Chapter 12 Katie #2
For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. The city slips past the window in ribbons of light—hills, glass towers, palm trees that look too deliberate to be real.
Stephan breaks the silence first. “Carlyle will want to charm us. Richter will do most of the talking. Just follow my lead.”
“I usually do,” I say, meaning it as agreement, but his glance in my direction makes my pulse stumble.
“I know,” he says quietly.
The words hang between us, heavier than they should.
I turn toward the window, pretending interest in the skyline. “Do you think they know we suspect them?”
“Of course they do. The performance this afternoon wasn’t for information—it was for control.”
“Then tonight’s just more of the same?”
He nods once. “Dinner’s a stage. Every gesture will mean something. What you wear, how you hold your glass, when you speak.”
I glance down at my dress. “Do I look the part?”
He studies me for a beat too long. “You’ll do more than that.”
The compliment—or whatever it is—sends warmth through me that I can’t quite suppress. I shift in my seat, wishing I’d kept the conversation on Halcyon.
Outside, the sun slips behind the hills, the last of the light turning the city to gold and shadow. The car slows, weaving through a narrow street lined with restaurants where every window glows with candlelight.
I smooth my skirt, forcing my mind back to the case, to the questions waiting ahead. But when Stephan’s hand lands on the seat between us as the car takes the curve, the world contracts—just breath, skin, and the dangerous nearness of him.
He withdraws his hand as the driver stops. “We’re here.”
The door opens to a rush of cool evening air and the low murmur of conversation from the restaurant terrace ahead. I step out first, the click of my heels on stone too loud in my ears.
A valet in a dark jacket steps forward to open the heavy glass doors.
Inside, the restaurant glows with warm light and the low hum of conversation.
Tables are spaced like islands across the dark wood floor, every one of them dressed in white linen and crystal.
The air smells faintly of rosemary and seared fish.
A hostess greets Stephan by name before he can even speak. “Mr. Marek, Ms. O’Shea. Mr. Carlyle and his party are waiting.”
I shouldn’t be surprised they know who we are, but the precision of it still makes me uneasy. Stephan only nods, his hand resting lightly on my back as we follow the hostess through the maze of tables. Every head we pass seems to turn, every smile too polished.
Mr. Carlyle rises as we approach, the picture of confidence in a charcoal suit and the kind of tan that doesn’t come from Chicago winters. His handshake is firm, practiced. “Mr. Marek, we’re honored you made the trip. And this must be Ms. O’Shea—welcome.”
His gaze lingers too long. It isn’t curiosity—it’s calculation. He’s young for a CEO, maybe late thirties, with porcelain veneers and sandy-blond hair that’s been coaxed into density by money and vanity.
He looks at me like he’s adding up numbers in his head, deciding where I fit in the balance sheet. The expression isn’t flattering; it’s ownership disguised as interest.
I wonder if he thinks I’m part of what the firm provides—another service bundled into the contract.
“Please, Ms. O’Shea, sit next to me.” He gestures to the chair beside him. “I didn’t know Marek, West everyone feels it.
I keep my eyes on my plate, trying to steady the pulse fluttering at my wrist. Stephan’s defense shouldn’t matter as much as it does, but it leaves a heat in my chest I can’t quite name.
When I glance up again, he’s already turned the discussion back to Halcyon’s trial data—voice even, gaze steady, every word a reminder of who truly commands the room.
The table gleams under soft light: wine already poured, menus unnecessary. Around us, Halcyon’s inner circle fills the remaining seats—Richter, the CFO, a woman from PR whose expression never quite reaches her eyes. Stephan sits across from me, collected as ever.
Carlyle launches into small talk—flights, weather, the view from our hotel. His tone is pleasant, but every question feels like reconnaissance. I answer carefully, remembering Stephan’s warning: Be careful with what you show.
The sommelier refills my glass, and I weigh it in my hand, wondering how much distance one sip can buy.
Then Carlyle leans closer to say something meant only for me—something practiced and smooth, his breath carrying the scent of the wine.
The words themselves are harmless, but the way he says them isn’t.
Every instinct in me goes still. “I hope Stephan knows what an asset he has in you,” he says.
“Partners like him are lucky to have someone who… presents the firm so well.”
My body freezes, but the lawyer in me says to remain calm—to document everything. I can feel the weight of Stephan’s gaze across the table—steady, watchful—as if he already knows.
Beneath the table, Carlyle’s hand finds my thigh, the squeeze firm and possessive. A jolt of pure ice goes through me. Without looking down, I shift my leg and use my napkin to discreetly but firmly brush his hand away, my skin crawling where he touched me.
Across the table, Stephan’s knife stills against the edge of his plate. The sound of silver on porcelain is a sudden, sharp punctuation mark. He doesn't look at Carlyle; he looks at me, his eyes dark and unreadable, tracking the slight tremor in my shoulders.
The already tepid mood at the table drops.
“Carlyle,” Stephan says, his voice dropping an octave, reaching that velvet-wrapped-in-steel register he uses when he’s about to destroy someone in a deposition.
“Let’s stick to the audit. You’re not paying for this vintage to discuss Ms. O'Shea's ‘presentation.’ We’re here for the Level Three access logs you promised.”
It’s a public slap. Carlyle’s jaw tightens, his ‘golden boy’ tan suddenly looking sallow under the candlelight.
His grin falters before he recovers. “Of course,” he says lightly, lifting his glass. “To capable hands, then.”
Glasses clink. I take a careful sip, the wine suddenly sharp on my tongue.
Stephan’s voice is calm when he turns the conversation back to business, but I can feel the restraint in it—the precise control of a man holding back something darker.
Stephan sets his glass down with deliberate care. “Speaking of capable hands,” he says, his tone light, “The files your compliance team shared last quarter show two sets of timestamps for the same patient group. Can you clarify that?”
Carlyle blinks. “I’m sure that’s just a formatting error.”
“I’m sure it is,” Stephan says smoothly. “Still, for everyone’s sake, we’ll need the originals—not the redacted summaries.”
Richter clears his throat. “That may take some time. Those archives are off-site.”
“Then I’ll expect them when we return to Chicago,” Stephan replies. “Our auditors can handle the transfer.”
The table stills. Even the PR director’s fixed smile falters.
I study Carlyle as Stephan speaks; he’s not listening, not really. His fingers tap once against his wine glass, a steady rhythm of irritation.
When Stephan finishes, Carlyle exhales through his nose, the practiced patience of someone unused to being questioned. “You’re thorough, Mr. Marek. I can see why your clients trust you.”
“I don’t rely on trust,” Stephan says. “I rely on evidence.”
The words hang between them, sharp as glass.
Richter forces a laugh, too loud, too quick. “No one’s accusing anyone here. We’re all on the same side.”
“Of course,” Stephan says. “As long as the data agrees with us.”
Carlyle’s smile returns, but it’s thinner now, stretched tight across a face that’s lost its charm. “We’ll be in touch,” he says.
Something in the room shifts—the polite facade buckling just slightly. I glance at Stephan. His expression is collected, almost indifferent, but the muscle ticking in his jaw tells me otherwise.
For the rest of the meal, conversation turns to safer topics—stock trends, real estate, weekend homes—but the ease is gone.
The dinner ends, and we say our cordial goodbyes. Carlyle makes sure to give me a hug that lasts too long. I want to run to Stephan, but I keep my mask of professionalism in place.