Chapter 10 Katie #2
The command is a low vibration that I feel in my teeth. I look up, and there he is. He tosses his jacket aside and shoves his sleeves up, baring forearms carved from granite. His tie is pulled loose, the top button of his shirt undone—just enough to see the hollow of his throat.
My pulse trips over itself. I push back my chair and follow him, trying not to think about how his voice still echoes in my chest long after he’s gone ahead.
Stephan’s office is dim except for the desk lamp and the city burning behind him. He’s standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass, the city burning gold and red behind him. He doesn't turn around.
“Close the door,” he says without turning.
I do.
He faces me, eyes sharp and unreadable. “How confident are you in what we’re taking to California?”
I steady my voice. “Confident. I’ve gone through every cross-reference twice.”
“Good.” He steps closer, the faint scent of cedar and something darker following him.
“Halcyon leadership will try to break you, Katie,” he whispers, leaning down so his breath brushes my temple.
“They’ll look at you and see a ‘good girl’ they can manipulate.
They’ll try to find the crack in your armor. ”
He reaches out, his fingers hovering just an inch from the stray lock of hair by my ear. He doesn't touch me, and the near-miss is a thousand times worse than the contact would have been.
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t let them catch you off guard.”
“I won’t.”
The distance between us is too small. If anyone walked in, it wouldn’t matter that we hadn’t touched—intent would be enough to end us both.”
“You’ve been handling the workload well,” he says finally. “Better than most.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate. “Is that why you asked me to come in?”
Something flickers in his expression. “Partly.”
I wait, heart thudding.
His eyes drop to my mouth, lingering there until I forget how to draw oxygen. “Many men have ruined their lives for a beautiful woman in this building, O'Shea. It’s a cliché I’ve always despised. And I won’t let it cost us this case.”
The word “beautiful” lights something inside me, like a spark in dry grass. I hate that he can make me feel seen and small at the same time.
I want to ask what he means—whether it’s a warning or a confession—but my tongue trips over the question. “And what would you like me to do with those assumptions?”
The space between us sharpens, invisible and electric. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs.
“Treat every glance like discovery: note it, don’t touch it. Let them think what they want,” he says finally. “We’ll know the truth.”
My breath hitches at the quiet emphasis on we. My mind betrays me with an image I shouldn’t have—his hands, his mouth, the sound of my name in that tone. A shutter runs through me.
“Yes, sir,” I manage.
He turns back to the window, his reflection haloed by city light. “Annie will handle the travel arrangements. Go home, O’Shea. We have a long week ahead.”
“Of course.”
I leave before I forget how to walk.
***
I don’t remember the train ride home, only the way my pulse refused to slow the whole way.
By the time I step inside the house, the lights are low. Mom’s reading at the kitchen table, and Mary’s already asleep on the couch. Everything looks the same—safe, familiar—but I feel out of step with it, like I’ve come home wearing someone else’s skin.
“Long day?” Mom asks without looking up.
“Something like that,” I say, kissing her temple. “I have to go to California for work this week. We leave on Wednesday. I’ll be back Saturday night.”
Her eyes go wide. “Well, you must be making quite the impression.”
“ I am,” I say and head up the stairs.
I open my laptop, and Annie has already sent me an itinerary with flights. My eyes keep snagging on the name Mr. Marek written next to mine. Side by side. Same flight. Same hotel.
My heart does a slow, traitorous turn. One rumor, and he’d be disbarred before I could say his name in court.
I pull out a suitcase from under the bed and start folding clothes into neat, logical stacks.
Mostly standard work attire, and one dress for a night out, because you never know what these Silicon Valley types will want.
But each time I fold something, the image flashes again: him beside me, his sleeve brushing mine, his voice low enough for only me to hear.
I slip my rosary into the corner of the suitcase. My fingers hesitate on the cross. Is this who I am now? Or was this who I always was, and the nun was just a costume I put on. A part I played because I thought it was what I wanted— what I should do.
