July bled into August in a haze of heat and filings.
Hart’s letters escalated.
Portvale doubled down on their lawsuit.
The union reps circled warily.
And through it all, Kane Global kept churning—ships moving, goods delivered, emails flying.
On a practical level, Maya’s days didn’t change much.
Meetings. Calls. Calendars.
But internally, everything had shifted.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays after lunch, she carved out an hour for BridgeOps.
At first, it felt…wrong.
Like she was cheating.
She’d sit in a small unused conference room with her laptop, whiteboard markers uncapped, and wait for guilt to crush her.
It didn’t.
What came instead was…energy.
The part of her brain that thrived on systems and solutions lit up.
She mapped client journeys. Drafted sample packages. Wrote case study vignettes based on anonymized versions of her past jobs.
— *Nonprofit X: increased staff retention by 30% after implementing basic boundaries.*
She wrote that one with a wry smile.
She still didn’t know if she’d ever launch it.
But having it on paper made the idea feel less like a fantasy and more like a possibility.
“You’re glowing,” Ryan said one afternoon as she emerged from the conference room, marker stains on her fingers.
“That’s sweat,” she said. “The A/C in there is broken.”
“No,” he said. “It’s the look of someone who’s quietly plotting world domination.”
“Quietly is my middle name,” she said.
He snorted.
Jenna eyed her at the coffee machine one day.
“You’re different,” Jenna said.
“In a good way?” Maya asked.
“In a ‘you’re carrying something that isn’t just this place’ way,” Jenna said. “It suits you.”
“It’s a deck,” Maya said. “Maybe more someday. For now, it’s…mine.”
“Good,” Jenna said simply.
Her mother finished radiation.
Follow-up scans were scheduled.
The word *remission* hovered like a balloon everyone was afraid to touch.
“You’re allowed to hope,” Dr. Chen said at one appointment, her tone cautious.
“I’m better at planning,” Maya said.
“You can do both,” Dr. Chen said. “Hope is just planning’s annoying cousin.”
Maya laughed.
She’d never been good at hope.
She was learning.
She didn’t see Owen much.
Once, in the elevator, he nodded, smiled, and said, “Hey.”
She smiled back.
It didn’t ache as much as she thought it might.
He deserved someone who could give him more than half.
Someday she might be that person.
Right now, she was still too tethered to a man in a corner office and a fantasy on her laptop.
Hart, for his part, did not let up.
“New op-ed,” Jenna said one morning, tossing a newspaper onto Maya’s desk. “Hart calling Marcus ‘the last gentleman raider’ and not in a good way.”
Maya read the headline.
*WHEN GOOD RAIDERS GO SOFT: HART CAPITAL QUESTIONS KANE GLOBAL’S “STAKEHOLDER” TURN.*
Her eye twitched.
“Stakeholder turn,” she said. “God forbid we try not to kill people for EPS.”
“Don’t read the comments,” Jenna said.
“Do I look like a masochist?” Maya said.
“Yes,” Jenna said. “You work here.”
She avoided the comments.
Marcus didn’t.
“Their punctuation alone is grounds for regulation,” he muttered, tossing his tablet onto his desk after a hate-read.
“Stop scrolling,” she said, snatching it back and setting it facedown. “You’re going to give yourself an aneurysm.”
“Constituents have opinions,” he said dryly.
“Most of them can’t spell ‘constituents,’” she said. “Ignore them. Focus on the people who can actually vote you out.”
“The board,” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “And your mother. She’s scarier.”
He smiled faintly.
The board meeting to address Hart’s demands was set for late August.
It was already circled in red on Maya’s calendar.
“Fireworks,” Oliver said grimly.
“I hate fireworks,” she said. “Too loud. Smells like gunpowder. People pretend they’re pretty while someone’s fingers get blown off.”
“Metaphors,” Oliver said. “You and Marcus should start a podcast.”
“I’ll add it to my exit deck,” she said.
He glanced at her then. “You’re really doing it.”
