Chapter 6 Katie
Katie
It’s still dark when I board the train, coffee mug in hand.
The platform smells like metal and rain.
The city hasn’t woken yet. My eyes burn with exhaustion, but I don’t care.
I spent half the night digging through trial summaries and medical reports, trying to understand every corner of the Halcyon case before my meeting with Stephan this morning.
If I’m going to survive here—if I’m going to save Mary—I can’t afford to be anything less than perfect.
The first rays of light are barely scraping the horizon when I sit down at my desk and unwrap the egg sandwich Mom made for me last night.
The office is still and half-lit, the city’s glow just starting to bleed through the blinds.
I tell myself that someday I’ll be able to buy breakfast before the train, but right now every penny counts.
Four days until payday, and Mary’s next treatment already stares back at me from the calendar.
I boot up my computer and start printing everything I found overnight—case summaries, clinical trial data, and the brief I wrote at two in the morning.
The printer hums to life, spitting out sheets of white paper covered in black truths.
My eyes catch on phrases like “adverse event,” “patient non-responsive,” and my stomach twists.
Get it together, Katie. You’re not a nun anymore. You’re a lawyer, and there is no room for virtue here. Though my mind can’t help but compare the cases to Mary’s. All these patients were someone’s sister, mother, brother, father.
I force the thought away. My sister is still alive. And if Halcyon’s next-generation drug works, it could keep her that way.
The ding of the elevator pulls my attention. The energy in the office shifts, and I know without looking: it’s him. Footsteps echo across the marble floor, steady, unhurried, deliberate.
My pulse trips before I even look up.
Stephan Marek.
He moves like he owns the oxygen in the room, and maybe he does. A few associates glance up, then immediately back down at their screens. The quiet hum of the office dulls to near silence as he passes.
Today, his suit is navy—sleek, perfectly fitted, the kind of fabric that absorbs light instead of reflecting it.
Yesterday it was charcoal; I remember because I spent the whole meeting trying not to stare at the way it framed his shoulders.
His tie is darker, nearly black, a thin line of contrast against the crisp white of his shirt.
His hair is slightly damp, like he came straight from the shower, and the faintest trace of his cologne drifts through the air— clean, and probably more expensive than every penny I’ve ever earned.
Even from here, I can see the faint shadow of stubble along his chin, he’s too controlled to be careless, but too human to be perfect.
I straighten in my chair and pretend to read through a medical memo I’ve already scanned three times. The paper trembles slightly between my fingers. I tell myself it’s just caffeine.
“Ms. O’Shea,” his voice cuts through the space—low, even, commanding.
I look up.
“Good morning, Mr. Marek.”
He studies me for half a beat longer than necessary, his expression unreadable. “Bring your summaries and notes to my office in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turns and walks back into his office, the sound of his footsteps fading into the hush of the corridor. I wipe my already sweating palms on my skirt, the fabric sticking slightly to my skin. My heart hasn’t quite caught up to the rest of me.
“I have a 7:30,” I tell Annie, who waves me in without looking up.
“Go on in, dear,” she says, her tone warm and familiar—like a grandmother sending a child off to school. I wonder how she ended up working for Marek. She must be in her sixties, maybe seventies.
“Thanks.”
The door is open, but I still knock once—short, and firm enough to make my presence known.
Stephan looks up mid-sip, a mug of coffee halfway to his lips. “Close the door behind you, Ms. O’Shea.”
I do as he says, trying not to think about how my pulse stutters at the command.
“Let’s talk at the conference table,” he says, rising from his desk. He takes off his suit jacket and hangs it neatly on the hook before sitting at the polished wood table. The motion is simple and practiced, but my eyes still catch on the faint outline of muscle shifting beneath his shirt.
“Alright, Ms. O’Shea,” he says evenly. “Show me what you’ve found.”
I lay everything out in front of him—my notes, the summaries, the data printouts—and hope to God it’s enough.
I start talking, keeping my voice steady as I explain how the data clusters around one particular clinical site—higher success rates, but also more reported “adverse events.”
Stephan doesn’t interrupt; he just watches. When he finally does speak, it’s quiet enough that I have to lean forward to catch the words. “Good. You noticed the pattern most people miss.”
