Love, she discovered, did not make the printer jam less.
It didn’t make Legal less irritating. Or HR less paranoid. Or Portvale less litigious.
It didn’t make her mother’s radiation side effects disappear, or the way Patricia’s hands trembled slightly when she was tired.
It didn’t fix anything, really.
But it changed the way she saw everything.
Color bled in around the edges now.
She’d be hunched over a spreadsheet and remember the way Marcus had looked at her in that lobby—like she’d just told him the sky was blue and he’d never noticed.
She’d be on the phone with her mother, arguing about soup recipes, and think of how he’d cleared three days on his calendar without blinking.
Love didn’t make the world softer.
If anything, it made it sharper.
Because now there was more to lose.
***
“Your output is down,” Oliver observed one afternoon, sliding into the chair at her desk after Marcus had left for a lunch she’d reluctantly let him attend unsupervised.
“Is that your way of saying my hair looks bad?” she asked, squinting at her screen.
“It’s my way of saying you’ve taken three actual lunch breaks in the last week,” he said. “I’m concerned.”
“You’re tracking my nourishing habits?” she said, amused and unnerved.
“I’m tracking the health of the one person keeping the CEO from accidentally double-booking himself with Congress and a union on the same day,” he said. “It’s called risk management.”
She sighed and leaned back.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just…tired.”
“From?” he asked.
“Life,” she said. “My mom. The lawsuit. The activist. The fact that my student loan servicer keeps ‘losing’ my extra payments.”
“Anything else?” he asked pointedly.
She stared at him.
He stared back.
“You’re very nosy,” she said.
“I’m CFO,” he said. “It’s my job to notice…trends.”
“If this is about Owen,” she said, “we hit pause. Or stop. I don’t know. The metaphor is unclear.”
“I assumed,” he said. “He stopped loitering by your desk.”
Guilt pricked.
“You liked him,” she said.
“I liked that he wasn’t Marcus,” Oliver said bluntly.
Her mouth tightened. “Subtle.”
He softened. “I liked that he seemed to care about you,” he amended. “In a way that didn’t involve quarterly returns.”
“He did,” she said quietly. “Still does, probably. I just…don’t have the bandwidth. Or the…space.”
“Because of work,” Oliver said.
“And my mom,” she said. “And yes. Because of Marcus.”
Oliver sighed.
“On a scale from ‘mild infatuation’ to ‘doomed epic,’ where are we?” he asked.
She glared at him. “We?”
“You and him,” Oliver said. “The thing everyone pretends not to notice but secretly has a Slack channel about.”
Her jaw dropped. “There’s a Slack channel?”
“Metaphorically,” he said quickly. “Though…probably literally too. People get bored.”
She groaned. “Kill me.”
“Can’t,” he said. “You’re a key man risk.”
She dropped her head onto her desk with a thunk.
Oliver waited.
Finally, she mumbled into the wood, “Closer to doomed epic than mild infatuation.”
“I was afraid of that,” he said.
She lifted her head. “Is this where you tell me to run?”
“This is where I ask you if he *knows,*” Oliver said.
“Yes,” she said. “And before you ask, yes, he feels the same. No, we haven’t done anything about it. No, I don’t know how long that will last.”
Oliver’s expression shifted through a series of emotions—surprise (brief), resignation (lingering), and something like…respect.
“He told you,” Oliver said.
“I told him,” she corrected. “Kind of by accident. In a lobby. After an investor called me an ornament.”
Oliver winced. “Hart’s a prick.”
“Understatement,” she said.
“And Marcus…” Oliver prompted.
“Said he’s ‘already there,’” she said. “Which is not a sentence I was prepared to hear from his face.”
Oliver let out a breath. “Fuck.”
She blinked. “Succinct.”
“I’ve known that man twelve years,” Oliver said. “I’ve seen him ride out markets, lawsuits, two recessions, a coup attempt on the board. I have *never* seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.”
Heat crept up her neck. “Stop.”
“I’m not romanticizing,” Oliver said. “Trust me. I don’t want this. It’s a governance nightmare. HR is sharpening knives as we speak. But I also…can’t pretend I don’t see it.”
She fiddled with a pen. “What do I do, Oliver?”
He was quiet a long moment.
“First,” he said, “you breathe.”
She rolled her eyes, but complied.
“In,” he said. “Out.”
She did.
“Second,” he said, “you remember the line you drew. And why. Your mother. Your money. Your pride.”
“I know,” she said.
“Third,” he said, “you hold *him* to it. He is the one with more power. More to answer for. If he cracks and makes this harder for you, I will personally drag him into a governance committee hearing.”
Despite everything, a laugh bubbled up.
“I’d pay to see that,” she said.
“Me too,” he said.
She sobered. “And if…someday…the line isn’t as necessary?”
“Then you’ll cross it on *your* terms,” he said. “Not because he had a bad day or a good quarter.”
She nodded, throat tight.
“You’re worried,” she said. “About the company.”
“I’m worried about both of you,” he said honestly. “He is…not built for halfway. Neither are you. If this goes sideways, it will not be clean.”
“I know,” she said.
“But I also know this,” he added. “You’ve already made him better. Less reactive. More…thoughtful.”
“Dangerous praise,” she said weakly.
“Fact,” he said. “You don’t have to be his redemption story. But you’ve already nudged his trajectory. That’s…something.”
She swallowed. “Is it enough?”
“It has to be,” Oliver said. “Until you decide otherwise.”
She chewed her lip. “And if I decide leaving is the only way to keep myself…intact?”
“Then I’ll miss you,” he said. “And I’ll help you.”
Her eyes stung.
