Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
F uck. Fuck. Fuck.
Marise dug her hands in her pockets, having no idea what went wrong. She opened the door of her apartment and lay on her bed, with her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
She replayed the moment over again. The way Kathleen had leaned into her, then the panic. As well as stuffing it up, she’d let the scientist get under her skin.
Damnit. This job was supposed to be straightforward: get her trust to find out what she was working on and how far she was away from finishing the project. Simple. But now, over three weeks, Marise hadn’t made any inroads. And she’d likely lost any chance of another date.
Disgruntled, she went to bed.
Two nights later, she accompanied a client in her late fifties to a play on Broadway. The way Marise was feeling, she needed this date like a hole in the head.
Darlene Hunt was twice-divorced, the kind of woman who treated life like it was made for her pleasure.
She’d booked Marise as an accessory—to be seen with her at the theatre, and then she would expect her to warm her bed afterward.
She hated this sort of client. The woman’s laugh had an expensive ring to it; low, polished, full of entitlement.
She wore diamonds the size of raindrops and called Marise darling as they stepped out of the theatre into the cold night air.
When the car reached her hotel, Darlene brushed her arm. “Come up for a nightcap?”
Marise smiled to lessen the refusal. “I appreciate the offer, but not tonight.”
Darlene tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “Really?”
“Sorry.” Marise stepped back out of her reach.
Darlene gave a shrug, not amused. “Your loss, darling.”
After the woman disappeared through the glass doors, Marise stood under the streetlamp, feeling frustrated. God knows she could have done with some stress relief, but brash, entitled Darlene, although she would have been experienced in the bedroom, didn’t appeal at all.
She’d never had scruples before. God knows she’d had enough one-night-stands over the years that meant nothing, but her mind rebelled at being paid for sex. She wasn’t a whore—she always controlled the narrative when it came to that part of her life.
But now it was Kathleen’s face that flickered like a tic at the back of her mind, no matter how hard she tried to shut her out. She stalked back toward the curb to call a cab. Getting involved with a client wasn’t supposed to happen and she was furious with herself for letting it.
She’d have to hurry up and get the info she wanted and get out of New York.
The next morning, her phone rang and she recognized the number immediately. Elise.
Marise answered, her voice cool. “Veronica speaking.”
Elise’s tone was calm as always. “You’ve been requested for tomorrow evening.”
Marise closed her eyes. “Client name?”
“Dr. Knowles. She asked for a quiet dinner. No event. No special instructions, aside from meeting her at a restaurant in Carlton. Seven-thirty.”
Marise sat up abruptly. “She asked for me?”
“She did.” There was a pause before Elise added, “She said it would be nice to see you again.”
Marise let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Confirm the booking,” she said. “I’ll be there.”
“I’ll send the details.”
When the line disconnected, Marise stared at the phone for a long time before setting it down. So, Kathleen hadn’t retreated. She hadn’t buried herself behind plants and test tubes and vanished into the quiet routines that usually protected her.
She wanted to try again.
Marise stood and crossed to the window. The lights of the city blurred slightly through the glass. She didn’t smile, but something in her posture shifted, like a decision being made, even if she didn’t know what it was yet.
Tomorrow, she would go. But this time, she would get what she wanted.
M arise arrived at the restaurant five minutes early.
It was one of those quietly expensive places, tucked between a pharmacy and a clothing boutique on a Carlton side street—discreet signage, and wide-set windows, soft lighting. The kind of place that didn’t advertise itself. It didn’t have to.
Inside, the hum of conversation was low. A mix of date-night couples and subdued professionals. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. White linen, polished cutlery, good food and a ma?tre d’ who greeted her like an important guest.
“Reservation under Knowles,” Marise said.
“Of course. Your friend is already seated.”
The hostess led her past the open bar and through to a smaller alcove tucked near the rear of the space, intimate but not hidden. Quiet enough to feel separate from the rest.
Kathleen sat with her back straight, a menu in front of her, hands folded in her lap. She wore a floral blouse, simple gold earrings, and her hair half-pulled back the way it had been at the gallery. There was colour in her cheeks which wasn’t makeup.
When she looked up and saw Marise, she gave a small, tight smile.
Marise approached the table and let her smile ease into something warmer as she murmured, “Hi.”
“Hello, Veronica,” Kathleen said, rising slightly, then sitting again when she remembered herself. “Thank you for coming.”
“You look great.”
Kathleen glanced down at her water glass, then back up. “So do you.”
Marise sat. She didn’t reach for the menu yet. “How are you?” she asked softly.
Kathleen hesitated. “Alright. Better than the other night.”
“That’s good.”
“I wasn’t sure if I’d… scared you off.”
Marise smiled. “You didn’t.”
“Because I almost scared myself,” Kathleen added, then immediately winced. “That sounded dramatic. I meant?—”
“I know what you meant.” Marise let her voice stay steady, low. “You were overwhelmed. That’s not unusual.”
Kathleen nodded once, then picked up her menu as if that could shield her. “I thought it might be easier this time,” she said after a pause. “A public space. No expectations. Only dinner.”
Marise leaned back, studying her. “Dinner’s perfect.”