“Thinking about it,” she said. “He gave me time. I’m taking it.”
“You’re good for him,” Oliver said. “And for you. Don’t forget the second part.”
“I’m trying,” she said.
***
Late August brought with it an all-company summer event—a combination of family picnic and casual brag session.
“Morale,” Veronica said when Marcus grumbled about it. “Remember? It’s a thing. We’re investing in it.”
He grunted.
“There will be hot dogs,” she added.
“Processed meat,” he said. “Truly an incentive.”
“Bring your mother,” Veronica said to Maya. “If she’s up to it. We’re doing it at the park by the river. Low-key. It could be nice.”
“Nice,” Maya repeated.
She imagined her mother in a lawn chair, glaring at executives trying to play cornhole.
“I’ll ask,” she said.
To her surprise, Patricia said yes.
“I’m sick of this house,” her mother declared, folding a blanket into a precise square. “And I want to see where you spend all your time.”
“It’s a park,” Maya said. “Not the office.”
“Same people,” Patricia said. “Less air-conditioning.”
On the day of, the sky was a bright, obnoxious blue.
The park buzzed with folding tables, tents, kids shrieking, and the smell of grilled meat.
Maya parked as close as she could, helped her mother out of the car, and set up a chair under a tree.
“This is nice,” Patricia admitted, adjusting her hat.
“HR-approved fun,” Maya said. “Behold.”
Ryan scampered over, face painted like a tiger.
“Ms. Brooks!” he exclaimed. “You came! And you brought a tiny version of you from the future.”
“Ryan,” Maya said. “This is my mother. Mom, this is Ryan. He keeps me from taking myself too seriously.”
Patricia stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said. “Thank you for making sure my daughter remembers to eat sometimes.”
Ryan looked scandalized. “You told her I bring you snacks?”
“She has eyes,” Patricia said.
Ryan laughed. “I like you,” he said. “Will you adopt me?”
“I already have one overgrown child,” she said. “The CEO. I can’t afford another.”
Ryan spluttered. “Oh my God, you’ve met him.”
“Of course she’s met him,” Maya said. “He’s my boss.”
“Meeting him at work and meeting him at a park are two different universes,” Ryan said. “There’s a rumor he’s going to wear shorts.”
Patricia snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”
They didn’t wait long.
Marcus arrived fifteen minutes later, carrying a grocery store sheet cake like it might explode.
He wore dark jeans, a simple navy polo, and sunglasses.
No tie.
No suit.
He looked…younger.
And, infuriatingly, even more attractive.
Maya’s stomach did a little flip.
He scanned the crowd.
Found her.
His steps slowed as he took in Patricia in the lawn chair, sun hat on, eyes sharp.
He removed his sunglasses as he approached, suddenly looking like a teenager about to meet a girl’s parents.
“Ms. Brooks,” he said. “You must be Patricia.”
Her mother smiled, all teeth. “You must be the reason my daughter doesn’t sleep.”
He actually flushed.
“Yes,” he said. “I mean— No. I mean— Partially.”
Maya bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Marcus,” she said. “This is my mother. Mom, this is Marcus. We’re trying to teach him work-life balance. It’s going slowly.”
He shot her a look.
Patricia extended her hand.
He took it, careful.
“Thank you,” Patricia said.
He blinked. “For…?”
“For giving my daughter a job where she’s finally paid what she’s worth,” Patricia said. “And for letting her come to my appointments without making her feel guilty.”
He looked momentarily knocked off balance.
“I—” He cleared his throat. “It’s the least I could do.”
“No,” Patricia said. “It’s not. I’ve worked for men. I know the least you could do. You’re doing more. I notice.”
He met her gaze.
“Your daughter matters,” he said simply.
Patricia’s eyes softened.
“Remember that when you’re tempted to make her a martyr,” she said. “She’s good at that. She learned from me.”
He smiled wryly. “She reminds me often.”
“Good,” Patricia said. “She’s not here to save you. She has a whole life to live.”
A beat.
He nodded, serious now. “I know,” he said. “I’m…trying to make room for it.”
