April slipped into May like a knife into warm butter—easy on the surface, messy underneath.
Her mother’s radiation schedule settled into a rhythm. Three days a week, fifteen minutes under the machine, a slow accumulation of fatigue that left Patricia napping in the afternoons and pretending she wasn’t.
“I’m just resting my eyes,” she’d say when Maya called.
“You’re horizontal,” Maya would reply.
“I can rest however I like,” her mother would huff.
At work, the Portvale lawsuit gained teeth.
“They want discovery on Arcturus,” Jenna said in a strained voice one morning, dropping a folder on Maya’s desk. “Everything. Emails. Slack. Voicemails. The works.”
“Can they do that?” Maya asked.
“They can request,” Jenna said. “We can fight. But some of it will get through. We don’t have anything to hide, but that doesn’t mean they won’t spin it like we do.”
“Of course,” Maya said. “Can’t have a corporate drama without conveniently leaked emails.”
“Speaking of which,” Jenna said, lowering her voice, “be careful what you put in writing. About anything. To anyone. Assume the SEC, the DOJ, and your mother are all reading it.”
“My mother already judges my emoji usage,” Maya said. “She thinks 🙂 is insincere.”
“Your mother is emotionally literate,” Jenna said. “Regulators are not. They’ll take a joke text about ‘murdering a spreadsheet’ and turn it into a headline.”
Maya thought briefly of her messages with Marcus.
They didn’t flirt on email. Not exactly.
But there were…tones. Jokes. A shorthand that implied more history than strictly professional.
She’d archived some of the more dangerous threads.
Now she considered deleting them.
Then she stopped.
She was not going to live like everything she said could be weaponized.
Even if, technically, it could.
Instead, she adjusted.
Less snark. Fewer adjectives. More bullet points.
If she needed to say something that felt…too human, she said it in person.
Marcus adapted too.
“Call,” he’d write instead of typing out a nuanced paragraph.
She’d hit dial and say, “What fresh hell?”
And he’d laugh, low and brief, and they’d launch into whatever crisis needed them.
“I feel like we’re in the Mafia,” she said one afternoon. “Never put anything sensitive in writing.”
“We’re not hiding bodies,” he said.
“Only feelings,” she said.
He glanced up. Their eyes met.
“Those are harder to subpoena,” he said.
“Tell that to my therapist,” she muttered.
He hummed.
***
One Thursday, she was on the phone with her mother, half-listening to a story about a church lady’s casserole disaster, when Marcus’s office door opened.
He stepped out, rolled shoulders, eyes scanning for her like they always did.
She held up a finger—*one sec*—and turned slightly away.
“…and then Mrs. Alvarez tried to put kale in the macaroni,” her mother was saying, scandalized. “Kale, Maya.”
“Tragic,” Maya said. “Has anyone called FEMA?”
“Don’t joke,” Patricia said. “This is serious.”
Maya smiled, heart warm and aching.
“I’ll come down Saturday,” she said. “We’ll stage a carby intervention.”
“You don’t have to—” her mother started.
“I *want* to,” Maya said. “You’re allowed to let people show up, remember?”
Her mother grumbled, but she didn’t argue.
When Maya hung up, Marcus was still at her desk, leaning against the edge.
“You didn’t tap your watch,” she said. “I’m impressed.”
“I’m not a monster,” he said. “How is she?”
“Still naming things,” Maya said. “This week it’s vegetables. Radiation is Florence. The tumor’s cousin is Gary Junior.”
He smiled faintly. “Good.”
“Good?” she repeated.
“Talking that much about it means she’s not trying to pretend it’s not happening,” he said. “My father never named his surgery. He called it ‘that thing.’ As if vague nouns had less impact.”
“Your father’s a coward about some things,” she said bluntly.
His gaze flicked to her. There was no anger. Just…acceptance.
“Yes,” he said. “He is.”
He tapped the folder in his hand. “We have an activist investor on the line.”
Her stomach dipped. “Define ‘activist.’”
“The kind who buys just under ten percent and starts writing letters,” he said. “He wants a seat on the board. Shorter timelines on Arcturus returns. A review of my compensation.”
She snorted. “I’d pay to sit in on that meeting.”
