Chapter 16 Katie
Katie
The glow of the computer screen cuts through the dim after-hours light. I’m one of the few associates left in the office. My eyes burn from staring at the monitor all day, but I can’t stop—not when I’m on the cusp of finding something.
Lines of data and timestamps scroll past in an endless blur. I tell myself I should go home, but my gaze drifts toward the faint light spilling from Stephan’s office. He’s still working, so I am too.
If he’s the measure of worth here, then exhaustion is devotion.
Some part of me still wants to be worthy of his attention, to be the focus of his gaze, even for a moment.
Every keystroke feels like another minor betrayal of the vow I keep trying to make—to serve the work, not the man.
I turn back to the audit logs, chasing an inconsistency that’s been bothering me for days. The patterns don’t fit—duplicate entries, missing signatures, server requests that appear and vanish between timestamps. I dig deeper, isolating the sequences until one connection makes my pulse stutter.
Two systems—R my name circulates in meetings where associates are usually invisible. Cassian acknowledges my diligence. Damien calls me Marek’s protégé.
The word stings and thrills in equal measure.
Once, during a briefing, I catch Stephan looking at me. It’s brief and clinical—an audit, not a touch.
He scans me the way he reads a contract—searching for the fracture line. The shadow under my eyes, the tension in my shoulders—data points. He’s calculating how much more weight I can bear before I break.
It’s the look of a man who hasn’t forgotten, only filed me under Unfinished Business. He isn't waiting for an apology or an explanation. He is waiting for the precise moment when my need for his help finally outweighs my fear of his shadow.
When I risk a glance back, he is already looking away, marking a red line through a paragraph in a brief as if I were never there. But the back of my neck prickles. The audit is complete. He knows exactly where I’m soft, and exactly where I’m about to snap.
I throw myself into work—anything to keep from thinking about Marek—or about my dying sister.
I’m finally making enough to cover Mary’s new treatments.
The hospital put us on a payment plan that will extend far past her treatment.
Each payment empties almost my entire paycheck, but it’s worth it if it means she lives.
At least that’s what I tell myself. I have to have something to believe in.
One night after work, I ask the driver to stop at a church.
The city hum fades behind me as I push open the heavy wooden doors; the air smells of wax and rain-soaked stone.
I light two candles—one for Mary, one for myself—strength for her, endurance for me.
The twin flames flicker, small and steady, against the dark.
This may be what penance looks like: doing everything right and feeling nothing.
***
By the end of September, the leaves are starting to turn, and I don a sweater for the chilly Chicago morning.
Carmen is staring at something on my desk when I get to work.
“What are you looking at?” I ask, throwing my bag down.
“That shiny invitation resting against your monitor. Annie dropped it off earlier.
I grab the glistening black envelope and tear it open.
You are cordially invited to a night of dinner and dancing at the Halcyon Biotech Annual Charity Gala at the Chicago Museum of Art on October 17th at 7:30 P.M. sharp. Please RSVP by Oct. 1st.
Invitation extended to Marek, West it's a summit. Rocks pile in my stomach and a knot twists in my chest. I’m going to have to play ball with him.
“Lucky,” Carmen whispers under her breath. “I want to go to a fancy ball with the partners.”
“It’ll somehow be work,” I say, turning back to my computer. But inside, I’m weightless—one breath away from free fall. Hope is its own kind of vertigo. For the first time in weeks, I feel something other than guilt or exhaustion.
Carmen hums beside me as she scrolls through her phone, already planning what she’d wear if she were me. I pretend to work, the glow of my monitor reflecting the faint smile I can’t quite hide.
Outside, the city glints through the office windows—bright, expectant, unaware of the fault lines beneath its surface.
For the first time in weeks, I let myself hope that maybe everything is finally settling— but deep down I know, anything could happen.