Two weeks after the Arcturus signing, the company threw a party.
They didn’t call it that, of course. The email invitation called it a *“cross-departmental celebration of a successful integration milestone.”*
Maya called it *“free booze and awkward small talk with people who only know Marcus from memes.”*
“You’re going, right?” Ryan from comms asked, perched on the edge of her desk Friday morning, swinging one leg like a kid.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Crowds. Noise. Flu season.”
“You survived the war room,” he said. “You can handle a couple of kegs and a DJ.”
“I heard last year’s ‘celebration’ ended with someone from Accounts throwing up in a ficus,” she said.
“And yet the ficus thrives,” he said. “Circle of life.”
She hesitated.
On one hand, she was tired. Always tired. A Friday night on her couch with Netflix and cheap takeout sounded like heaven.
On the other, she’d barely met anyone outside her floor. Her world had shrunk to sixty-two, Legal, and the occasional foray to HR.
If she was going to survive here longer than a quarter, she needed allies.
“Is he going?” she asked.
Ryan snorted. “He never goes.”
“Ever?” she said.
“Marcus at an office party?” Ryan said. “He’d set off the fire alarms just by standing near the bar. The last time he showed his face at one of these, two junior analysts cried.”
“Maybe they were just…overcome by the open bar,” she said.
“Trust me,” he said. “You and Oliver are the only ones who talk to him like he’s a human. The rest of us make jokes when he’s not around and shut up real fast when he is.”
She thought of him at his desk, alone at nine p.m. on a Tuesday, the rest of the building dark.
“Maybe he should go,” she muttered.
Ryan laughed. “If you manage to get him to show his face at a company happy hour, I’ll personally buy you dinner. And a plaque.”
“Noted,” she said.
The email said the “celebration” started at six in the fiftieth-floor lounge. Dress code: business casual.
At five-thirty, she hovered by her monitor, torn.
Marcus was in his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled, fingers steepled as he stared at a spreadsheet.
She cleared her throat. “You know there’s a party happening, right?”
He didn’t look up. “I saw the email.”
“You going?” she asked.
“Do I look like I’m going?” he said.
“You look like someone who hasn’t left this building before eight p.m. in a month,” she said. “Which is why you *should* go.”
“And do what?” he asked. “Watch people get drunk and complain about their managers?”
“Make small talk,” she said. “Thank people for not quitting during the Arcturus chaos. Show your face. Remind them you’re not a robot.”
“They know I’m not a robot,” he said. “Robots don’t leak SEC filings.”
She grimaced. “Too soon.”
He finally looked at her. “You’re going, I assume.”
“I am now,” she said. “Apparently it’s where the cool kids network.”
“You don’t need to network,” he said. “You work for me.”
“Which means if you ever decide you’re sick of me, I’ll need a backup plan,” she said. “Networking is my insurance policy.”
He frowned, like the idea of her needing a backup plan annoyed him.
“You haven’t done anything to merit dismissal,” he said.
“Yet,” she said automatically.
“Stop saying ‘yet,’” he said. “You’re competent. You’re not afraid of me. You haven’t cost me money or headlines. You’ve increased my sleep by at least an hour a night. You’re fine.”
Her chest warmed, stupidly.
“Was that…a compliment?” she asked carefully.
“A statement of fact,” he said.
“Factual compliments still count,” she said. “Thank you.”
He glanced back at his screen.
She watched him a moment, then said, more softly, “You know you being there would mean a lot to people, right?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“You remember when you told me your mom’s patients looked at her like she was a saint?” he said finally. “Whether she wanted them to or not?”
She blinked. “Yeah.”
“I don’t want that,” he said. “From employees. I don’t need them to think I’m benevolent. I need them to think I’m competent. That I’ll keep the company from crashing. That’s it.”
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive,” she said. “You can be competent and show up to eat a questionable slider with the rest of us.”
His mouth twitched, like he couldn’t quite help it. “Questionable?”
“The caterer HR uses has a…reputation,” she said. “We’ll see.”
He shook his head. “You go. Have fun. Or whatever passes for fun in this building. I have a call with Singapore at eight.”
“You always have a call with someone,” she said. “You could say no.”
He gave her a look like she’d suggested he juggle flaming knives for entertainment.
“Saying no *is* an option, you know,” she said. “It’s even a full sentence.”
“Go, Maya,” he said. “Before you start quoting self-help books at me.”