Patricia patted his hand. “Then you’re ahead of most men.”
Maya stood there, torn between wanting to sink into the grass and wanting to hug them both.
“This cake is ugly,” Patricia said, peering at the grocery sheet cake. “Whose idea was that frosting?”
“Facilities,” Marcus said. “They insisted we needed the logo. In buttercream.”
Patricia snorted. “Of course they did.”
“Come on,” Maya said, wanting to defuse the intensity before her mother started offering him therapy. “There’s a dunk tank. We can make Ryan fall in the water.”
“I will volunteer as tribute,” Ryan called from nearby.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of small, strange moments.
Kids ran around with temporary tattoos of the Kane Global logo, which Maya found mildly dystopian.
Oliver manned the grill with surprising skill, spatula in one hand, tongs in the other, flipping burgers while discussing bond yields with a bored-looking auditor.
Jenna and Priya (who’d been invited as a “friendly stakeholder”) huddled under a tent arguing about climate disclosure language while slathering sunscreen on two sticky toddlers.
Marcus stood on the sidelines more than he waded in, but he did.
He let a five-year-old with a face full of ice cream tug on his arm and ask him why the ships were so big.
“Because small ships make small deliveries,” he said solemnly. “And we’re greedy.”
The kid giggled.
He let someone from HR talk him into throwing a beanbag at a target. He missed. Twice. On purpose.
“You’re terrible at games,” Maya murmured.
“I’m very good at games,” he said. “This one just doesn’t interest me.”
At one point, when her mother went to the bathroom with a friend from church who’d shown up with a cooler of suspiciously strong lemonade, Maya found herself alone with him under a tree.
The shade was dappled. The air smelled like cut grass and charcoal.
“You’re good with her,” she said quietly.
“With your mother?” he asked. “She’s terrifying. I like her.”
“She likes you too,” she said. “Which is weird. She hates men in suits.”
“I’m not wearing a suit,” he pointed out.
“Yet,” she said.
He smiled.
Silence hummed.
He watched a kid try and fail to do a cartwheel.
His jaw was relaxed. His shoulders weren’t hunched.
He looked…happy.
She realized, with a jolt, that she’d rarely seen him outside a crisis.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“That I should buy more parks,” he said.
She snorted. “Of course you are.”
“Not to own,” he said. “To protect. From developers. Climate. Politicians.”
“Greedy kids,” she said.
“Definitely them,” he said.
She looked at him.
At the man she’d fallen in love with in an office full of glass and shadows.
Seeing him here, in sunlight and sneakers, talking about parks, made something in her chest ache and expand at once.
“You’re going to be a good dad,” she blurted.
His head snapped toward her.
“What?” he said.
Heat flooded her face. “I— I didn’t— It just came out.”
He stared.
Color rose along his cheeks, high and unexpected.
“I haven’t thought about…that,” he said stiffly.
“Liar,” she said gently.
He swallowed.
“Not seriously,” he amended. “Not in any way that felt…real.”
“Does it now?” she asked.
He looked toward her mother, who was laughing at something Veronica had said, her hat tilted back.
Then at the kids running, shrieking.
Then at her.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “More than it should.”
She exhaled slowly.
“You’d be insufferable,” she said, trying to lighten the moment. “Color-coded schedules. Baby’s first quarterly report.”
He huffed a laugh. “Monster.”
“I’d feel sorry for your child’s nanny,” she said. “Unless…”
She trailed off.
The air thickened.
He heard the unspoken *unless.*
Unless it was her.
He cleared his throat.
“Don’t,” he said softly. “Don’t go there unless you’re ready to…”
“I’m not,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry. That was— My mouth ran ahead of my brain.”
He shook his head. “It’s okay. You’re not wrong. I would be…a different version of myself. If that ever happened.”
“If,” she echoed.
“Yes,” he said. “If.”
They let the topic drop.
Later, as the sun dipped and people packed up coolers and folded chairs, her mother hugged him.