“You’ll have a front-row seat whether you pay or not,” he said. “He’s flying in Monday. Dinner. Board chair. Oliver. Veronica. You.”
“Me?” she said.
“I need someone there who will tell me if I’m about to say something that will end up in Bloomberg,” he said.
“I can do that from a secure earpiece,” she said. “Or from under the table, tapping your foot.”
He smirked. “I need you in the room.”
She swallowed.
“Okay,” she said. “Where?”
“The Harbor Club,” he said. “Seven.”
She made a face. “Fancy.”
“Pretentious,” he corrected. “But the investor likes to feel important.”
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Nicholas Hart,” he said. “Calls himself ‘Nick’ but signs all his letters with full regalia.”
She jotted notes.
“Nicholas Hart,” she said. “What do I need to know?”
“He’s young,” Marcus said. “Forty. Thinks he’s reinvented capitalism. Started the fund ten years ago. Got lucky with two early bets. Now he thinks he’s invincible.”
“Great,” she said. “So, you with more ego and less experience.”
His mouth twitched. “Careful.”
“What?” she said. “You said self-awareness was your new thing.”
He exhaled. “He’s dangerous because he thinks he’s the protagonist in every room. He’s not wrong, usually. People want to be on his good side.”
“And you don’t?” she asked.
“I don’t want to be on anyone’s ‘side,’” he said. “I want to run my company without a manchild with a Bloomberg terminal telling me how to deploy capital.”
“You’re going to be very popular at this dinner,” she said dryly.
“That’s your job,” he said. “Make me palatable.”
“You’re asking a lot,” she said.
“I always do,” he said.
Her heart did its stupid little skip.
She added to her list.
MONDAY – HARBOR CLUB – NICHOLAS HART.
Sub-bullet: “Don’t let Marcus stab him with a butter knife.”
***
Monday came too quickly.
The Harbor Club sat on the 72nd floor of an old bank building downtown. All dark wood and hushed carpets and views that made even jaded billionaires pause.
Maya stood in front of her mirror at home, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her dress.
Black. Simple. Sleeves to the elbow. A neckline that was professional but did not make her feel like she was wearing a clerical collar.
She hesitated over lipstick.
Jenna’s voice echoed in her head: *No red at the signing.*
This wasn’t a signing.
It was war.
She reached for a deep berry instead. Not flashy. Not demure.
Her phone buzzed.
Kai: *Kill him. With your eyes. Not literally. HR would object.*
Maya: *Which “him”? There are so many deserving men tonight.*
Kai: *Fair. Deep breaths. You’ve got this.*
She took one. Then another.
At six-thirty, a car service picked her up in front of the tower.
“Harbor Club,” she told the driver.
“Yes, Ms. Brooks,” he said, already knowing.
Of course.
At six-fifty, she stepped off the private elevator onto plush carpet.
Marcus was already there.
Of course.
He wore navy again. The same almost-black suit that had made her forget her own name the day of the Arcturus signing. White shirt. No tie yet; it hung loose around his collar, his fingers halfway through the knot.
He turned at the sound of the elevator.
For a second, his eyes went still.
Then they flicked over her in that quick, assessing pass.
“On time,” he said.
“You say that like you’re surprised,” she said.
“I’m never surprised by your punctuality,” he said. “Only by your…presentation.”
She raised a brow. “Presentation?”
“You look…” He searched for a word. “…competent.”
She laughed. “Careful. Too much flattery and I’ll get a big head.”
“Don’t,” he said. “It’s already big enough.”
“You’re one to talk,” she said.
His mouth tugged.
Oliver approached, tie already knotted, giving them both a once-over.
“We look like we’re about to eat this man,” Oliver observed.
“That’s the idea,” Marcus said.
Veronica arrived next, in a dark green sheath that made her look like she’d stepped out of a legal drama.
“Everyone behave,” she said. “Please. For my stress levels.”
“Define ‘behave,’” Marcus said.
“No yelling. No threats. No promises you can’t keep,” she said. “And for the love of OSHA, no mention of firing people to ‘fix the culture.’”
Maya snorted. “Who said that?”
“A CEO I worked with ten years ago,” Veronica said. “He was gone in eighteen months. The quote lives on in three depositions.”
