Chapter 6 Katie #3
I open my container, and the scent of vinegar and ginger suddenly overwhelms me. My chopsticks feel like clumsy extensions of my fingers as I take a small bite. He doesn't eat; he just watches, his chin resting on his hand.
“So,” he says, his voice a low, smooth vibration. “Six years. That’s a long time to spend in silence, Ms. O’Shea. I imagine the world feels quite loud by comparison.”
I swallow, trying to regain my footing. “The world is louder, yes. But the principles are the same. Discipline is universal, Mr. Marek.”
“Is it?” He tilts his head, a predatory glint in his dark eyes. “In the convent, you were disciplined for the sake of your soul. Here, I expect you to be disciplined for the sake of the win. One requires faith; the other requires a certain... ruthlessness. I’m curious if you can bridge that gap.”
The way he says ruthlessness makes it sound like a compliment.
“I've handled more ‘ruthless’ personalities than you’d think, sir,” I reply, my voice regaining its edge. “The Church isn't all hymns and incense.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. It’s not a warm smile; it’s the look of a man who has found a puzzle he actually wants to solve.
“I don't doubt it. But there's a difference between following a rule because you fear God, and following a rule because I told you to.” He leans forward, his shadow stretching across the desk until it touches my hand. “I wonder which one you're better at.”
I don’t answer because I don’t know. I’ve always been a rule follower.
The silence in the room is heavy, but for the first time since I walked in, I don’t feel like I’m drowning in it. I set my chopsticks down with a soft clack and meet his gaze. I don't flinch. I don't look away.
“You think there’s a difference, Mr. Marek?
There isn’t.” I keep my voice low, as cool and precise as the steel and glass surrounding us.
“In the convent, I answered to an invisible authority with the power to judge my very soul. I spent six years mastering the art of absolute, unquestioning focus in the face of total silence.”
I lean in just an inch, mirroring his posture.
“You're a man who likes to be heard. You're not loud, but you're powerful in other ways. In the silence that commands rooms. In your confidence. In your intellect. Compared to what I’ve answered to before? You're easy to follow.” I give him a thin, sharp smile—one that doesn't reach my eyes. “If you want ruthlessness, don't worry about me ‘bridging the gap.’ I’ve already crossed it. I’m not here because I’m looking for a new God to fear. I’m here because I’m very good at what I do.”
Stephan stays perfectly still. For a long second, he doesn't even seem to breathe. The silence stretches just long enough for me to wonder if I’ve misjudged him entirely.
He picks up his water bottle, and cracks the seal. The sound is like a gunshot in the quiet room.
“Easy to follow,” he repeats, the words a low, dangerous caress. “I don't think anyone has ever described me quite like that before, Ms. O’Shea.”
“There's a first time for everything, sir.”
He takes a slow sip of water, his eyes never leaving mine. “I suppose there is.”
For a while, we eat in silence. The faint crackle of chopsticks, the rustle of paper, the clink of his watch against the table. I focus on my sushi, grateful for something to do with my hands.
“Sushi was a good choice,” he says finally. “Thank you, Annie,” I reply, managing a small smile. “She’s the one who thought of dinner.”
“She knows I forget to eat when I’m working.” He looks down at his tray. “She worries.”
The image surprises me: this man who commands courtrooms has someone who worries about whether he’s eaten.
“Do you ever stop?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He raises an eyebrow. “Stop?”
“Working. Thinking. Planning the next thing.”
He considers that. “Not often. The firm doesn’t run on sentiment.”
I nod, pushing a piece of shrimp tempura through soy sauce. “I guess that’s something I’ll have to get used to.”
“You’ll adapt,” he says. “I have to imagine the church doesn’t stop either, and you seem like a quick study.”
The compliment is simple, but it warms something in my chest I didn’t know was cold. I glance up, and our eyes meet across the table. The city lights catch in the reflection of his glasses, turning his gaze unreadable.
I look away first, setting my chopsticks down.
Stephan breaks the silence. “How different is this from the convent?”
I knew these questions would come. They always do. “Well,” I say slowly, “it’s regimented. Kind of like this. Except we spent hours in prayer instead of in front of a computer.”
He takes a bite of sushi, chewing thoughtfully. I watch the movement of his throat as he swallows, the deliberate calm in everything he does.
“And what do you pray for... Sister O’Shea?”
The title lands like a challenge and a tease all at once.
I force a small laugh. “I’m not a sister anymore, Mr. Marek.”
“I know.” He leans back slightly, studying me. “But if you were?”
I meet his gaze, pulse quickening. “Strength,” I say finally. “To do what’s right, even when it isn’t easy.”
He nods once, slow and measured. “That’s a useful prayer in this business.”
I hesitate, then ask quietly, “And what about you, Mr. Marek? What do you pray for?”
He looks down at his plate, the faintest hint of amusement crossing his face. “I don’t pray.”
The words are flat. Closed. I don’t push any further.
Outside, the city glows against the dark glass—millions of lights flickering like votive candles.
Stephan clears his throat first, breaking whatever this is. “Let’s finish the cross-references before the night’s gone.”
“Of course,” I say, grateful for something practical to hold on to.
We work side by side, the rhythm of turning pages and typing keys filling the room. Every so often, our hands move toward the same stack of files, but this time we’re careful—an inch of air is always between us.
By the time we’re done, the sushi containers are empty, and the city outside has turned black and silver.
“That’ll do for tonight,” he says, gathering his papers into a perfect stack. “Good work, Ms. O’Shea.”
“Thank you.” I rise, tucking my notes against my chest.
He nods once, already focused back on the file in front of him. “Get some rest. Monday will be worse.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “I’m counting on it.”
I step into the hallway, and the door closes behind me—too final, too loud. The office lies empty. My footsteps mingle with the hum of the lights as I leave.
For the first time since joining the firm, I realize I’m not sure whether I’m afraid of Stephan Marek… or of myself.