Chapter 7 Stephan
Stephan
The chair across from me is still angled slightly toward the table, the way she left it. A strand of copper hair clings to the dark wood. I reach for it, my thumb hovering over the grain, then I pull back. My hand is a fist before I realize I’ve made it.
The room still holds the faint scent of her shampoo—something clean and light that doesn’t belong in an office built on blood and ambition. It settles in my lungs and sticks there.
Fragments of our conversation loop through my head: her calm certainty, her faith in things unseen, the quiet belief that there’s good left in the world. Good left in me.
It’s unsettling. A distraction I can feel in my pulse, in the tightness behind my ribs.
I press my palms flat on the table, as if pressure alone could drive the thought of her out of me.
She’s an associate. A variable to manage. Nothing more.
I can’t help but remember the way she looked at me. The way she saw me. Not the lawyer. Not the partner. Me.
“And what about you, Mr. Marek? What do you pray for?”
No one in this firm would ever dare ask that. Not because they respect my privacy, but because they fear my response. They see the polished surface, the win rate, the man who never lets the mask slip.
My father was a chaos of broken glass and slurred rage. I am the opposite. I am a machine. I am distant. I am precise.
Yet she did. Calmly. Without calculation. Like she wasn’t afraid of what she might find in the answer.
I don’t let people get close—certainly not associates. Yet, I want her steadiness near me again—and hate myself for it.
I shake my head. Distance is cleaner—predictable. The lines stay where they belong, so no one crosses them by mistake. Most people at this firm only know the version of me I’ve curated: the polished surface, the perfect win rate, the man who is never rattled.
That’s how it has to be. In this world, you are either the hammer or the glass, and I decided long ago which one I would be.
I’ve spent my entire life running from the man my father was—a man who let his vices breathe until they choked everyone around him.
I cannot let the facade slip. Not even for a moment.
To lose control isn’t just a professional failure.
It’s a descent. One whisper of impropriety, and the Bar won’t care how many cases I’ve won.
They’ll take the firm, the license, the only structure that’s ever kept me clean.
And yet, for reasons I can’t name, Katie O’Shea walked into my office and looked straight through all of it.
I stretch my arms across the polished wood, letting my fingers squeak against the lacquer. Katie O’Shea is off-limits, and that’s the way it needs to stay. If I reach for her, I contaminate evidence. I invite sanctions, disbarment, ruin.
The phone rings. Damien.
I answer. “Marek.”
“Marek, we’ve got a problem. I’m patching in Cass.”
A click, then Cassian’s voice—the Senior Partner’s tone like a low-frequency hum. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve got a leak,” Damien says. He doesn’t waste breath. “Someone from ABC News called Halcyon's PR office. They’re asking for verification on privileged information.”
I sit up straight, my spine going rigid against the leather. “What kind of information?”
“Trial data. Third-phase results. Specifically, internal correspondence between research and PR regarding participant exclusions.”
My jaw tightens. That was exactly what Katie and I were looking at tonight. The coincidence tastes like copper in my mouth. “Which means it’s either Halcyon’s end or ours.”
“If it’s ours, it kills the case,” Cassian cuts in. “Stephan, we can’t have the press litigating this before we even file.”
“We can’t manage the network, but we can control this building,” I say, my voice dropping into the cold, clinical tone that usually settles the room.
“Damien, lock down the discovery server. Digital fingerprints on every document. If a single page was downloaded or emailed, I want to know whose ID was used.”
“Done.”
Damien hesitates. “What about your discovery team? You want to pull them until we clear the room?”
Katie’s face flashes in my mind. The way she looked at me when she talked about the “exorcism” of the data. The way her hand felt under mine. Is she a variable? Or is she the threat?
If she’s the leak…no… she was with me all night. There’s no way she’d jeopardize her sister’s life for this. If it is her, and if anyone connects her name to mine, it’s not just a scandal—it’s evidence of bias. The firm bleeds credibility, and Halcyon walks.
“No,” I say, the word feeling heavier than it should. “Keep them in place. If we have a leak, I want them to think we’re still in the dark. It’s easier to catch a rat when they think the cat is sleeping.”
