Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
T he lab was cool, the air carrying the pungent smell of nutrients, and a slight ginger scent from the plants in the tanks.
Overhead, strips of LED lights buzzed quietly, casting a white glare across the steel benches and rows of incubators. The hum of filtration systems and soft whir of climate controls were the only sounds beyond the quiet tap of Kathleen Knowles’ fingers on her monitor.
She stood over a sealed growth chamber, carefully documenting the readouts displayed on the screen embedded in its side.
Inside, submerged in a nutrient solution, five plants unfurled beneath the controlled lights.
Their leaves were broad, glossy, a striking deep green with silvered veins threading through them.
Kathleen typed a few commands into the console, narrowing the wavelength of the light slightly.
Behind her, Ted Winters shuffled between benches, arms full of sample trays.
He stood a little too tall for his lab coat; his elbows jutted at odd angles and a mop of unkempt hair flopped into his eyes.
He was midway through his PhD, and still moved like he expected to break something every time he touched it.
"You'll want to recalibrate the nutrient feed on Tank Three," Kathleen said without turning around. "The conductivity's dropped two percent since yesterday."
Ted dropped the trays onto the bench and fumbled for his tablet. "Sorry. I thought it was stable."
"It's close. But close isn’t good enough when you're modifying bioelectric uptake," Kathleen replied mildly, keying in another adjustment. "Especially not with this one."
Ted peered into the chamber. "Still can't believe it’s working. I mean... that cell structure shouldn't even be possible in a terrestrial plant."
Kathleen allowed herself a small smile. "That’s because it’s not based on earth evolution. Not entirely."
She gestured toward the tank, where the plant’s roots floated free in the solution, fine tendrils branching and pulsing with minute electrical activity.
"We’ve reengineered the vascular system," she explained. "Instead of passive capillary action, it’s actively drawing nutrients and water using micro-electrical impulses. It’s faster and more efficient. "
Ted whistled softly. "No wonder people are freaking out about this project."
Kathleen gave a noncommittal shrug, but the muscles in her shoulders tightened slightly.
She hated the attention. The speculation. The academics circling before the research was even complete.
"This could be the cornerstone of an entirely new biome," she said, mostly to herself. "If we can scale it, it’ll change everything."
Ted leaned against the bench, his expression eager. "Do you ever think about what it'll mean? I mean, seriously? You could be—" He caught himself. "You will be famous. Like Nobel-level."
Kathleen made a small, dismissive noise and focused on adjusting the oxygenation levels inside the chamber. "I didn’t start this for awards," she said quietly. "I started it because the world will need it."
Ted fell silent. In the hush, the machines hummed steadily, processing the future one molecule at a time.
Kathleen watched the plants reach lazily toward the artificial sun, their silvered veins gleaming. A small part of her, the portion she'd buried under decades of discipline, felt a flicker of pride.
If it worked here, in this tank, she could imagine fields of it someday, transforming energy.
She straightened and made a final note on her tablet. "Run another sample in Tank Two," she said. "Same parameters, but increase the electrical stimulation by 0.3 percent."
Ted snapped to attention, already pulling on gloves.
Kathleen watched him for a moment before returning to her own console, eyes narrowing slightly.
There was still so much to do but it was time to go home.
She stripped off her gloves and dropped them into the disposal bin. She double-checked the seals on the growth tanks, logged the final oxygenation readings, and slid her iPad into the charging dock by the door.
Everything had to be in its place. It was the only way the world made sense.
"Heading out?" Ted asked from the far bench, where he was still wrestling with the nutrient pumps.
"Yes," Kathleen said. "Tank Three still needs rebalancing. Use the stock solution marked Lot 27. It’s fresher."
Ted nodded, already tapping notes into his tablet. He was competent enough when given clear instructions.
Most people were. It was when they improvised that everything got messy.
Kathleen checked the room once more—tank readouts steady, lights on automated timers, sample trays sealed—and only then allowed herself to leave.
The elevator ride down was silent. Kathleen stood perfectly still in the centre, hands clasped loosely behind her back, avoiding the walls.
Outside, the evening had cooled and streetlights buzzed to life against the creeping dark.
She walked two blocks to the parking garage, her steps brisk, counting without thinking. Always counting.
Her apartment was on the fourth floor of a quiet building overlooking the East River.
Security-coded, soundproofed, efficient.
Inside, she locked the door behind her with a soft click and reset the deadbolt out of habit.
Shoes off immediately. Bag hung precisely on the hook by the door. Jacket folded, not thrown.
The apartment was spare but elegant: pale wood floors and built-in shelves lined with reference books and research journals. No clutter, nothing unnecessary.
Kathleen exhaled slowly and crossed to the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the induction plate. She hated microwaves; they made the water taste strange. While it heated, she pulled a small ceramic jar from the cupboard—white tea, lightly floral—and lined up the tea strainer and cup.
When the kettle clicked off, she poured the water with steady hands, watching the pale leaves swirl. Only then did she allow herself to sit, tucking her legs neatly under her on the wide, low couch by the window.
The city stretched out before her in a glitter of lights. The chaos outside never touched her here. Behind triple-glazed glass and a locked door, the world was a safe, distant thing. She sipped her tea and reviewed tomorrow’s schedule in her mind.
