Chapter 2
Katie
Ilet out the breath I’ve been holding since the start of the interview and step into the noise of River North. The afternoon air hits me, and I shiver. There’s still a whisper of winter despite it being a spring day.
Stephan Marek is even more intimidating than I imagined. He’s a serrated edge in a charcoal suit. Up close, his jaw is sharp, his face clean-shaven and framed by dark hair just starting to silver at the temples. He doesn’t look like a man who asks for things. He looks like a man who takes them.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t both attracted to and intimidated by him.
Electricity fizzles on my palm from where our hands met. Keep it together, Katie, he’s going to be your boss.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks… I got the job… well, probably—Katie O’Shea from the South Side of Chicago—a big-city litigator. I want to vomit, but instead I pull out my phone and immediately dial my mom.
“Hi, sweetheart,” she answers, breathless, as though she’s been waiting by the phone. “How’d it go?”
“It went great!” I blurt, weaving through the rush-hour crowd toward the El train. The air is thick with heat and exhaust, and the smell of roasted nuts from a vendor drifts through it like a simple mercy. My whole body feels light, jittery—half laughter, half adrenaline.
“That’s great.” Relief floods her voice, and I picture her at the kitchen table, one hand on Mary’s arm, the other twisting the phone cord.
“It is, and when I get my first paycheck, I’m taking you and Mary out for a fancy dinner.”
She chuckles softly. “That sounds nice, Katie. Are you on your way home?”
We both know Mary’s rarely well enough to go out to restaurants, but I don’t say that. “Yeah. Hopping on the Red Line now.”
“Alright, see you soon. Love you, Katie.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
I hang up and scan my Ventra card. The turnstile clicks, and an electric buzz runs up my spine. I whisper a quick prayer of thanks under my breath—then add another for forgiveness, because if I end up working near Mr. Marek, I’ll probably need both.
The train barrels in with a rush of warm wind and the smell of metal and oil. I grab a seat by the window and let the motion swallow me. The Irish part of the South Side isn’t easy to reach; it always feels like crossing worlds.
I plug in my headphones, queue up the new Taylor Swift album, and watch the skyline slide by—steel giving way to brick, glitter turning to grit. The rhythm of the tracks hums in my chest, loosening something tight inside me. By the time we pass the White Sox stadium, I can almost breathe again.
My phone buzzes in my lap. I don’t have to look to know who it’s from. The subject line glows on the screen:
Subject: Offer of Employment – Katherine O’Shea
I bite my lip, trying not to squeal. A laugh still slips out as I open it.
Dear Ms. O’Shea,
We are pleased to extend to you an offer of employment with Marek, West & Roth LLP as an Associate Attorney in our Corporate Litigation Division, effective April 1, 2026.
Your starting annual salary will be $225,000, paid bi-weekly, and you will be eligible for a discretionary performance bonus at the end of each fiscal year. In addition, you will receive the firm’s comprehensive benefits package, which includes:
Medical, dental, and vision coverage
beginning on your start date
401(k) participation with firm match
after 90 days of employment
Paid time off in accordance with firm policy
Professional development and
continuing education reimbursement
Your primary office is located at the firm’s Chicago headquarters, 400 North LaSalle Street, and you will report directly to Mr. Stephan Marek, Senior Partner. Please confirm acceptance of this offer by replying to this message no later than March 15, 2026.
We are excited about the possibility of you joining the firm and look forward to welcoming you to the Marek, West & Roth team.
Sincerely, Jessica Nguyen Director of Human Resources Marek, West & Roth LLP
My eyes widen at the zeros. I’ve never seen numbers like that next to my name. Pressure prickles behind my eyes. With this money, I can pay for Mary’s treatments. I can help Mom with the mortgage. For once, life doesn’t feel like a losing race.
I don’t know yet how much this job will ask of me—but even now, it feels like something I’ll have to submit to in ways I’m not ready to name.
I lean my forehead against the window, watching my reflection blur into the passing city lights. “Thank you,” I whisper—to God, to luck, to whatever force decided to give us a break finally.
I let out a shaky breath, adrenaline still humming in my veins. For some reason, I can’t stop seeing Stephan Marek behind that mahogany desk—sharp jaw, unreadable eyes, a presence that filled the room long after I’d left it.
My fingers curl against my skirt until my nails press crescents into my skin. Don’t think this way, Katie. He’s your boss.