Cassian hums, a sound halfway between approval and warning. “You’re playing this close.”
“I always do.”
“Alright,” Cassian says finally. “I’ll reach out to Halcyon and have them tighten their internal review. We’ll regroup in the morning.”
“Copy that,” Damien adds. “If you hear anything overnight, call me.”
“I will.”
I end the call and turn off the desk lamp. The office drops into shadow, leaving only the city’s amber glow.
I just sit there, staring at the phone, listening to the hum of the building after hours. The adrenaline is already fading, replaced by the familiar burn of focus.
Leaving her on discovery is reckless. Every instinct says isolate the variable. But I don’t.
I get up and cross to the window. Chicago stretches out below—miles of light and motion, all of it oblivious. Somewhere in that sprawl, someone knows something they shouldn’t.
Not on my watch.
The reflection that stares back is the version everyone knows: calm, precise, untouchable. But I can still feel the echo of her eyes on me, steady and unafraid.
I shove the thought aside.
Tomorrow, we find the leak.
I head down to the waiting car, the spring air sharp enough to sting. Inside the town car, the silence is a relief. I lean my head back and close my eyes, but I don’t see the case files or the ABC News headline.
I see her—in memory, not imagination—and the ache feels unprofessional.
I’ve spent my life avoiding the chaos of my father’s world. Now, a leak threatens my firm, and a woman who prays for “strength” threatens my head.
Distance isn’t just cleaner anymore. It’s a matter of survival.
As we pull into traffic, I loosen my tie and watch the city slide past—neon signs bleeding into the windows, the blue shimmer of the river cutting through the dark.
Restaurants drift by, filled with people laughing over dinner, couples leaning too close. I’ve long since walled off that part of myself. Learned early that caring for people only gets you, and them, hurt.
No—it’s better this way. Cold. Orderly. Predictable. A life I can shape with my own hands, not one dictated by someone else’s weakness.
My phone vibrates against the leather seat—an automated message from the escort agency, confirming payment for last night’s appointment.
Efficient. Transactional. Just the way I like it. I swipe it away, the blue light of the screen momentarily blinding me before I plunge the phone back into darkness.
“What do you pray for, Mr. Marek?”
Control, Ms. O’Shea. I pray for control.
The elevator opens to the door to my penthouse. I don’t turn on the lights; I don’t need them. The city spills through the floor-to-ceiling glass, throwing shards of blue and gold across the marble. Everything is exactly where I left it—immaculate and silent.
I drop my keys into the crystal dish and unbutton my cuffs as I cross to the bar. The Scotch pours in a single clean line, amber catching the light. I don't drink it. I just watch it settle, waiting for the burning in my chest to do the same.
I sit at the desk by the window and open my laptop.
The Halcyon files glare back at me, but my focus blurs.
There, in the margin of a digital PDF, are the notes from our session.
Her handwriting—captured by the tablet—is looping and precise.
But still soft, like she’s trying to tame her own thoughts.
Cross-reference with patient log—possible data gap.
She organizes chaos as if it’s an act of mercy.
I shut the laptop, the sound too loud in the stillness.
Then, I retreat to the bedroom, the Egyptian cotton sheets chilling my skin, far too expensive to feel this empty. Exhaustion settles over me like grief. I can’t name what I’ve lost—the man I used to be, or the one she’s already dismantling.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, while the word ‘faith’ circles back like a ghost. Katie’s faith isn’t loud or naive—it’s stubborn. It’s the kind of thing that bends without breaking. And for all my logic, I can’t debate it into silence.
Is she awake, too? Is she staring at her own ceiling, thinking of the way my hand felt on hers?
Pathetic.
I reach for my phone, the glow cutting through the dark like a blade, and pull up her LinkedIn profile. I tell myself it’s due diligence, not desire. The lie tastes familiar.
There she is—professional, composed, yet smiling like she knows a secret. My secret.
I kill the screen and sink back into the pillows. The city hums below, indifferent and alive. I tell myself it’s just the adrenaline of the leak. I tell myself I'm just tired.
But the truth presses closer in the dark: somewhere between sin and salvation, I’ve already started to lose the distance I swore I’d keep.