June arrived with a heat wave and a shareholder meeting.
The heat wave was easier.
Everyone complained about the air-conditioning. Facilities handed out branded metal water bottles. Someone from HR sent an email reminding people that “shorts are not appropriate office attire even during times of elevated temperature.”
Ryan from comms came in wearing shorts anyway.
“Protest,” he said. “Unionizing for knees.”
The shareholder meeting was more fraught.
“You sure you want to be in the room?” Jenna asked, leaning on Maya’s desk as they both watched a steady trickle of older white men in expensive suits file into the auditorium.
“Is there going to be a fight?” Maya asked.
“Only if Hart brings his fan club,” Jenna said. “Or if the pension funds get testy about executive comp.”
“Executive comp,” Maya said. “You mean Marcus’s obscene paycheck.”
“Obscene is relative,” Jenna said. “His is tied to performance. If the stock tanks, he makes less. If it soars, they all make more. That’s how you sell it.”
“How do *you* feel about it?” Maya asked.
“Me?” Jenna said. “I think no one human needs that much money. I also think if he were paid half as much, he’d still work the same. But I don’t set market rates.”
“Yet,” Maya said.
“Give me time,” Jenna said.
They moved toward the auditorium.
Maya took her seat near the front, where she could see the stage, the crowd, and Marcus’s back.
He stood at the podium, light glinting off his watch, tie crisp in spite of the heat.
He looked…unflappable.
No one who didn’t know him would see the tension in his shoulders. The slight tightening at the corner of his mouth.
Veronica sat to one side of the stage. Oliver to the other. The board chair in the middle, smiling benignly.
Hart sat four rows back, center aisle, legs crossed, expression expectant.
As the meeting began—formalities, motions, a safe speech from the chair—Maya’s mind drifted.
She thought of all the tiny shifts that had happened in the last few months.
Marcus taking Sundays off—sometimes.
Her not answering work calls in the bathroom anymore.
Him apologizing, awkwardly and rarely.
Her saying no, more often, in bigger ways.
Her mother finishing radiation and ringing the little bell in the oncology wing, eyes bright and wet.
Owen moving to another team and occasionally sending memes without expectation.
Rachel in Seattle, sending photos of beans and cucumbers and a toddler’s tiny hand in dirt.
It all added up to something.
A pattern.
A direction.
Her phone buzzed in her lap.
She glanced down.
Her mother.
Mom: *You on TV?*
Maya: *No. Why?*
Mom: *Channel 7. Fancy shareholders. Man with your boss’s face.*
She smiled.
Maya: *Yes, that’s him. I’m in the third row. Can’t see me. Too small.*
Mom: *You’re never too small. Remember that.*
Her throat tightened.
On stage, Marcus was taking questions.
“…so our approach with Arcturus remains long-term,” he was saying. “We’re not interested in quick flips. We’re building an infrastructure that will be resilient across cycles.”
A man in a rumpled suit stood. “What about labor?” he asked. “You say you care about workers, but you’ve cut staff before. How do we know you won’t gut Arcturus when the market turns?”
A murmur rippled.
Marcus didn’t flinch.
“We make mistakes,” he said. “We correct them where we can. We cut when we have to. I’m not going to stand here and pretend we won’t make hard choices. But I will say this: we do not build profit on the backs of deliberate harm. We invest in safety. In training. In retention. Not because we’re saints. Because it’s good business. Turnover is expensive. Lawsuits are expensive. Dead workers don’t clock overtime.”
The bluntness made some people shift in their seats.
Hart smirked.
The man nodded, half-satisfied, half-still-skeptical.
Next question.
An older woman with white hair and a floral dress. “Mr. Kane,” she said. “My pension fund holds your stock. I’ve seen the articles calling you a raider. A shark. A ‘corporate sociopath.’ But I’ve also read about the cranes you upgraded and the safety investments you made. Who are you really? The headlines or the footnotes?”
The room was very still.
Maya held her breath.
Marcus looked at the woman.
“I’m not a sociopath,” he said dryly. Laughter, tentative.
“I am,” he continued, “a man who grew up watching his father work himself into the ground to build a company that other people profited more from than he did. I watched him make sacrifices—health, time, relationships—that I swore I’d never make. Then I became him. In ways I didn’t expect. Good and bad.”
Maya’s heart thudded.
He rarely talked about his past in public.
“I learned early that the system isn’t fair,” he said. “I also learned that if you have power inside it, you can choose how you use it. You’re right. The headlines say ‘raider.’ ‘Shark.’ Some of that is earned. I buy distressed assets. I cut when I have to. I move fast. I don’t apologize for making money. But what I *am* trying to do—imperfectly, slowly—is be the kind of capitalist who doesn’t leave a wasteland behind him.”
A murmur. The board chair shifted, perhaps worried about optics.
“I don’t always get it right,” Marcus said. “Ask my former assistants.”
Laughter. Genuine this time.
“But I listen,” he added. His eyes flicked, just once, toward her row. “I learn. I change. That may not be as sexy as raiding, but it’s what’s going to keep this company—and your pension—alive in twenty years.”
The woman nodded thoughtfully.
Applause broke out.
Not raucous.
But real.
Maya felt something in her chest expand.
Hart leaned forward, expression cooler now. Evaluating.
She realized, with a jolt, that this wasn’t just about this quarter or this lawsuit.
This was about who Marcus was choosing to be.
In front of everyone.
With her—themeetings, the lobbies, the suites—had been private.
This was public.
Riskier.
Braver.
After the meeting, the auditorium emptied slowly.
Analysts. Small shareholders. Retirees with questions about dividends.
Marcus disappeared backstage with the board.
Oliver went to talk to a group from a pension fund.
