Chapter 13 Stephan
Stephan
The door shuts behind me with a muted click. For a long time, I just stand there, staring at the reflection of the city in the window. The lights of the bay pulse like static; I can still hear the low murmur of Carlyle’s voice in my head.
He crossed a line. I know it, she knows it, everyone at that table knew it. And I did nothing—not then, not the way I wanted to. The restraint I pride myself on felt like a cage.
I unbutton my jacket, toss it over the back of a chair, but the motion does nothing to settle the tightness in my chest. My pulse still pounds with the words I didn’t say.
He touched her. He spoke to her as if she were a decoration. And I smiled through it because that’s what this job demands—silence disguised as civility.
The image of Katie across the table keeps flashing in my mind: the way she stiffened, the quick flicker of her eyes toward me, the calm she forced herself to hold. She shouldn’t have had to.
In a fit of rage, I send my briefcase flying across the room. The sound echoes against the wall, and I hope Katie can hear it. I hope she knows my shame for not protecting her.
Then I pour a glass of water and take a slow drink, trying to let the act of breathing steady me. It doesn’t. The room is too quiet, my thoughts too loud.
This isn’t about the case anymore. It’s about control—mine, hers, the kind that’s supposed to keep everything from falling apart.
I have tried my best to get Katie O'Shea out of my mind, but knowing someone else touched her— that pushes me over a line I thought I’d be able to resist. The truth settles in with an ugly kind of clarity: distance isn’t working.
I can’t ignore her, and I can’t act on what I feel without destroying us both.
Unless there’s another way.
A framework. Boundaries. Rules that make the impossible survivable. Something formal—something that protects us both. If I can codify the danger, I can control it. If I can define what I’m not allowed to want, maybe I’ll finally stop wanting it.
The beginnings of a plan take shape in my mind, clinical and dangerous in equal measure. A document, perhaps. A contract.
I sit down and open my laptop. My hands are steady now. The rage hasn’t left me, but it has found a shape. I begin to draft a document that is half-protection, half-trap—a framework for the impossible.
Katie mentioned something about a new treatment for her sister’s cancer. With the lawsuit draining Halcyon’s finances, the trial will be expensive—upwards of half a million dollars. This could be mutually beneficial for both of us.
The cursor blinks against the white screen, patient and damning. My fingers find their rhythm, each keystroke measured, deliberate. Words become clauses. Clauses become conditions. The language of power pretending to be mercy.
When I finish, I snap my laptop shut. The click of the lid cracks through the sudden silence like a gunshot—the sound of a trap being set, though I can’t tell whether it’s meant for her or for me.
I get into the king-sized bed, the sheets cold and too smooth. Through the wall, I strain to hear her. I imagine I can hear the whisper of fabric, the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing. Or perhaps it’s only the hum of the air system, mocking the emptiness of my own room.
My conscience, a fragile thing I haven’t consulted in years, is failing.
I think of the document sitting on my hard drive—the clinical precision of the clauses, the way I’ve leveraged her sister's life against my own desire. It’s an insurance policy—a way to possess the unpossessable.
I laugh—I call it protection, but it’s ownership by another name.
I tell myself I may never give it to her—it’s just a contingency. But as I stare at the dark ceiling, I know I’m lying. I’ve already crossed the line; the contract is just the map for where I’m going next.
I close my eyes, but all I see is her face in the SUV—the moment she realized I was dangerous. And the terrifying truth is, I’d rather she fear me than forget me.
***
I wake before dawn, which is really eight a.m. Chicago time.
My head is still buzzing from last night.
I open my laptop and scan the document I drafted.
What was I thinking? I must have had one too many glasses of wine at dinner, but hearing that Carlyle crossed a line with Katie threw me off balance.
I tell myself I’ll delete it when I get home. Instead, I add a clause.
Section 12.4: Protection of the Submissive Asset.
"In the event of unauthorized touch or harassment by third parties (specifically citing opposing counsel), the Submissive (Katie) waives the right to ‘handle it.’ You are no longer your own defender.
Any violation of your person by another is a violation of my property.