“You’re supposed to be on his side,” she whispered.
“I am,” Oliver said. “And on yours. That’s the curse of being the numbers guy. You can see both ledgers.”
She laughed watery. “You make a terrible therapist.”
“I try,” he said.
Marcus appeared in the doorway.
“Am I interrupting your financial counseling?” he asked.
“Always,” Oliver said. “We’ll send you the bill.”
Marcus’s gaze flicked between them.
Something in his posture relaxed a fraction.
He trusted Oliver.
He trusted her.
Those circles, once barely overlapping, had grown.
Dangerous. Comforting.
Both.
“We need to talk about Tacoma,” Marcus said.
“Of course we do,” Oliver said, standing. “Our favorite child.”
As they disappeared into Marcus’s office, Maya stared at her reflection in the darkened glass.
She looked like herself.
But more.
More tired. More aware. More…alive.
Too alive, maybe, for a job that thrived on numbness.
***
That Friday, just as she was about to leave for her mother’s, her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She almost let it go to voicemail.
Then she remembered the universe had a sense of humor and picked up.
“Hello?”
“Is this…Maya?” a tentative female voice asked.
“Yes?” she said. “Who’s this?”
“This is…uh…Rachel,” the voice said. “Your predecessor. The one with the garden.”
Maya’s stomach flipped.
“Oh,” she said. “Hi. Wow. Hi.”
“Marcus gave me your number,” Rachel said quickly. “I hope that’s okay. He said I should— I *asked* to talk to you, but he…facilitated.”
“It’s okay,” Maya said, legs suddenly wobbly. She sat down. “Is everything…?”
“Fine,” Rachel said. “Good. Garden’s alive. Husband’s annoying. We finally got a second line of beans to sprout, which I’m unreasonably proud of.”
“Beans are stubborn,” Maya said automatically.
“They are,” Rachel agreed. “Look, this is probably weird. I just…heard some things. Through the grapevine. About Portvale. About Hart. About…you.”
Maya’s heart sped. “Me?”
“You’re…on the radar,” Rachel said. “Which is both flattering and terrifying. People notice when someone in your seat lasts more than a quarter.”
“I’ve only been here a few months,” Maya said.
“That’s several eternities in Marcus-time,” Rachel said dryly. “You must be doing something right.”
“Or wrong,” Maya said. “Depending on who you ask.”
Rachel laughed. “He’s…different since I left,” she said. “Softer, in weird places. Sharper in others. You did that.”
“I don’t know if I—” Maya started.
“You did,” Rachel said. “He doesn’t…call me often. When he does, it’s because something genuinely shook him. Your mother’s surgery shook him. Hart shook him. You…shake him.”
Her throat closed. “That’s not…comforting.”
“It should be,” Rachel said gently. “Men like him don’t get shaken. They shake things. The fact that he’s letting himself feel anything is…huge.”
“I didn’t ask him to,” Maya said. “I told him not to make me his…project.”
“He won’t,” Rachel said. “He’s not that man anymore. But he will make you…central. If you let him.”
“That’s the part that scares me,” Maya breathed. “Being central to someone whose gravity is this strong.”
Rachel was quiet a beat.
“I burned myself out,” she said. “For seven years, my entire world was his calendar, his moods, his success. I don’t regret it. I learned a lot. We built something insane. But I also…lost pieces of myself. Hobbies. Friends. Time with my husband. You’re smarter than I was. You see it sooner.”
“Seeing it doesn’t make it easier to step back,” Maya said.
“No,” Rachel said. “But it gives you a chance to decide differently.”
Maya thought of her mother in the radiation room. Of Owen’s gentle frown. Of Oliver’s tired eyes.
Of Marcus in the lobby, saying he was already there.
“How did you know it was time to leave?” she asked.
“When the thought of staying scared me more than the thought of going,” Rachel said simply. “And when the life I wanted *outside* that office finally felt real enough to grab.”
“And now?” Maya asked. “Are you…happy?”
Rachel laughed, the sound warm. “Exhausted. Broke in new and exciting ways. Perpetually muddy. But yes. I am. Because I chose this. With eyes open.”
Maya swallowed.
“Do you think he can…do this?” she asked quietly. “Be who he is and not…eat me alive?”
Another pause.
“I think he’s trying,” Rachel said. “Really, genuinely trying. And I think if anyone can hold their own with him, it’s you. But you don’t have to. That’s the key. You get to walk away if it stops being…mutual.”
“Easy to say from Seattle,” Maya said with a shaky laugh.
“Hard to do,” Rachel agreed. “But possible.”
They talked a bit more. Logistics. War stories. Little tips Rachel wished someone had given her.
Before they hung up, Rachel said, “One more thing.”
“Yeah?” Maya asked.
“Don’t let fear be the only reason you say no,” Rachel said. “To him. To this. To anything. Fear is loud. It sounds responsible. But it’s just one data point.”
“And what should be the others?” Maya asked.
“Desire,” Rachel said. “Respect. Self-preservation. Joy. If you can find a way to balance those…you’ll know what to do.”
Maya’s eyes stung. Again.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Anytime,” Rachel said. “And Maya?”
“Yeah?”
“If you ever need the Marcus Support Group, we still meet on Thursdays,” she said. “Virtually. Wine encouraged.”
Maya laughed.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said.
When she hung up, the apartment felt…different.
The future did too.
Not less scary.
But more…open.
Like there were more than two options: stay and drown, or leave and starve.
Maybe there was a third.
Swim.
With very careful strokes.
For now, she packed an overnight bag for her mother’s, grabbed her keys, and headed out.
Love would wait.
Hospitals closed at nine.
Priorities.
***