“Charming,” Maya said.
At seven-oh-five, Nicholas Hart arrived.
He was…younger than she expected.
Forty, yes, but he wore it like thirty-three. Slim suit, no tie, shirt open at the throat. Tan that said “charter plane” rather than “golf course.” Dark hair cut just long enough to look deliberate. A jaw that had probably gotten him out of more than one ethics inquiry.
He smiled as he approached. It was bright. Sharp.
“Marcus,” he said, extending a hand. “Thanks for making the time.”
“Nicholas,” Marcus said, shaking firmly. “You’re late.”
Hart laughed, unbothered. “Fashionably. I had to walk slow so the peasants could stare.”
Maya’s internal eye-roll was so hard she almost sprained something.
“This is Oliver Chen, our CFO,” Marcus said. “Veronica Lopez, HR. And Maya Brooks, my assistant.”
“Maya,” Hart repeated, eyes flicking over her with a delaying interest he’d probably sworn in some HR training he didn’t feel. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” she said politely, resisting the urge to wipe her hand on her dress after he shook it.
If his grip lingered a second too long, that was probably her imagination.
Probably.
They moved to the table.
Maya took a seat slightly behind and to the side of Marcus, where she could see faces and body language without being directly in the line of fire.
Menus appeared. Drinks were ordered.
Hart wasted no time.
“I like what you’ve done with Arcturus,” he said, turning his wineglass by the stem. “Bold. Aggressive. Classic Kane move.”
“Thank you,” Marcus said, voice cool. “I didn’t realize you were a fan of my early work.”
Hart chuckled. “I’ve followed you since Kanetech. The ‘Kane playbook’ is a case study now.”
“Is that what you call it when you try to copy me?” Marcus asked mildly.
Veronica shot Maya a look that said, *Here we go.*
Hart smiled like a man indulging a child.
“I don’t copy,” he said. “I iterate.”
“Of course,” Marcus said.
“You know why I bought in, right?” Hart asked, leaning back.
“You saw opportunity,” Marcus said.
“I saw potential,” Hart corrected. “Untapped. You’re sitting on a gold mine and playing it like a bonds fund.”
Oliver shifted. “Our returns—”
“Are solid,” Hart cut in. “Respectable. Safe. But safe is boring, Marcus. You didn’t build this thing on safe.”
“Shareholders like safe,” Veronica interjected smoothly. “They also like not being hauled in front of Congress.”
Hart waved a hand. “Please. I’ve testified. It’s theater. You make a speech about jobs and grandma’s pension and everyone forgets you stripped a third of the workforce last quarter.”
Maya’s stomach turned.
Hart’s eyes flicked to her, catching the micro-expression.
“And you are?” he asked, though he’d already been told.
“Someone who likes grandma’s pension,” she said evenly.
He laughed. “You’ve got fire, I’ll give you that.”
“Can we get to the part where you tell me what you want?” Marcus said, cutting through the banter.
Hart’s smile thinned.
“Board seat,” he said. “Visibility into strategy. Influence over capital allocation.”
“In exchange for…?” Marcus asked.
“My support,” Hart said. “On Arcturus timelines. On Tacoma. On whatever Portvale throws at you next month.”
“You think I need your support,” Marcus said.
“You *will,*” Hart said. “The street is fickle, Marcus. Today you’re a genius. Tomorrow, one bad quarter and they’re writing your obituary.”
“They’ve been writing my obituary since I was twenty-eight,” Marcus said. “I’m still here.”
Hart leaned forward.
“You’re not invincible,” he said. “None of us are. You know that better than most. I’m offering you capital and cover. Access to deals you can’t see from where you sit.”
“Because you’re taller?” Maya muttered under her breath.
Marcus’s hand twitched, the ghost of a snort.
Hart’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”
“I said the bread smells good,” she said smoothly, gesturing to the basket the server had just placed down.
Hart gave her a look that said *I know you didn’t,* but he let it go.
“Let me be blunt,” he said, turning back to Marcus. “You’re too cautious. Arcturus is a once-in-a-decade asset. You should be leveraging it harder. Spinning off pieces. Taking on more debt at these rates. Instead you’re playing nice with unions and spending time on…optics.”
