you,” she said. “Your company. Your reputation.”
He shook his head. “I can rebuild those. I can’t rebuild you.”
She choked on a sob.
“Don’t say things like that,” she said. “It makes it harder to be rational.”
“I don’t want you rational,” he said. “I want you…safe. And happy. And if those don’t include me, I’ll live. Badly. But I’ll live.”
Her heart broke.
“Leave,” she whispered.
He flinched. “Maya—”
“Not the job,” she said quickly, wiping her cheeks. “Just…this room. Tonight. I can’t…think when you’re this close.”
He stared at her for a long, searing moment.
Then, very slowly, he nodded.
“As you wish,” he said quietly.
He turned and walked to the door.
Hand on the handle, he paused.
Without looking back, he said, “For what it’s worth…I’ve never waited for anything in my life. Until you.”
The door clicked open.
He stepped out.
It clicked shut.
She sank onto the edge of the bed, sobbing in earnest now.
Not because he’d said the kind of thing she’d once fantasized about hearing.
Because he had.
And they still couldn’t have each other.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
She cried until she was empty.
Then, as the retreat’s noises faded beyond her walls, she wiped her face, blew her nose, and opened her laptop.
If she couldn’t fix her heart, she could at least fix his calendar.
Because tomorrow, at 9 a.m., he had a breakfast with the board chair.
And she’d be damned if she let him show up looking like the world had cracked.
If anyone was going to see the fault lines in him, it was going to be her.
And maybe, someday, when the cement had hardened and the lines were no longer guesswork but truth, they’d both be able to step over them without falling.
But that was a choice for another day.
For tonight, they held.
Barely.
Together and apart.
On the edge.
***