Jenna stood in a corner, fielding questions from a reporter off the record.
Maya lingered near the aisle, watching Hart.
He approached her.
Of course he did.
“Impressive show,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “You write that speech?”
“Bits,” she said. “He doesn’t let anyone write full sentences for him.”
“Pity,” Hart said. “You have flair.”
“Thanks,” she said flatly.
He studied her.
“Still with him,” he said. “I’m honestly surprised.”
“You thought I’d burn out,” she said.
“I thought he’d break you,” Hart corrected. “Or you’d smarten up and leave. Assistants don’t last this long in his orbit.”
“Maybe I’m built different,” she said.
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe you’re as addicted to the game as he is.”
She bristled. “You don’t know me.”
“I know types,” he said. “Ambitious. Sharp. Allergic to boredom. You don’t stick around a man like him because of the dental plan.”
Her jaw clenched. “Again. You don’t know me.”
He smiled, slow and assessing.
“You know this ends badly, right?” he said conversationally. “It always does, when the lines blur. He’ll choose the company. Or you will. Either way, someone bleeds.”
Anger flashed, hot and clean.
“Have you ever cared about anyone who wasn’t in your portfolio?” she asked.
He blinked, taken aback.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“You talk about people like positions,” she said. “Long. Short. Overweight. Underweight. Has it ever occurred to you that some of us are…more than that?”
His jaw tightened. “Don’t project your idealism on me, Ms. Brooks. I’m not here to save anyone. I’m here to maximize return.”
“At least you’re honest,” she said. “That’s something.”
He smirked. “Keep watching,” he said. “You’ll see whose version of capitalism wins.”
“I already know which one I can live with,” she said.
He walked away, shoulders easy, predator-smooth.
She watched him go, bile in her throat.
“At least we know he’ll never run for office,” Jenna said, materializing at her elbow.
“He’d lose on relatability,” Maya said.
“Or win on pure audacity,” Jenna said. “Hard to say nowadays.”
“Do you think he’s right?” Maya asked quietly. “About…this ending badly.”
Jenna considered.
“I think most things end badly if you zoom out far enough,” she said. “Jobs. Relationships. Nations. The question is what happens *before* that. And whether it’s worth it.”
Maya blew out a breath.
“Rachel called me,” she blurted.
Jenna’s brows rose. “The legend?”
“Yeah,” Maya said. “She…told me not to let fear be the only reason I say no.”
“Smart woman,” Jenna said.
“And if fear is the only thing keeping me from doing something incredibly stupid?” Maya asked.
“Then fear’s doing its job,” Jenna said. “For now.”
Maya let her head tip back, eyes closed.
“I’m so tired of thinking about this,” she whispered.
“That’s love,” Jenna said. “Annoying. Inconvenient.”
Maya laughed, surprised.
“When did you get so soft?” she asked.
“I’ve always been soft,” Jenna said. “I just hide it under eyeliner and NDAs.”
Maya opened her eyes.
Across the room, Marcus emerged from the stage area, expression calm, jacket over his shoulder.
He scanned the crowd.
Found her.
Always.
Their eyes met.
Held.
In that moment, the auditorium, the shareholders, Hart, the lawsuits—all of it blurred.
It was just them.
Two people who’d somehow, against all sense, fallen in love in a glass tower.
The question wasn’t *if* anymore.
It was *when.*
And *how.*
And *what it would cost.*
She didn’t have those answers.
Not yet.
But she knew this: the line they’d drawn months ago was still there.
She was still on one side.
He was still on the other.
And they were both inching closer to it every day.
Sooner or later, they’d have to decide whether to step over.
Or step back.
For now, she walked toward him.
He walked toward her.
They met in the middle of the aisle, the smell of old carpet and new money thick in the air.
“Well?” he asked, voice low enough that only she could hear.
“You didn’t say ‘raider’ once,” she said. “I’m proud.”
He smiled, slow and real.
“I thought about it,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
He studied her face.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Define ‘okay,’” she said, because some things didn’t change.
He huffed.
She looked up at him.
At the man who terrified board members and charmed pensioners. Who cleared calendars and sat on hallway floors and sent emails to hospital boards.
Who had told her he was already there.
She thought of Rachel’s words. Jenna’s. Oliver’s. Her mother’s.
*Don’t let fear be the only reason you say no.*
She inhaled.
Exhaled.
“Ask me again in six months,” she said.
His brows drew together. “Ask you what?”
“If I’m okay,” she said. “If I’m staying. If I’m…ready.”
He understood, because he always did.
His eyes softened.
“I can do that,” he said quietly.
“And until then,” she said, “we work. We take care of my mom. We fight Hart. We try not to kill each other.”
He smiled.
“That’s already more of a plan than I had at twenty-eight,” he said.
She smiled back.
“Progress,” she said.
They walked out of the auditorium side by side.
The sun outside was blinding.
The air was hot.
The future, for once, felt less like a cliff and more like a road.
Twisty. Potholed. Lined with sharks.
But a road she’d chosen.
With eyes open.
With her own feet under her.
And if, someday, those feet carried her across a line toward a man with gray eyes and too many suits…well.
She’d get there when she got there.
On her terms.
In her time.
And when she did, she had a feeling the fall would be spectacular.
But for now?
For now she had calendars to wrangle.
A mother to text.
A coffee to drink.
And a heart that, for all its bruises, beat steady and strong.
Ready.
Not for him.
Not yet.
For herself.
And that, she thought as she sat back down at her desk and opened her inbox, was the only way any of this stood a chance of being more than just another corporate disaster.
It was the only way love survived.
In glass towers.
In hospital rooms.
In the messy, warm spaces in between.
One slow step at a time.
***