“Optics keep ships running,” Marcus said. “People don’t work well when they’re terrified.”
“They work *harder*,” Hart said. “Fear is an excellent motivator.”
Maya felt her jaw clench.
She thought of Miguel on the crane. Of his wife in the ER.
“Fear also leads to lawsuits,” Oliver said mildly.
Hart waved that away. “Cost of doing business.”
“You’re not the one on the dock at three in the morning in a storm,” Maya said before she could stop herself.
Hart’s brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“You talk about ‘cost of doing business’ like it’s theoretical,” she said. “Line item. Sunk cost. For the people under the cranes, it’s…literal. Bone. Blood.”
“Maya,” Veronica said quietly, warning in her tone.
Hart’s gaze slid over her again, this time with more calculation.
“You must be very good at your job,” he said. “If Marcus lets you speak to me like that.”
“I am,” she said. “And he does.”
Marcus said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
Hart’s attention swung back to him.
“She’s cute,” he said offhandedly. “You always did surround yourself with interesting ornaments.”
The air went sharp.
Maya felt the blood drain from her face.
Veronica stiffened.
Oliver’s hand tightened on his napkin.
Marcus’s eyes went…flat.
“Choose your next words very carefully,” he said, voice soft as a threat.
Hart blinked. “Excuse me?”
“She’s not an ornament,” Marcus said, that same dangerous quiet. “She’s the reason I’m not in three separate regulatory hearings and a fistfight with the Tacoma port authority right now.”
Hart chuckled, unbothered. “You’re attached. How…novel.”
“This isn’t about attachment,” Marcus said. “It’s about respect.”
“Respect is a luxury,” Hart said. “We’re talking about billions. You can’t get sentimental, Marcus. Not about staff. Not about assets. Not about old shipping families with quaint ideas about loyalty.”
Maya saw something in Marcus’s expression harden.
Not the mask he wore in negotiations. Something older. Deeper.
“You think I don’t know the cost of sentiment,” he said quietly. “You think I haven’t cut where I needed to?”
Hart shrugged. “Not enough. Not fast enough. You could be three times this size by now if you’d stopped worrying about being the ‘good’ raider.”
“Good and raider don’t belong in the same sentence,” Veronica muttered.
Hart ignored her.
“You’re not here because you like me,” Marcus said. “You’re here because you see upside. Because you want to hitch your fund’s brand to my record. So let me be clear, Nicholas. You do not get to tell me to treat people like line items in exchange for a board seat. That’s not on the table.”
Hart’s smile went thin and cold.
“You think you can fight me,” he said. “In the press. In the market. In the boardroom.”
“I don’t,” Marcus said. “I know.”
The server arrived then with salads, oblivious to the tension tightening around the table.
“More wine?” he asked cheerfully.
“Yes,” Jenna would have said.
No one answered.
Hart picked up his fork slowly.
“Consider my letter a courtesy,” he said. “The next one won’t be so polite.”
“Your last one wasn’t,” Oliver said dryly.
Hart smiled. “Then you know what I’m capable of.”
Marcus’s voice was ice. “So do you.”
Later, as dessert sat largely untouched and Hart finally took his leave with a too-bright, “Let’s do this again,” Maya felt wrung out.
As soon as the investor disappeared into the elevator, Veronica let out a breath.
“I need a drink,” she said.
“You just had two,” Oliver pointed out.
“I need *better* ones,” she said.
Maya turned to Marcus.
He was staring at the closed elevator doors, jaw tight.
“Hey,” she said quietly. “You didn’t stab him. I’m proud.”
His lips twitched.
“I thought about it,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
His gaze shifted to her.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” she asked.
“For…that,” he said. “Pushing back. Reminding him that ‘cost of doing business’ has a face.”
She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Couldn’t help it. My mouth has a mind of its own.”
“I know,” he said softly.
There was a warmth in his eyes now that wasn’t there during the meeting.
Dangerous. Tender.
Too much.
She stepped back, breaking the current.
“We should go,” she said. “Tomorrow’s fires won’t put themselves out.”
Oliver muttered something about “back to the salt mines.”