He stiffened, then returned it, awkward and sincere.
“Take care of my girl,” Patricia murmured.
“I’m trying,” he said.
“Try harder,” she replied.
He smiled.
“I will,” he said.
On the drive home, Patricia fiddled with the radio.
“So,” she said casually, as a song from the nineties crackled through the speakers. “He loves you.”
Maya’s hands tightened on the wheel.
“I know,” she said.
“And you love him,” her mother added.
“I know,” Maya repeated.
“And you’re not with him,” Patricia said. “Yet.”
“I know,” Maya said, voice breaking.
Her mother reached over and rested a hand on her arm.
“You will be,” Patricia said quietly. “One way or another. I can see it. So can he. The trick is making sure you don’t lose yourself in the process.”
“I’m trying,” Maya whispered.
“You’re doing better than most,” her mother said. “Just…don’t wait for someone’s funeral to make a choice. Not mine. Not his. Not anyone’s.”
Tears blurred the road.
“Mom,” she said, heart in her throat. “Please don’t talk about—”
“I’m not going anywhere today,” Patricia said firmly. “I plan to live long enough to nag your children. I’m just saying: life is short. Don’t waste it standing at the edge of something you know you want just because it’s scary.”
Maya laughed wetly. “You told me not to build my life around a man.”
“I told you not to build your life around a job,” her mother corrected. “Men…if you pick the right one…can be part of the structure. Not the whole house.”
She thought of BridgeOps.
Of the documents on her laptop.
Of Marcus’s face when he’d said he loved her.
“I don’t know if he’s the right one,” she said. “I just…know he’s the one right now.”
“That’s enough to walk toward,” Patricia said. “Not to marry. Not yet. But to explore. You’re allowed to explore, Maya. Even if it means leaving something good for something you hope is better.”
She drove in silence for a while.
Letting the words settle.
Fault lines and fireworks, she thought.
Both were going to come.
Better to choose where to stand when they did.
***
Back in the tower the next day, the air felt thinner.
The board meeting on Hart’s demands loomed three days away.
Her BridgeOps deck was at fifteen slides and counting.
Her mother’s next scan was in two weeks.
Life was a series of countdowns.
She didn’t see Marcus much that morning. He was in back-to-back prep sessions with the board chair and outside counsel.
At one, he texted her.
Marcus: *My office. 1:15. Bring your laptop.*
Her pulse jumped.
She slipped inside at the appointed time.
He was at the small conference table, sleeves rolled, tie discarded, two paper cups of decent coffee in front of him.
“You bribed me,” she said, sitting. “I’m not sad.”
“Drink,” he said. “You’re going to need it.”
“Encouraging,” she said dryly. “What’s on fire?”
He slid a packet across the table.
Her name was on the top.
She frowned. “What’s this?”
“Your review,” he said. “Accelerated.”
Her heart lurched. “Did I…fuck up? Did Hart—”
“No,” he said quickly. “You’re exceptional. This is…preemptive. If you decide to move, I want you to have this in writing. With my signature. So no one can say you left because you failed.”
Her vision blurred.
She blinked hard and forced herself to focus on the words.
*“Maya Brooks has been an invaluable asset to Kane Global.”*
*“…consistently anticipates needs, sees around corners, and manages complexity with a level of emotional intelligence rare at any level.”*
*“…has fundamentally improved the way I work and, by extension, the way this company functions.”*
“Marcus,” she whispered, throat closing.
“If you show that to any sane hiring manager or investor,” he said, “they’ll trip over themselves to give you money.”
She laughed watery. “You can’t call yourself sane and me emotionally intelligent in the same document. People will talk.”
“Let them,” he said.
She swallowed.
“This feels like goodbye,” she said.
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s preparation. You of all people should appreciate a good contingency plan.”
She nodded, clutching the packet as if it might evaporate.
He glanced at her bag.
“Do you have it?” he asked.
“Have what?” she said.
“BridgeOps,” he said. “The deck.”
Heat rose to her face. “It’s not ready.”
