Chapter 5 Stephan
Stephan
“Yeah, that sounds good,” I say as Cassian and Damien go back and forth about Halcyon’s PR exposure.
“So we’re in agreement,” Damien says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “It’s best if they stay quiet for now?”
Cassian and I nod in unison.
“Great. Let’s get them on the phone.”
I rub the exhaustion from my eyes and glance at my watch—7:15 p.m. The day has bled straight into night.
Beyond the glass, Chicago is caught in that brief pause between sunset and dark—the sky a bruised violet fading to indigo, the city lights flickering to life one by one. The reflections stretch across my office windows, fractured between steel and shadow.
“Too late for another coffee?” I mutter, mostly to myself.
“I’d suggest something stronger,” Damien says. “But I know how regimented you are in what you put in your body.”
I give him a look that says: Fuck off. “I can let loose sometimes.”
“Sure.” Damien turns my phone towards him and dials the Halcyon office.
The next hour drags by in numbers and damage control—crisis statements, risk assessments, Cassian’s unshakable precision slicing through the conversation like a scalpel.
By the time we hang up, the sky outside has turned black, and the city’s glow has taken over.
“All in a day’s work,” Damien says, stretching.
“We’re not charging them enough,” Cassian adds dryly.
“Talk to accounting about that tomorrow. Let’s get a drink. Pour House?” Damien’s already halfway out the door before we can answer.
“I’m going to pass,” I say. “Early morning tomorrow.”
“Suit yourself,” he calls over his shoulder. “Cass? You in?”
Cassian exhales, resigned. “I’ll have one.”
“Yesss. You never come out. See you tomorrow, Stephan.”
I wave them off, leaning back in my chair with a long breath. The office is quiet now—just the faint hum of the HVAC and a few associates still burning the midnight oil.
The day replays in my mind: Katie sitting across from me, steady, earnest. The scent of her perfume still lingers in the air—or maybe it’s just in my head.
“If anything, I have more reason to work hard.”
Fuck, that hit harder than it should’ve. She’s here for all the right reasons. Doing this to save her sister.
But will she be able to stomach what she finds here?
We don’t represent innocent entities.
I loosen my tie and call my town car to come and pick me up. On the way out, I stop and stare at Katie’s desk. She has a small picture of St. Thomas More, patron saint of lawyers, pinned to her cubicle. She would choose the one known for his conscience.
I shake my head. I don’t think he would’ve approved of the law we do here, but we could use the support.
By the time I get home, it’s nearly ten. Dark bags hang beneath my eyes– the kind caffeine can’t erase.
My penthouse is dark and quiet. Floor-to-ceiling glass looks out over the city—a skyline of glass and ambition. On the other side, the waves of Lake Michigan wash against the shore– a reminder that nature rules all.
I’ve curated every detail to my liking—no clutter, no softness.
Even after hiring one of the best designers in the city, the space refuses to feel like home.
More like a place where I sleep and shower, and perform debaucherous acts with women I forget the next morning.
It is a far cry from the small house I grew up in, full of four ruckus boys, and the ever-present shadow of my father.
I drop my briefcase on the console table and kick off my shoes, the sound echoing against the marble. The place is too quiet.
I loosen my collar and head to the bar. One finger of scotch. Two. The amber liquid catches the city lights as I swirl it, watching them bend through the glass. I am usually meticulous about how much I drink, but after today… after Katie… I need something to take the edge off.
Across the room, my reflection stares back from the window—tie undone, shirt sleeves rolled up. A man who’s built his life around precision, now haunted by a single variable he can’t control.
Katie O’Shea.
I rack my brain trying to decipher what it is about her that unnerves me so much.
Is it her purity? Her devotion to a god I abandoned?
Or maybe it’s something darker. She’s a variable I didn’t predict—a nun turned lawyer— two professions that require devotion, but what I really want to know is, would she be utterly devoted to me?
Would she bend to my will as she bent to her God’s?
I push the thought aside and down the rest of my scotch. Just enough to round out my edges after a long day. I should work out, but it’s after ten now, and I won’t be able to sleep if I do.
So instead, I run a hot bath for myself.
The bathroom fills with steam, blurring the edges of the mirror. I loosen the last button of my shirt and set it neatly on the counter. Everything in its place. Always in its place.
The water stings as I step in, heat climbing over my chest until the tension in my shoulders begins to uncoil.
I close my eyes and listen to the faint hiss of the water, the city hum beyond the glass, the hollow sound of my own breathing.