She sighed. “Fine. But when the entire fiftieth floor starts drunkenly chanting your name and you’re not there, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’m comfortable with that risk,” he said.
She grabbed her bag.
At the door, she paused. “If you change your mind,” she said, “you know where to find us.”
“I won’t,” he said.
She left.
***
The fiftieth-floor lounge didn’t look like a place where ficus-vomit incidents happened.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sprawl of LA. Low couches and high tables dotted the space. A bar at one end glowed with backlit bottles. An impeccably bored DJ fiddled with a playlist.
Clusters of people from different departments mingled in that awkward, “we know each other’s names from emails but not from real life” way.
Maya spotted Ryan by the bar, arguing with someone over whether whiskey was an acceptable mixer for soda.
He waved. “You came!”
“I was promised questionable sliders,” she said.
He pointed to a tray. “Behold.”
She picked one up, sniffed it. “Smells…relatively safe.”
“High praise,” Ryan said.
She bit into it. Chewed. “Not bad. HR has upped their game.”
“Thank Jenna,” he said. “She bullied them into a new vendor after the Great Sushi Incident of 2019.”
She decided not to ask.
She let herself relax. A little.
She made small talk with two analysts from Finance who confessed they’d never seen Marcus in person and thought he might be AI. She met a woman from HR benefits who knew the ins and outs of the company’s healthcare plan better than any doctor she’d ever met. She even found herself laughing with a quiet guy from IT who’d been the one to track the retention slide leak.
“Do you ever sleep?” she asked him.
“Between maintenance windows,” he said dryly. “And yes, I know what content you stream at your desk. Nothing’s private on this network.”
She choked on her drink. “I was watching *one* cat video during lunch—”
He smirked. “Sure.”
An hour in, she was nursing her second gin and tonic and actually…having fun.
Music pulsed, low enough to talk over but insistent enough to loosen shoulders. Laughter pinged off the glass. Someone started a quiet game of pool in the corner.
Ryan bumped her shoulder. “See? Not so bad.”
“It’s nice to see people as more than email signatures,” she admitted.
“You’re not even looking at your phone,” he said. “I’m impressed.”
She glanced at her clutch. Her work phone sat inside, mute.
“I told him I was off the grid for two hours,” she said. “If Portvale invades in that time, he’ll have to repel them without me.”
Ryan grinned. “Look at you, setting boundaries.”
She smiled, feeling oddly proud.
Then, like a damned cliche, she felt it.
The prickling awareness at the back of her neck. The sense of being…watched.
She turned.
He was standing just inside the lounge entrance.
For a second, she thought she’d conjured him.
But no—there he was. No jacket this time, just a white dress shirt, top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled. Dark trousers. No tie.
Out of context, he looked…younger. Less CEO, more sin.
Conversation in the immediate vicinity dampened a notch. Heads turned. Shoulders stiffened.
Maya’s heart did a weird, conflicting little hop.
“You said he wouldn’t come,” she told Ryan.
“I also thought the Clippers would make it to the finals last year,” Ryan said. “What do I know?”
Marcus’s gaze swept the room in one efficient pass, cataloging, assessing. When it landed on her, it paused.
Something eased in his posture. Just a hair.
Ryan elbowed her. “Oh, he absolutely came for you.”
“Shut up,” she hissed, even as heat climbed under her collar.
Marcus moved through the crowd like the eye of a storm. People stepped aside. Some greeted him with cautious nods; others pretended to check their phones, as if avoiding eye contact would keep them invisible.
He offered short acknowledgments. A few words here and there. Nothing resembling small talk.
He stopped a few feet away.
“Maya,” he said.
“Marcus,” she replied, aiming for casual, hitting something closer to breathless.
“You made it,” she added.
“You sound surprised,” he said.
“I am,” she said. “I half-expected you to send a cardboard cutout and call it a day.”
“I don’t photograph well,” he said.
“That’s a lie and you know it,” she said.
Ryan coughed, clearly choking back laughter.
Marcus’s gaze flicked to him. “You’re the one who stumbled into the war room on day one.”
“Ryan,” Ryan said, extending a hand. “Corporate comms. Occasional fire starter, frequent extinguisher.”
Marcus shook his hand. “Your crisis memo last week was solid,” he said. “You didn’t bury the bad news under euphemisms. I appreciate that.”
Ryan looked like he’d been handed a Nobel. “Thank you, sir.”
“Marcus,” he corrected.
“Marcus,” Ryan said, like the word tasted strange.
Maya hid a smile behind her glass.
