Chapter 6 Katie #2
I stop, my back going rigid at the sound of my name. I turn slowly, meeting those dark, discerning eyes.
“Yes?”
“It’s going to be a long night. Annie will order dinner for us. Clear whatever plans you have.”
My heart skips a beat at the word us.
“I will,” I say, my voice softer than I intend.
I turn toward the door, my pulse still a frantic, stuttering prayer in my throat.
My skirt brushes against my legs—a whisper of silk that feels loud in the heavy silence.
In the convent, vanity was a vice, and the desire to be noticed was a sin to be confessed.
We were taught to move as if we were already ghosts, vessels for a spirit that required no earthly attention.
But as I cross the room, that practiced invisibility feels like a lie.
Every step I take is a transgression. I find myself slowing my pace, my hips swaying with a new, dangerous intent.
I am a woman who has spent her life looking toward heaven, but in this moment, I am praying for a very different kind of witness.
I want him to look up. I want him to feel the sudden, cold vacuum of my absence. Most of all, I want the sight of me leaving to be the only thing he can’t forget tonight.
I reach the door, my hand trembling as I grip the cool brass handle. I don't look back. I can't. If I do, I’m afraid he’ll see that the “saint” he hired is already halfway to the fire.
The handle is cool against my palm.
“Good work this morning,” he says without looking up.
The words hit harder than they should.
“Thank you, Mr. Marek.”
I step out into the hallway, closing the door behind me. The air outside his office feels thinner somehow, as if I’ve just surfaced from deep water. My hands are shaking again, and no amount of coffee is going to steady them.
Carmen is in by the time I get back to my desk.
“You’re here early,” She says, biting into a croissant.
“I had a one-on-one with Marek,” I say, leaning back in my chair, letting the weight of the meeting settle on me.
A shocked look crosses her face. “You survived a solo meeting with Marek. That’s either an achievement or a death wish. Which was it?”
I pretend to study the stack of files in front of me. “He was professional. Thorough.”
“Thorough,” she repeats, smirking. “That’s one word for him. Most people just call him terrifying.”
“He’s not that bad.” The words come out too quickly, and she raises an eyebrow.
“Interesting. Most people don’t defend him after one meeting.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I’m just saying he expects competence.”
“Sure.” She spins in her chair, grinning. “And you want to impress him. Don’t worry, that’s everyone’s first mistake here.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she’s already back to her screen, the rhythmic clicking of her keyboard filling the air.
I glance toward Stephan’s office. The blinds are half-closed again, a sliver of movement just visible through the gap.
I take a sip of lukewarm coffee and tell myself it’s only admiration. Nothing more.
I spend the rest of the day hunched over my computer, studying everything I can about Halcyon—putting in requests for documents, cross-checking trial data, and combing through similar cases. Before I realize it, it’s 6 P.M., and the office is beginning to clear out.
An email pings on my screen.
From: Annie Kaiser Subject: 6:30 DISCOVERY MEETING Mr. Marek would like to see you in his office to go over your daily findings in thirty minutes. Your dinner will be sent up at 7 P.M. –Annie
I let out a breath and start printing everything I’ve gathered.
Before I head in, I text Mom to let her know I’ll be working late.
MOM: OK, honey. Love you. Be safe. Text me when you’re on your way home.
ME: I will. Love you too.
I brace myself, gather my files, and make my way down the hall.
I spend the rest of the day buried in the trenches of medical dictionaries, clinical trial practices, similar cases, and every piece of documentation Halcyon sent over.
By the time I look up. The sun has crossed the horizon. My stomach grumbles.
The rest of the office is practically empty—most people have lives to return to.
Only the hum of the HVAC and the clatter of a few keyboards remain, the sound of people rushing to finish work before they escape into the night.
My heart aches at the thought of Mom and Mary at home without me.
Usually, we spend Friday nights on the couch watching old movies and ordering takeout—well, at least the takeout part will be the same.
The door to Mr. Marek’s office is open when I arrive, the light low and golden against the dark wood. He’s at the big table, jacket off, sleeves rolled, reading glasses on, as he sorts through the papers arranged in precise stacks around him. A second set of chopsticks waits beside his laptop.
“Sit. Show me what you’ve found.”
Without thinking, I do as he commands. As if my body cannot deny him.
I start walking him through the reports, careful to keep my voice level.