Punishment for failing to maintain distance will be at my discretion; however, the ‘cleansing’ of the touch will be mandatory and immediate. "
Something like this can never happen again. It puts both of us at risk. I need to control the situation, and Katie is a variable I can’t predict. If the law can’t protect her, then I will—on paper, at least. If I can’t trust her judgment, I’ll have to give her rules to replace it.
If anyone at the firm saw this file, I’d be finished.
Disbarred, maybe worse. But control has always been my only faith.
And this—this document—is my new scripture.
That’s why I have to have Cass look at it.
He’s the only person I trust to keep a secret like this.
The irony isn’t lost on me—I’m writing the very document that could end my career.
I grab my phone and text him.
ME: I need to run something by you when I get back—just you. CASSIAN: Okay. Is this about your associate?
I hesitate, staring at the screen. Cass has always been more perceptive than he lets on. It’s not just a legal review I’m asking for—it’s a confession disguised as a consultation.
ME: Yes. CASSIAN: Don’t do anything stupid in the meantime. ME: I won’t.
But I know it’s a lie before I hit send. Every day, I come closer to doing something I’ll regret.
I take a shower, letting the water steady my thoughts. Sleep didn’t come easily. I keep replaying the subtle cues I missed at dinner—the moments when Katie looked away, the tension in her shoulders. I should have seen it sooner. I should have stepped in. I should have protected her.
But she’s not mine to protect. Not yet.
After shaving, I dress in a simple button-up shirt, a blazer, and slacks. The routine helps. It’s something I can still control. Although I’m still seething inside.
I order a coffee to be brought to the room and pace while I wait. I should have gone for a run this morning. That would’ve burned off some of this energy, but I’m not thinking straight.
Something stirs on the other side of the door, and music blares from the speaker in the room. Katie is awake. My throat tightens.
A knock at the door pulls me from my musings. I open it to find a fresh-faced bellhop holding a platter with a steaming cup of coffee.
Graciously, I accept and tip the boy. I notice his cart slides to Katie’s room before shutting the door.
I sip the hot liquid, letting it settle in my gut, while my mind wanders to Katie getting ready in the next room.
Cass’s text replays in my head. Don’t do anything stupid. Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have a siren lotioning herself up one door over.
I check my watch: seven-thirty. We don’t need to be downstairs for another half-hour. Halcyon is hosting a breakfast for us at nine.
But the minutes stretch out endlessly before me, and I don’t know what to do with myself. Then I make the stupidest move of my life. I go to Katie’s door.
I tell myself I’ll knock once, just to confirm she’s ready, to keep us on schedule. Nothing more.
The music from her room thumps—something upbeat, a stark contrast to the heavy silence in my own room. I cross the short stretch of carpet and raise my hand to her door.
But stop inches from the dark wood.
My fist hangs in the air, a physical manifestation of the war I’m losing.
The shark in me says to turn around, to go down to the lobby and wait like the professional I am.
It reminds me of Cassian’s warning, of the firm’s bylaws, of the fact that I am her superior in every way that matters to the world.
But the “Monster” doesn't care about bylaws. It doesn't care about the Chicago office or the partner track. It just wants to see her. It wants to know if she’s okay, and it wants to erase the memory of Carlyle’s hand on her skin with the sheer weight of my presence.
I catch my reflection in the polished brass of her room number. The man staring back wears perfect grooming—a sharp blazer, a clean-shaven jaw. He looks like success. But his eyes betray him, wide and dark and hungry.
I’m a man about to step off a ledge, and I’m the one who built the cliff.
I take one slow, shallow breath, forcing the tremor out of my fingers. It’s not desire, I tell myself—it’s leadership. She’s my associate, and a good partner ensures her team can function.
I let my hand fall—three sharp, clinical raps.
She opens her door wearing the hotel robe—terrycloth, thick, and far too chaste.
Her hair is a mess of copper curls, still damp around the edges, and her eyes are rimmed in black kohl.
Her skin, usually pale beneath her professional foundation, is raw and exposed.
She looks younger, almost uncertain, as if the morning hasn’t yet rebuilt her defenses.
I immediately regret what I have just done. The professional lie I prepared burns on my tongue.
“Mr. Marek,” she says, her voice a rough whisper. “I thought we were meeting downstairs at eight.”
I wrack my brain trying to remember why I thought this was a good idea. The real reason—the contract, the need to possess—is too ugly to speak of.