“Where’s your drink?” Ryan blurted. “We have…many options.”
“I’m working,” Marcus said.
“It’s a party,” Maya said.
“It’s still the office,” he countered.
“You can be Marcus and Kane Global at the same time,” she said. “I believe in you.”
He gave her a look. “Sparkling water,” he said to Ryan.
Ryan scurried off.
Left alone with him for a beat, she suddenly became acutely aware of how close they were standing. Of the low thrum of bass through the floor. Of the scent of his cologne overlaid with something warmer—skin, maybe, or the fact that he wasn’t cocooned in a suit jacket.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said softly.
“You told me I should,” he said.
“You don’t do everything I tell you,” she said.
“True,” he said. “In this case, I decided you were right.”
Her heart thunked once, painfully.
“Careful,” she said lightly. “If you start letting me be right too often, I’ll get cocky.”
“You’re already cocky,” he said.
She laughed.
Ryan reappeared with a highball glass.
“Still or sparkling?” he asked.
“Sparkling,” Marcus said.
“Lime?” Ryan held up a slice like an offering to a deity.
“No,” Marcus said.
Ryan deflated a little. “Okay. Well. If you need anything else, I’ll be…over there. Keeping an eye on the DJ. He keeps trying to sneak in Nickelback.”
He retreated.
Maya took a sip of her drink to hide her smile.
Marcus watched the room over the rim of his glass.
“What do you see?” she asked.
He paused. “A hundred and twenty-three people who survived a rough quarter,” he said. “Half of whom are wondering if they’ll still have jobs in a year. A quarter who are already plotting their next move. A handful who genuinely like it here. IT in the corner, making fun of everyone. Jenna about to corner someone by the window and tell them how the media really works.”
“You got all that in thirty seconds?” she asked, impressed.
“I’ve had practice,” he said.
“What do you see when you look at me?” she asked, then immediately wished she could stuff the words back in her mouth.
His head turned. His gaze met hers, steady.
“Right now?” he said.
“Yes,” she said, because she’d already opened this particular door.
He considered her.
“A woman who doesn’t know how striking she is when she’s not hiding behind a desk,” he said quietly.
Heat slammed into her like a physical force.
She swallowed. “That’s…a lot.”
“It’s accurate,” he said. “And you asked.”
“Fair,” she managed.
Her pulse skittered. She took a hasty gulp of her drink and nearly choked on the gin.
He stepped a fraction closer. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” she croaked. “Just underestimating the bartender’s pour.”
“Lightweight,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.
“I’ve been working since seven,” she said. “My tolerance is emotionally compromised.”
He huffed a soft laugh.
Silence stretched between them. Not the strained kind from meetings. Something…looser. Tense in a different way.
Music shifted. A mid-tempo song with a beat you could almost dance to if you weren’t in a corporate lounge under fluorescent lights.
Couples drifted closer to the center of the room. No one went full club mode, but bodies swayed, shoulders brushed.
Ryan, emboldened by two beers, attempted a spin with a woman from Sales that nearly took out a server.
Marcus watched, one brow climbing. “Is he attempting to waltz?”
“He’s attempting to remain upright,” Maya said. “Which is ambition enough.”
“You dance?” Marcus asked suddenly.
She blinked. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” he said. “Or was that a foreign concept in your nonprofit days?”
“We had many skills,” she said. “Dancing for joy was not one of them. Dancing at rallies maybe. Mostly chanting and avoiding batons.”
“So that’s a no?” he asked.
She hesitated. “I can. Badly. Why?”
He shook his head once. “No reason.”
Something about the way he said it made her chest tighten.
“Do you?” she asked.
One corner of his mouth lifted. “I’m very good at dancing.”
The answer startled a laugh out of her. “Of course you are. Why am I not surprised?”
“My mother insisted on lessons when I was a teenager,” he said. “Her version of…civilizing me.”
“You, in a teen ballroom class,” she said, trying to imagine it. “Please tell me there are pictures.”
“No,” he said firmly.
“Then I’ll have to use my imagination,” she murmured.
His gaze did that quick, hot dip to her mouth again, then snapped back up.
“Dangerous,” he said quietly.
Her heart stuttered.
Across the room, someone cranked the volume a notch. The energy shifted another degree toward loosened.
A group near the bar started a chant. It took her a second to make out the words.
“Speech! Speech! Speech!”
Her stomach dropped.
They were looking at Marcus.
“No,” he said under his breath.