“Most of the discrepancies are in the third-phase trial data. The outcomes are cleaner than the control, almost too clean. And the language used to justify exclusions—‘noncompliance,’ ‘patient relocation’—shows up more often at one specific site.”
He listens, silent except for the occasional turn I walk him through the reports, trying to keep my voice from wavering.
He leans in, his shoulder nearly brushing mine. He doesn't look at the graphs; he looks at my finger as it traces the lines. He is silent, save for the rhythmic, steady sound of his breathing.
“You think they buried the outliers?” he asks. It’s not a question; it’s an invitation to be as ruthless as he is.
“I think they performed an exorcism,” I say, the word slipping out before I can stop it. “They cast out everything that didn't fit the miracle they wanted to sell.”
Stephan’s eyes snap to mine. A slow, smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—the first real one I’ve seen. “An exorcism. I like that, Ms. O’Shea. Find out who supervised that site. I want a complete profile. No one hides a body that well without leaving a trail of breadcrumbs.”
“Understood.” I reach for my pen to jot it down, but my skin is still humming from his proximity. My coordination fails me—the pen slips, clattering against the mahogany desk and rolling across the glossy pages of the report.
“Sorry—” I start, lunging forward to catch it.
Stephan moves at the same time.
He clamps his hand over mine and pins my palm to the cool, printed page. Heat floods my skin where he holds me—unyielding, precise—the hand of a man who doesn’t ask for permission.
I freeze. The air in the room vanishes, sucked out by the sheer gravity of him.
He doesn't pull away. He stays there, his fingers splayed over the back of my hand, his thumb resting right over my pulse.
He has to feel it—the frantic, rhythmic thud of my heart betraying every “professional” thought I have.
“Easy,” he whispers. The word is a command dressed as a comfort.
Slowly, he slides the pen back toward me, but his thumb lingers, dragging across the sensitive skin of my wrist with agonizing slowness before he finally draws back. He is perfectly composed, while I feel like I’ve been stripped bare.
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice sounding like it belongs to someone else.
The heavy oak door creaks open. Annie steps in, carrying the final bags of takeout. The spell breaks instantly, the “normal” world rushing back in.
“Dinner’s served,” Annie says, oblivious to the fact that the oxygen in the room is still burning. “I put the extra wasabi in the side tray, Mr. Marek.”
I draw a slow breath and anchor myself in the mundane—food, work, Mary’s name like a quiet reprimand, reminding me, this is why I’m here.
“Thank you, Annie.” Stephan doesn't look at her. He’s looking at me, his gaze dark and unreadable. “Ms. O’Shea and I have a lot of work to do. It’s going to be a very late night.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice sounding thin as I stare at the plastic containers. My stomach grumbles—a traitorous, human sound in a room that feels increasingly like a vacuum.
“You’re welcome, dear,” Annie chirps, oblivious to the way my heart is hammering against my ribs. “I’ll be right back with your waters.”
She returns a moment later, setting two chilled glass bottles on the mahogany. The condensation is the only cold thing in a room that is rapidly heating up. “If you need anything else, I’ll be at my desk for a little while longer.”
“That won’t be necessary, Annie.”
Stephan’s voice is smooth, a velvet glove over a steel command. He doesn't look at his assistant. His eyes are fixed on me, dark and unblinking, tracking the way I haven't quite managed to stop my hands from shaking. “You can go home. We have everything we need.”
“Yes, sir. See you Monday. Don’t work her too hard, Mr. Marek,” Annie says– a playful warning for us both.
When the heavy oak door finally clicks shut, the sound echoes like a gavel.
Stephan leans back, the leather of his chair creaking. He doesn't reach for the food. He simply watches me, his silence a weight I’m not sure I can carry.
“You’re trembling, Ms. O’Shea,” he says softly. It isn't a question. It’s an observation of a weakness he’s already mapped out. “Is it the hunger? Or the company?”
“Just first week jitters.” I try to play off the mixture of arousal and anxiety swirling in my veins.
Stephan reaches for the bottle, his fingers ringing faintly against the glass, the sound carrying. He doesn't open it. He just turns it in his hands, watching the droplets of condensation slide down the sides.
“Eat,” he says. It’s a quiet suggestion, yet it carries the weight of an order. “You’ve had a long day, and I find my associates are more useful when they aren't distracted by an empty stomach.”