Veronica was already on her phone, no doubt emailing HR about new anti-harassment talking points.
In the elevator down, it was just the two of them.
They stood side by side, backs to the mirrored wall.
He smelled like expensive whiskey and maybe a little adrenaline.
“You okay?” she asked, echoing his question from a hundred crises before.
He huffed. “Define ‘okay.’”
“On a scale from ‘mild annoyance’ to ‘I will dismantle this man’s fund just to prove a point,’” she said.
“Somewhere between,” he said. “He’s…not wrong about everything. We *could* move faster on some things. But he’s wrong about enough that I don’t trust him near the levers.”
“Then don’t let him touch them,” she said simply.
“You think it’s that easy?” he asked.
“I think nothing about this is easy,” she said. “But you’ve built this thing. You know where the off switches are. Use them. Don’t let him sell your soul for a ten-percent bump in returns.”
He looked at her.
“You know what this reminds me of?” he asked.
“What?” she said.
“You and your nonprofit CEO,” he said. “The one who thought dating the receptionist was an operations strategy.”
She blinked. “That’s a deep cut.”
“You told me that story in your interview,” he said. “About walking when he chose ego over sense.”
“Yeah,” she said. “What’s your point?”
“My point is,” he said, “I hired you because you do not suffer fools. Even when the fool is me.”
Heat crawled up her neck.
“You’re not a fool,” she said.
“Not tonight,” he said. “Because you were there.”
The elevator slowed.
Her pulse picked up.
“Marcus,” she said, before she could lose her nerve. “About what he said. About me. ‘Ornament.’”
His jaw clenched. “He’s—”
“I know what he is,” she cut in. “I just…I want you to know I don’t need you to fight that battle for me.”
He stared at her. “He insulted you.”
“He diminished me,” she said. “I’ve been diminished before. I fought my way out. I appreciate the instinct, but…I don’t want to become some symbol of your…growth. Or your chivalry.”
The elevator doors opened into the lobby.
He didn’t move.
Neither did she.
“Maya,” he said quietly. “You are not a symbol. You’re the most…real…thing in my life.”
Her heart lurched.
“Don’t say things like that,” she whispered.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I’m trying very hard not to fall in love with you,” she said, too tired and too raw to yank the words back.
Silence.
For a heartbeat, her entire world narrowed to that sentence hanging between them like a live wire.
She saw the exact moment it hit him.
The way his breath hitched. The way his pupils flared.
“Maya,” he said, voice rough.
“No,” she said quickly, hands up. “Don’t…respond. Please. I can’t— I didn’t mean—I did, but—”
He stepped closer, closing the foot of space between them.
“Look at me,” he said.
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Look at me,” he repeated, softer but implacable.
She did.
His eyes were wide open.
No mask. No CEO. Just a man standing in a too-bright lobby with his heart in his throat.
“I am already there,” he said simply.
Heat flooded her face.
“No,” she whispered. “Don’t. We said—”
“I know what we said,” he cut in. “I know the line. I know the risk. I know you can’t afford to be reckless. But don’t ask me to lie about this. Not anymore.”
She swallowed hard.
“Marcus,” she said, everything in her wanting to step into him, to bury her face in his chest and forget every reason they’d drawn that line.
He reached up.
For a second, she thought—hoped—he might touch her face.
He didn’t.
He adjusted his tie.
Stepped back.
“Go home,” he said, voice once more controlled. “Sleep.”
Tears burned, stupid and hot.
“Is that an order?” she asked, trying for levity and failing.
“That’s me,” he said, “following your terms and conditions.”
The words hurt.
And healed.
And hurt again.
She nodded once.
“Goodnight, Marcus,” she said.
“Goodnight, Maya,” he replied.
She turned and walked toward the revolving doors.
Outside, the night air was cool against her flushed skin.
She stood on the sidewalk for a moment, letting the city noise wash over her.
She’d said it.
He’d said it.
Love.
Not in grand speeches. Not in declarations.
But in the small, sharp ways that mattered.
And nothing, she knew, would be the same after this.
Not the job.
Not the line.
Not her.
She didn’t know what came next.
She only knew they were both on a pressure test now.
To see what they were made of.
And whether they could hold without cracking.
***