I close the lid.
Tomorrow, I’ll be fine. Professional. Composed.
But tonight, as I lie awake listening to the hum of the city beyond my window, I know one thing for sure—I’m not ready for what California will ask of me.
***
I’m at O’Hare by 6:30 on Wednesday morning, and at our gate by 7:15, but Stephan is nowhere to be found.
My phone pings, and it’s a message from a number I don’t recognize.
555-676-2254: O'Shea, it’s Marek. Meet me at the Delta Lounge.
ME: I don’t have access to the Delta Lounge.
MAREK: I do.
I stare at the message for a second too long, my stomach tightening in that now-familiar mix of anticipation and panic.
ME: On my way.
I grab my tote and weave through the crowd toward the lounge entrance. Business travelers in suits, sleepy families, the smell of burnt espresso and cologne—it all blurs together.
The Delta agent scans Stephan’s guest code and waves me through with a polite smile. Inside, the lighting is low, the noise softened. Everything smells expensive.
Stephan sits near the window, a cup of black coffee in front of him, jacket off, shirtsleeves neatly fastened with gold cufflinks. He looks perfectly at home here—like the quiet, orderly chaos of an airport exists for him alone.
When he sees me, he stands—always controlled. Always aware of being watched. “O'Shea,” he says, voice smooth as glass. “You’re early.”
“So are you.”
He gestures to the seat beside him. “Coffee?”
“Please.”
He signals to the attendant without breaking eye contact, and I swear the entire terminal could vanish and I wouldn’t notice.
“Have you flown first class before?”
I shake my head as if I’m failing some kind of test.
He takes a slow sip of coffee, eyes never leaving mine. “Well then,” he says, voice low and even, “I suppose I’m honored to do it with you first.”
The words hang between us—harmless on the surface, dangerous underneath.
I bite my lip before the words slip out. “It’s nice to be with someone so experienced.”
His eyes flick up—sharp, unreadable—but the corner of his mouth moves, just barely. “Careful, Ms. O’Shea. That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”
“Maybe it was.”
A beat passes. The low hum of conversation fills the lounge, but all I can hear is my own heartbeat.
He sets his cup down deliberately, the sound soft but final. “Flattery,” he says, “will get you everywhere. And everywhere gets you noticed; noticed gets you questioned.”
I don’t breathe until he stands and says, “Come on. Time to board.”
The boarding gate is already calling our group when we step out of the lounge. Stephan walks a pace ahead, his stride unhurried, assured. People move for him without realizing it.
When we reach the jet bridge, the air smells faintly of fuel. I keep my eyes on his back, on the broad line of his shoulders beneath his blazer.
A flight attendant greets us with a practiced smile. “Mr. Marek, welcome aboard. Ms. O’Shea.” She points to our seats.
Corporate block booking—same PNR. He could’ve moved me, but he didn’t.
He steps aside, letting me enter first. “After you.”
The first-class cabin is dim and quiet. I stow my bag and take my seat by the window. Stephan sits beside me, the armrest between us barely wide enough to count as a barrier.
“Comfortable?” he asks, buckling his seatbelt.
“Very.” My voice comes out a little too soft.
He glances toward me, one brow raised. “You’re allowed to relax. This isn’t court.”
I force a breath and try to focus on the safety card in front of me, but all I can sense is the warmth of him—the subtle scent of his cologne, the faint brush of his sleeve when he adjusts the cuff of his watch.
As the plane lifts, the city falls away beneath us—streets shrinking to lines of light, Lake Michigan a silver blur.
He leans back, closes his eyes, and for the first time since I met him, he looks almost human. Although even while “relaxed,” I can still see the slight tension in his jaw.
I turn toward the window so he won’t see the small, traitorous smile tugging at my lips.
Somewhere above the clouds, altitude makes everything feel permissible. Too easy.
Staring at my reflection in the darkened screen, I wonder if I have the courage to become the woman who will wear the dress I packed.