“I’m not your investor yet,” he said. “I’m your…sounding board.”
She chewed her lip.
Then, heart racing, she opened her laptop, pulled up the file, and turned the screen toward him.
He read.
She watched his face.
Slides flicked by.
Pain point language. Target market. Hypothetical budgets. A very rough logo she’d sketched in a fit of creative impulse.
His mouth quirked at *“Burnout is not a business model.”*
When he finished, he sat back.
“Well?” she asked, trying not to sound like a terrified intern.
“It’s good,” he said simply.
She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “You’re not just saying that to get into my—”
She cut herself off, flushing.
He lifted a brow. “Calendar?”
“Brain,” she said quickly. “I was going to say brain.”
“Mm,” he said.
“What’s wrong with it?” she pressed. “The deck, not my brain.”
He looked at it again.
“You’re underpricing,” he said. “You’re anchoring to nonprofit budgets instead of the value you create. And you’re not thinking big enough about scale. But those are tweaks. The core is strong.”
Emotion swelled.
“You really think I could…do this,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Whether I invest or not. You have twenty case studies in your head already. You’ve lived this. You’re not some twenty-two-year-old with a WeWork membership and a dream.”
She laughed. “You really hate WeWork.”
“I hate performative entrepreneurship,” he said. “This is…substantive.”
She stared at her screen.
At the slides that had once felt like a fantasy.
Now, with him saying it, they felt like…a blueprint.
“Say,” he said slowly, “that in a year—or two—you launch. BridgeOps, or whatever you name it. You have clients. Income. A team. Say you’re not dependent on this salary.”
Her chest squeezed.
“Then,” he said, voice carefully neutral, “and only then, I come to you and say, ‘Maya, I would like to be with you. Fully. Will you consider that?’”
She swallowed hard.
“And if I say yes?” she whispered.
“Then we build something else,” he said simply. “Together. Without this place as a third party.”
“And if I say no?” she asked, voice barely audible.
He held her gaze.
“Then I will take my review letter,” he said, “and go cry into my money.”
She laughed through tears.
He smiled faintly.
“But I will still invest,” he added. “In BridgeOps. In whatever you build. In you. Because that’s separate from…this.”
Her heart thudded painfully.
“You’re…separating your love from your money,” she said, incredulous.
“I’m trying,” he said. “It’s not easy. I’ve conflated them for a long time. But you’ve made it…obvious…that they’re not the same.”
She wiped at her cheeks.
“You’re very bad at being the villain,” she said.
“Don’t tell Hart,” he said. “He needs me for his narrative.”
She snorted.
He glanced at the clock.
“We should get back to preparing for the board circus,” he said. “But I wanted you to know—whatever happens in that room, your future is not tied to their whims. Or to Hart’s appetite. Or to my job security.”
She nodded, clutching the review packet and her laptop.
“Thank you,” she said again.
“For loving you?” he asked lightly.
“For…all of it,” she said.
He exhaled.
“I’m going to say this once,” he said. “And then we’re going to pretend I’m not capable of this level of vulnerability in daylight.”
“Noted,” she said.
“If you walk away from this job and never touch me,” he said quietly, “I will still consider you one of the best things that ever happened to me.”
Tears burned hot.
“That’s not fair,” she whispered. “You can’t say things like that and then make me take meeting notes.”
He smiled, pained and fond.
“Life isn’t fair,” he said. “We work with what we have.”
He stood.
She did too.
For a heartbeat, they just…stood there.
Close enough that if she leaned, she’d brush his chest.
Far enough that the air between them stayed technically professional.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Define ‘ready,’” she said, because some habits were too ingrained to break.
He huffed.
“Let’s go disappoint Hart,” he said.
They walked out together.
Into the war room.
Into the board meeting.
Into a future they were both finally, fully acknowledging lay beyond the walls of this building.
Somewhere, not yet visible, the path out curved.
Someday, she’d follow it.
Not today.
Today, there was a battle to fight.
She could deal with her heart later.
Maybe.
If it gave her a break.
***