His gaze lifts to mine. The room seems smaller, the air heavier. “Tell me why you think that site stands out.”
I try to focus on the papers spread between us, but my pulse won’t cooperate. The scent of his coffee, the low rasp in his voice—everything sharpens into detail. I give my answer concisely.
“The data is too clean, Mr. Marek. In the convent, I learned that when an institution looks perfect on the outside, it’s usually because someone is working very hard to scrub the truth.
These participants aren’t staying because the drug is a miracle; they’re staying because they’re desperate for the stipend.
The site is exploiting their poverty to manufacture ‘perfection’ for the board.
It’s not a breakthrough—it’s a performance.
There are internal audit notes referenced here,” I add, tapping the margin.
“Redacted, but consistent. Someone flagged this site before the data was finalized.”
Stephan leans back, the leather of his chair creaking. He doesn't look at the files. He looks at me—specifically at the way my collarbone moves as I wait for his judgment.
“A performance,” he repeats, the words tasting like a challenge. “You see the sin beneath the spreadsheet, then.”
“I see the human cost,” I clarify, though my voice lacks the conviction I had a moment ago. Not because I don't believe it, but because the way he’s looking at me feels like it's own kind of confession.
He nods once, approving. “Most associates would have just told me the site was a litigation risk,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate register. “You told me why they’re falling. Discipline and discernment. It’s a rare combination. You’re thorough, Ms. O’Shea. Keep that up.”
When he leans across the table to make a note, his sleeve brushes the back of my hand.
The contact is nothing—an accident—but it lights every nerve I have.
I pull back too quickly, pretending to adjust a page.
My breath hitches—a small, treacherous sound.
I immediately regret the movement; it’s too fast, too reactive.
I pretend to align the edges of my notepad obsessively, my skin still humming where he touched me.
Stephan doesn't pull away. He keeps his hand where it is, mere inches from mine, and looks up.
His eyes are dark, focused, tracking the frantic pulse jumping in the hollow of my throat.
For a heartbeat, the "Senior Partner" mask slips, revealing a predatory curiosity that has nothing to do with clinical trials.
His mouth twitches, the ghost of a dark, knowing smile appearing before his expression flattens back into professional ice. “You’ll review the remaining files and flag anything similar. Understood?”
“Understood,” I say, the word barely a whisper.
“Sit here,” he says. He doesn't point; he simply taps the leather of the chair directly beside him. It isn't an invitation; it’s a directive.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second—the old instinct to retreat clashing with a newer, darker urge to obey.
I move, sliding into the seat. We are so close that the heat radiating from his shoulder bleeds through my blazer.
The scent of him—cedar, tobacco, and something sharp and masculine fills my lungs, making my head swim.
“Show me,” he commands, his voice dropping into a low, resonant register. “Exactly how you reached that conclusion.”
I angle the document toward him. My fingers tremble, the pen hovering over the data points. I can feel his eyes on me—not on the paper, but on the pulse point of my wrist, tracking my agitation.
“Slower,” he says.
The word is heavy, vibrating with a gravity that makes my thighs press together. I adjust, forcing my voice into a deliberate cadence. I am hyper-aware of him watching the way my lips move, the way my chest rises and falls with every jagged breath.
“Good,” he murmurs. The praise feels like a physical touch. “Now summarize it in a single line. No qualifiers. No hiding behind ‘perhaps’ or ‘maybe.’ Just the truth.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “The site is manipulating results through selective reporting.”
“Better.” His approval is quiet and utterly intoxicating. “That’s how you speak when you want to be heard. Clear. Decisive. Submissive to nothing but the facts. It’s how you’ll speak in court someday.”
I nod, unable to look away. My body responds to his tone in ways I don't know how to repent for. Every correction he gives feels less like a critique and more like he's stripping away my layers until only the raw nerve remains.
He reaches out and takes the paper from my hand. His fingers linger, a deliberate pressure that pins my hand to the desk for a heartbeat too long.
“That will be all for now, Ms. O’Shea. Review the next batch by the end of day.”
His dismissal cuts as sharply as his command. I push to my feet, my knees trembling. His touch lingers, heat ghosting over my skin as I collect my things.
“Oh, and Ms. O’Shea?”