But logic doesn’t quiet the lump in my throat. Something about him—his stillness, his certainty—has lodged under my skin. It’s the kind of confidence I’ve spent my whole life trying to fake.
I allow myself to picture his hands running up my thigh. My skirt is just a whisper of fabric between us. A dangerous heat flares low in my stomach, and my throat closes around the air I mean to breathe.
I slam the door on the thought, the internal friction of the denial leaving a faint, nervous tremor in my fingers.
By the time the train screeches into 111th Street station, the sun’s dipped low, bleeding orange light over the rooftops. The spring sun feels different here—thinner, sharper, carrying the metallic tang of the lake and the faint, bitter scent of exhaust trapped in the damp streets below.
I walk the few blocks to the house I grew up in. Paint peeling, porch sagging, but still standing. The sound of wind chimes greets me before I even open the door.
“Mom, I’m home!”
Her voice floats from the kitchen. “In here, sweetheart.”
The smell of tomato soup and grilled cheese hits me—our version of comfort food when we can’t afford takeout. She stands by the stove, stirring, her hair pulled into the same loose bun it’s always been. It's once-vibrant red, now a stark white.
“How’s Mary?” I ask, dropping my bag on the counter.
“She had a rough afternoon, but she’s resting now.”
Guilt and relief collide in my chest. I slip my arms around Mom from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.
“I got the job,” I say into the soft cotton of her old floral shirt. The scent of her perfume—faded lilac and laundry soap—fills my lungs.
I feel her body ease beneath my cheek, tension draining out like a long exhale.
“Oh, Katie,” she whispers. “That’s wonderful.”
“It’s a lot of money, Mom. Enough for Mary’s treatments. Enough to breathe for once.”
She presses a hand to her mouth, eyes shining, and nods—just once—before the tears spill over.
We stay there in the small kitchen, the soup simmering behind us, two women holding still in the kind of silence that only comes after years of trying not to break.
“You'd better go tell your sister,” Mom says, turning back to her soup. “She’ll want to be woken up for this.”
“I’ll let her sleep for a little bit longer while I email and accept the offer.”
“Okay, sweetie. Congratulations again. Your father would be so proud of you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” The words land more heavily than they should. It’s been four years since we lost Dad, and I still expect to hear his laugh coming from the garage whenever someone says he’d be proud.
I head up the narrow stairwell to the same room I grew up in. The old wood floor creaks in all the familiar places. I certainly didn’t expect to be living here at thirty-two—but then again, I thought I’d be living a very different life.
I pull out my old MacBook and set it on the bright-purple comforter. As it boots up, I glance around the room. When I left for the convent, I gave away almost everything I owned. The walls are white and bare, except for a single nail where a crucifix once hung.
A long breath slips out. I peel off the blazer and the pencil skirt I’d bought on my credit card from the J. Crew outlet and drop them over the chair. The fabric smells faintly of the city—grease mixed with nerves.
I climb onto the bed in just my old T-shirt and underwear, pull the laptop onto my knees, and open my email.
The cursor blinks at me, patient and confident.
To: Jessica Nguyen Subject: Re: Offer – K. O’Shea
I type two words: I accept.
Then I hit send.
Anxiety and ambition spike in my veins. I am doing this. I am going to be a litigator at one of the top firms in the country. And I am going to save my sister.
It’s past six, and my stomach is grumbling. The whole house smells faintly of soup, and suddenly everything in me feels hungry—hungry for something I can’t or won’t name.
Stephan Marek’s handsome face dances around my mind.
I haven’t allowed myself to be attracted to anyone in a long time, and I certainly didn’t expect it to be my new boss.
Maybe it’s the tailored suit and the five o’clock shadow just starting to appear, or perhaps it’s the fact that his mere presence commands a room.
Does that kind of control extend to the bedroom as well?
I open the email again, reading the same lines I’ve already memorized. I should be thinking about paperwork, or what to wear on my first day, or how much of my first paycheck will go to Mary’s next treatment. But all I can think about is him.
I close the laptop. Fold my blazer. Smooth the comforter. Little things to keep my hands busy. It doesn’t help. The room feels too quiet, too full.
I sit on the edge of the bed, press my palms together, and whisper a quick prayer for focus. For strength. For anything that will make this restless, buzzing feeling stop.
It doesn’t. The silence just hums louder.