A waiter arrived and they placed their orders—nothing complicated. A glass of wine each. The specials of the evening.
When he left, they sat in a silence that wasn’t quite awkward, but not relaxed either.
“I almost didn’t book,” Kathleen said finally.
Marise tilted her head and regarded her curiously. “Why did you?”
“Because I didn’t want that to be the last time I saw you.”
Her honesty struck Marise more than she expected.
Kathleen straightened slightly, almost defensively. “I know I acted like a fool.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Kathleen’s fingers curled against the edge of her napkin. “I want to get better at this. At... people. I want to try again.”
Marise gave her a sympathetic look. “Then we’ll try again.”
Kathleen looked like she didn’t quite believe her. But her shoulders dropped a fraction. She reached for her wine, sipped once, then said, with a self-deprecating glance, “And I promise not to panic if you get too close.”
Marise smiled. “There’ll be no surprises.”
Kathleen didn’t speak again for several minutes.
They sat there, quietly sitting across from each other.
When she finally did, her voice was quiet, like she wasn’t sure if the words were for Marise or the room.
“You asked about my work the other night,” she said, not looking at her.
“I wasn’t trying to be evasive. I... don’t talk about it. ”
Marise tilted her head. “Does anyone know? Your board?”
Kathleen shook her head. “They get summaries. Data sets. Sanitised versions. But the core algorithms and the structure of the cellular interface stay with me.”
Marise kept her expression neutral. Inside, her interest sharpened. “Not even your sponsors?”
Kathleen laughed. “Especially not them. They’re entrepreneurs not scientists.
” She leaned forward with her fingers laced loosely.
“What I’m building is a living system. And if it’s rushed, or manipulated.
..” She paused, then gave a small shake of her head.
“It’s not ready. And the more people know, the more pressure I’ll get to scale it before it’s stable. ”
Marise studied her carefully. “So, who does know?”
Kathleen hesitated, then whispered. “Ted.”
“Ted?”
She nodded. “My assistant. He’s clumsy and a little too chatty, but he’s smart. I’ve been teaching him piece by piece. He’s the only one who understands how it works.”
Marise smiled softly, tucking that fact away. “He’s lucky.”
Kathleen gave a half-shrug. “He’s doing his PhD. I needed someone to help.”
They lapsed into silence again. Marise didn’t want to push her further—not tonight. Not after this. But something inside her, curiosity, affection, maybe something more dangerous, urged her to leave on a better note.
After they finished dining, they strolled down the street window-shopping before Marise hailed a cab to take Kathleen home. She walked her to the door and waited while Kathleen found her keys.
Her gaze flicked up to Marise’s before she inserted it into the lock. “I’m glad you came,” she said a little shyly.
“So am I.” Marise stepped a little closer, careful not to crowd her. “And I’m really pleased you talked to me. About everything.”
Kathleen gave a small nod, but her lips parted slightly.
Marise reached up gently, one hand resting against Kathleen’s cheek, her thumb brushing beneath her eye. “I’m not going to push,” she said softly. “But... may I?”
Kathleen didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull back either.
So Marise leaned in—slowly and carefully—and kissed her.
Just a brush. A moment of warmth. And to her surprise, Kathleen didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen or pull away.
She returned it hesitantly, with a little pressure of her own.
When they pulled apart, Kathleen’s breath hitched, but she was smiling. “Goodnight, Veronica,” she said.
“Goodnight, Kathleen.”
Marise walked away into the night, her steps slow, a warm feeling she didn’t expect.
She got back to the hotel after midnight. The city outside her window glowed with its usual indifference and she toed off her heels, and dropped onto the armchair with a long sigh. Her laptop was still open on the desk where she’d left it.
A pulsing green dot blinked in the corner of the screen.
Incoming mail.
She opened it. Encrypted.
Marise sat up, the warmth of the evening bleeding quickly into something sharper. She keyed in the code and waited.
The message unspooled in cold, clinical lines:
No verified intel received.
Status request: progress on subject's proprietary research.
Our window is closing. Reaffirm deliverables.
We expect an update within 72 hours. Do not disappoint us.
No signature. A timestamp, enough to chill her spine.
Marise closed the message and leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled against her lips.
She was under no illusion that they were getting impatient. Next message will be a warning.
For a long minute, she stared at the wall, mind racing.
Kathleen had opened the door a little. But not enough.
Not for what the client wanted. Not for what they were paying for.
She needed to deliver something soon. So, she typed into the computer, Knowles isn’t ready to share her research yet.
It’s not ready. Needs to be stabilized. Satisfied, she hit the send button.
That would keep the wolves from the door for a while, but she needed to find out what she was designing.
Her thoughts flicked back to the conversation.
Ted.
He was the one Kathleen trusted. The only one who knew what the research really was.
If Kathleen wouldn’t give her the answers, maybe he would.
Marise walked to the window, looking out over the city. Her reflection stared back, composed, calculating. But underneath, a pulse of something else was building.
She didn’t want to hurt Kathleen.
But if she didn’t get the intel then someone else would.
And that meant she had to act before they did.
She turned back toward her laptop and opened a new file.
Tomorrow, she’d find Ted.
And this time, she’d get what she needed.