Control. That’s all I’ve ever needed. That’s all I’ve ever trusted.
But control doesn’t quiet the mind; it only cages it.
Images slip through the cracks—her voice, soft but certain; the way she met my eyes when I asked her if she was prepared to work on the case. That kind of steadiness isn’t learned. It’s something people are born with.
I press my thumb and forefinger together under the water until the pressure hurts. It’s a reminder—pain, discipline, order.
I tell myself she’s an employee. A subordinate. That my interest in her is professional. But the lie tastes thin, dissolving the way the scotch did earlier.
I exhale, long and low, watching the ripples break across the surface.
Tomorrow, she’ll be in my office again. And I’ll have to pretend this means nothing.
I towel off and stare at my phone, trying to decide if I should get Katie out of my system one more time or go cold turkey.
The agency’s numbers stare back at me like a dare.
I need a release. I need to forget Katie, and there’s only one way to get that out of my system.
Reluctantly, I dial the number.
The line picks up, and a woman answers—her voice smooth, professional. “Good evening, Mr. M. Same arrangement?”
I hesitate. My reflection in the window looks back at me, water still beading down my shoulders.
“Yes,” I say finally. “Tonight, as soon as possible.”
“Would you like Veronica again?”
“Yes.”
“Hourly or for the night?”
“Hourly.”
“Very well. We will charge the card on file, and Veronica will be there in the next forty minutes. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No. Goodnight.”
I hang up and sit on the edge of the bed as the screen goes dark, leaving only the city lights burning through the glass. I know the kind of man I am, and I hate it.
A soft knock comes forty minutes later. She’s on time, as always.
Veronica steps inside wearing all black—precise, anonymous.
She moves the way people do when they’ve memorized a part.
For a split second, the coppery tone of her hair catches the light, almost the same shade as Katie’s—until I see the artificial gloss of dye.
The resemblance ends there. Her skin is too tan, her mouth painted too red, her body sculpted to please.
Manufactured beauty, efficient and empty.
“Mr. M.” Her voice is low, practiced.
“Veronica.”
There is no pretense between us. We both know what this is. It’s about silence. About command and obedience, about watching someone else yield because you tell them to.
I motion for her to follow me into the bedroom, and she does.
Inside, I shut the door behind us, and Veronica strips down to nothing. Her body molded by surgeries and the fantasies men have told her they want. Her breasts are perky and large, but fake.
“Are you going to be a good girl for me tonight?” I ask.
“Yes, sir.” She nods, kneeling on the floor, just like she has done so many times before.
Taking a blindfold and handcuffs from my dresser drawer, I tie the soft silk over her eyes, then bind her hands behind her back. The click of the steel is the only genuine sound in the room.
Running a finger down her spine, I imagine it’s not some woman I pay to help me find release. I lean down, my breath hot on the back of her neck, and I see copper hair catching the light, not artificial dye. I imagine Katie's body, trembling not from practice, but from genuine transgression.
I let my towel slip. My cock is already hard and throbbing for release.
Slowly, I lower her forward so that her ass is in the air and her face is in my expensive carpet. She doesn’t say anything— exactly what I pay her for.
“Are you going to get wet for me?” I ask, rubbing my hand along her slick pussy.
“I already am,” she moans in the way she has practiced a thousand times.
“Good,” I say, knowing if this were Katie, I would take the time to make sure she was ready, but this isn’t Katie, and this isn’t about anything other than my release.
I plunge my hard cock into her, roughly. The act is centered purely on control. I hold her bound hands as I relentlessly slam into her again and again until I don’t even see her anymore.
An image intrudes into my mind– wrong and uninvited. A vision of Katie, green eyes wide, forced to stare at the consequence of her own purity. I want her fear, her devotion, the utter, shattering of her discipline.
I tighten my grip. Push forward. Try to finish what I started.
The control snaps. I finish quickly, a harsh, sudden release that leaves me cold and unmoored. I wait for the usual silence in my mind to follow, but it doesn’t. I step away, the sweat cooling instantly on my back.
Veronica holds still, silent and obedient, until I release her. She moves without a word, dressing as efficiently as she undressed—a clock rewinding to the professional hour.
The door clicks shut, sealing me in silence. I stand naked in the center of the room, the emptiness pressing close. Control settles over me again, cold and hollow.
I expelled the tension, but I didn't erase the variable. For the first time, the ritual didn't silence the thought.