“Yes!” someone else called. “C’mon, Kane! We want to hear from the man who bought the Pacific!”
Ryan looked like he might spontaneously combust from excitement.
“Do it,” Maya said softly. “Two minutes. Thank them. Make a joke. Then you can go back to plotting world domination.”
He shook his head. “This is why I don’t come to these things.”
“Are you…nervous?” she asked, incredulous.
“I’m not built for pep talks,” he said. “I do numbers, not morale.”
“You did pretty well at the all-hands,” she reminded him. “Just…smaller room. More alcohol. Fewer slides.”
He looked at her. “I don’t want to…fake it.”
“Then don’t,” she said. “Be you. The version that actually gives a shit but doesn’t know how to talk about it without sounding like a shareholder letter.”
His jaw flexed. “You think there is such a version.”
“I’ve seen glimpses,” she said. “Phoebe’s garden. Sunday off. Calling Rachel to apologize. You’re not as cold as you think you are.”
His lips thinned. “I am exactly as cold as I need to be.”
“And sometimes,” she said gently, “you let it thaw just enough to be human. That’s all they need.”
The chant rose again. “Speech! Speech!”
He exhaled through his nose.
“Fine,” he muttered. “If this goes badly, I’m blaming you.”
“I’ll add it to the list,” she said.
He strode toward the center of the room, every eye tracking him.
The chant tapered into silence as he turned to face them.
He didn’t grab a glass. Didn’t stand on a chair. Just…stood. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders straight.
“You’re loud,” he said.
A ripple of laughter.
He let it settle.
“I don’t do speeches at parties,” he said. “I’m not good at…this.” He waved a hand vaguely to encompass the music, the drinks, the forced joviality. “I’m better on earnings calls and in boardrooms. But I came down here tonight because the last three months have been…a lot. For everyone.”
He paused.
Maya’s heart thumped. He was using the words she’d used with him. *A lot.* She hadn’t realized how much she’d infected his vocabulary.
“You’ve worked long hours,” he continued. “Taken on responsibilities that weren’t in your job descriptions. Dealt with uncertainty and rumors and headlines that made it sound like we were either going to save the world or burn it down. Through all that, you…showed up. You did your jobs. You kept this place running.”
He scanned the room. His gaze landed on clusters briefly. IT. HR. Legal. Finance.
“I don’t say thank you often,” he said. “Mostly because I forget. Or because I assume your salaries say it for me. But I am saying it now. Thank you. You’ve earned this drink. And the next one. Don’t put it on your expense reports.”
Laughter.
He hesitated, then added, almost awkwardly, “I know not all of you like me. That’s fine. You don’t have to. This isn’t a cult. But I hope you trust that I know what I’m doing. And if you don’t, I hope you ask questions. I’d rather you complain to me than to Twitter.”
More laughter. A few knowing groans.
He inclined his head. “That’s it. Party’s over. Go home.”
Groans of protest. Jenna threw a napkin at him.
“I’m kidding,” he said. “Party’s not over. I’m leaving so I don’t ruin it. Carry on.”
Applause broke out. Not roaring. But solid. Warm.
He stepped back toward the edge of the room, toward her.
“See?” she said softly when he reached her. “You didn’t burst into flames.”
“I hated every second,” he said.
“You’re lying,” she said.
He didn’t deny it.
For a few minutes after that, he lingered. He let a junior analyst ask him about a spreadsheet. He nodded as someone from HR nervously told him they appreciated the new parental leave policy. He even let Ryan show him a meme someone had made of his face superimposed on a ship captain’s body.
“You’re a good sport,” she murmured.
“I’m being blackmailed in spirit,” he said.
“By who?” she asked.
“You,” he said.
Her breath caught.
“I only blackmail in very special cases,” she said lightly.
“And this is special,” he said.
Their eyes held.
The room felt too bright. Too public. Too…full of eyes.
She stepped back. “You should go,” she said. “Before someone from Sales asks you to fund their Burning Man camp.”
“I have no idea what that means,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Keep it that way.”
He hesitated. “Walk with me to the elevator.”
Her brain threw up a tiny red flag.
This was how lines blurred. One moment you were at a company party, the next you were alone in an elevator with your boss, wondering if the hum between you was real or just fluorescent lighting.
She could say no.
She should.
“Okay,” she heard herself say.
They stepped into the hallway. The lounge door swung shut behind them, muffling the music.
Out here, the quiet felt…intimate.