Lab work in the morning. Tank Two adjustments. Meeting with the board of the Atlantic Environmental Research Foundation at three o’clock. She grimaced slightly at the thought. Formal events made her skin itch. Too many expectations, too many conversations that felt scripted.
But it was necessary; the funding mattered and the project mattered.
She reached for her laptop, swiping through the latest growth charts. The numbers settled her. They were clean, orderly and honest.
People lied, not numbers.
Kathleen drained her tea, set the cup precisely on its coaster, and reached for the small remote that controlled the apartment’s lighting. One touch, and the room dimmed to a soft, even glow—no harsh fluorescents or flickering bulbs.
She let herself sit there a little longer, then picked up the pictures of the three women.
Each one was clipped to a small, white profile card from the agency. Professional headshots, with age, background, education and hobbies attached.
It had taken Kathleen weeks to even reach out. She’d drafted three separate emails before finally she rang, and only after her mother had brought it up again during their last call.
"You can’t go to another event alone, Kathleen. People talk. You’re thirty-three, darling, not a recluse in a lab coat."
She was a recluse in a lab coat, but she knew better than to argue.
It wasn’t only about appearances. These events—fundraisers, gala dinners, political gatherings masked as science symposiums—they were part of the work now.
And showing up alone always made things harder.
The conversations dragged. The introductions grew strained.
And sooner or later, some man in a tailored suit would corner her, trying to explain her own research back at her like she hadn’t written it in the first place.
It was exhausting.
Worse, there had been... moments. Expectations and awkward touches.
Smiles that lingered too long. Men who’d assumed that her silence meant permission, that her discomfort was simply shyness, waiting to be charmed away.
Three awkward nights in bed with men had made her more adamant that she preferred women.
She had never said her preference aloud to anyone except one person at university, and that hadn’t ended well. She wasn’t ashamed of it—only ... uncertain what to do with it. Romance was complicated and messy. People were hard enough to decode in the lab, let alone in her living room.
The agency offered something simpler. Controlled, clear boundaries. No guessing games or unwanted touches. It wasn’t an escort service in the traditional sense. There was no sex involved. It was service catering for clients wanting a plus one at a function, or a companion for a night out.
If pressed, she could explain it to her mother. A business arrangement.
There was nothing strange about that. Scientists were practical people. Some of the wealthiest men in the world had been hiring companions for years and no one questioned them .
She studied the first profile: Ava, age twenty-five, blond hair, with prominent cheekbones and a grin that looked like it belonged on a yacht. According to her file, she worked in PR and moonlighted as a yoga instructor. She wouldn’t suit at all. Too high energy and social. Too young and eager.
Kathleen flipped to the second.
Ophelia. Twenty-eight, a model. Tall, willowy, the kind of beauty that walked into a room and made people stare. Her photo showed her in a sleek black dress, eyes downcast, the image of effortless sophistication.
Kathleen frowned. Women like Ophelia intimidated her.
They reminded her of the girls at college who had moved through parties with practiced elegance, while she’d hovered near the wall, pretending to check her phone or refold napkins.
She didn’t need someone who drew attention.
She needed someone who could help her deflect it.
She picked up the third profile.
Veronica Hale.
Kathleen stared at the photo.
Her dark hair, loose around her shoulders, framed a soft face with bedroom eyes. She wore a confident expression. Not smiling exactly, but not cold either, and there was a calm radiating from her. She looked like she belonged at a gala, but wouldn’t roll her eyes if Kathleen mispronounced a wine.
According to the file, she was thirty-six. Mature and self-assured. And curvy. Kathleen felt a strange flicker in her chest. That was the kind of body she felt comfortable around. Not thin and statuesque. She looked solid and real.
She turned the card over. Veronica had a background in “lifestyle consulting,” a vague enough phrase to be meaningless, but her profile emphasized calm professionalism and intelligence. She was listed as preferring female clients, which, definitely, was a point in her favour.
Kathleen looked at the three cards laid out side by side on the coffee table. Then she looked at them again. Her mind liked patterns. Comparisons. Measurable traits. But this wasn’t lab work. This was human interaction, and that always felt like trying to solve an equation with missing variables.
Still, there was no contest.
Ava was too young. Ophelia too polished.
Veronica looked like someone who wouldn’t treat the evening as a performance, or worse, as a business transaction.
Kathleen tapped the card once, aligning its edges with the others, and took a steady breath.
Veronica Hale. This was the practical, reasonable choice.
She didn’t need romance or even charm. She wanted someone who wouldn’t make her feel broken for not knowing what to say when the room got too loud.
At least her mother would be pleased. She would have someone on her arm, a distraction from the constant questions about when she was going to settle down, or if she was ‘still keeping all her options open.’
Kathleen stood and took the card to her desk, setting it beside her calendar carefully. Then she typed out a short message to the agency confirming her selection, and clicked send.
She told herself it was for one evening.
But as the screen faded back to black, she found herself glancing again at Veronica’s photo.
And thinking, not for the first time, that it might be nice to talk to someone who didn’t expect her to perform.