They walked side by side toward the elevator bank. His shoulder brushed hers once, a glancing contact that sent a stupid thrill through her.
He hit the call button.
They waited.
“I don’t hate this,” he said suddenly.
“The party?” she asked.
“Being out here,” he said. “With you.”
Her heart slammed.
“This is still work,” she said, because she needed to say something.
“In a way,” he said. “Everything is.”
“That’s bleak,” she said.
“It’s honest,” he said.
The elevator dinged. The doors parted.
They stepped inside.
The space was small. Enclosed. The kind of environment where people on TV did highly inadvisable things against mirrored walls.
She stood a foot away from him. Too far to be inappropriate. Too close to be entirely safe.
He hit 62 for her, 64 for himself—the penthouse.
Of course.
The doors closed.
They started upward.
The silence crackled.
He watched the floor numbers tick by for a second, then said, very quietly, “Do you think about it?”
Her head snapped toward him. “About what?”
His gaze slid to hers, cool and intent.
“About what might happen if we weren’t just boss and assistant,” he said.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
He’d said it. Out loud.
No more subtext. No more stolen glances and half-swallowed impulses.
Option one: lie. Deny. Laugh it off.
Option two: tell the truth and watch everything burn.
She swallowed.
“I…” Her voice came out hoarse. She cleared her throat. “It’s…crossed my mind.”
His jaw clenched.
“Has it crossed yours?” she asked, because if they were doing this, they were doing it all the way.
He could have evaded. Deflected. He was a master at it in meetings.
He didn’t.
“Yes,” he said.
The word hung between them. Heavy. Irrevocable.
The elevator hummed.
Somewhere, a rational voice in her head shrieked: *HR. Veronica. Jenna. Your bank account. Your mother’s MRI.*
Another voice, lower and more reckless, whispered: *Just once. Just to know.*
She gripped the rail behind her with white-knuckled fingers.
“Why are you asking me this?” she managed.
“Because the question is there,” he said. His voice was calm but there was a tension in it she’d never heard before. “And I don’t like…loose variables.”
“You can’t quantify this,” she said weakly.
“I can quantify risk,” he said. “The risk of pretending there’s nothing when there is. The risk of crossing a line that will be difficult to uncross. For you. For me. For this.”
“For the company,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “For the company.”
She let out a shaky breath.
“Do you…want to cross it?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He looked at her like she’d asked him to choose between oxygen and fire.
“Yes,” he said, voice low. “And no.”
Her heart lurched.
“That’s not helpful,” she whispered.
“It’s the only honest answer,” he said.
The elevator dinged.
62.
The doors slid open.
Her floor.
He didn’t move.
Neither did she.
“I won’t be the one to make that call,” he said quietly. “If anything ever happens, it will be because *you* decided the risk was worth it. Not because I leveraged your job or my power or your debt.”
Her throat closed.
“Is that some sort of…fucked-up consent speech?” she asked, because humor was all she had left.
“It’s me saying I know exactly how much damage I could do if I’m not careful with you,” he said. “And I don’t intend to be…that man.”
Her chest hurt.
The doors started to slide shut.
He stuck a hand out, catching them, holding them open.
“Go home, Maya,” he said softly. “Get some sleep. Forget this conversation if you can.”
“Can you?” she asked, barely audible.
“No,” he said. “But I’ll…try not to act on it.”
Her eyes burned.
“Goodnight, Marcus,” she whispered.
“Goodnight,” he said.
She stepped out.
The doors closed.
She stood in the hallway, heart pounding, palms damp, watching the floor numbers disappear as he ascended to his penthouse.
He’d put the decision in her hands.
A twisted kind of power.
And a terrible, tantalizing freedom.
She walked to her desk on autopilot, grabbed her bag, and headed for the exit.
In the cool night air outside, she tilted her head back and stared at the glittering tower above.
Somewhere near the top, behind one of those endless panes of glass, a man who’d just admitted he wanted her was pouring himself a drink and trying, just like her, to forget that gravity existed.
She laughed once, humorless.
“So much for slow burn,” she murmured.
But there was nothing fast about this.
No rushed hallway kisses. No drunken confessions.
Just two people standing on opposite sides of a line, staring at each other across it, neither quite willing to step.
Yet.
She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and started walking.
She had decisions to make.
About desire. About risk.
About how much of herself she was willing to gamble on a man who turned everything he touched into high stakes.
The thing about lines in wet cement, she thought, is that eventually, they harden.
She just had to decide what side she wanted to be on before this one did.
***