Chapter 17 Stephan
Stephan
The city glitters like a promise it never intends to keep. From my window, the lights of Michigan Avenue smear across the glass, cold and precise.
I tell myself it’s a work obligation — nothing more—Halcyon’s attempt at damage control dressed up in black tie.
I adjust my cufflinks and study the reflection in the mirror—polished, composed, pretending at discipline. The act feels hollow.
I haven’t seen Katie outside the office in months.
Distance is discipline. But tonight there will be no distance, only cameras, donors, and the unbearable possibility of proximity.
“I’ve spent months turning distance into ritual, silence into penance.
But penance doesn’t hold when temptation has a face.
My phone buzzes.
DAMIEN: Table 4. Cass and I are already at the bar. Where are you?
ME: Be there shortly.
I grab my coat and shrug it on over my tuxedo. October in Chicago can’t make up its mind—it could be snowing by the time the gala ends.
The city races past the window as the car pulls away, a blur of steel and light. The ride feels both too fast and too slow.
Will she be there when I arrive? Or will she make me wait—casually late, just long enough to remind me I don’t control everything? Just long enough to remind me she’s not mine.
I glance at my watch, as if time itself could save me.
The driver pulls to a stop at the museum steps.
A valet in white gloves opens the door before the engine quiets.
Flashbulbs ignite, turning the night into staccato light.
Chicago’s elite ascend the staircase in satin and jewels, their laughter echoing off the stone like a choir too polished to be holy.
Inside, the transformation is complete. The grand hall has been remade into a Renaissance cathedral—angels suspended from gilded arches, gold light burning against crimson drapery.
The air hums with violin strings and the faint scent of roses and wine.
It feels like stepping into temptation disguised as art.
Crystal chandeliers hang low over the tables, their light rippling across the marble floor. Waiters move through the glow with ceremonial precision.
I hand off my coat, tug at my cufflinks once more, and scan the crowd. Cassian and Damien are already stationed at the bar, surrounded by donors and press—high priests of commerce holding court. I start toward them—then stop. My pulse freezes in my veins.
She’s here.
Katie stands at the base of the grand staircase.
Against the cathedral's riot of gold and crimson—a backdrop worthy of a blasphemous fresco—she is simplicity made lethal.
The black satin of her dress is stretched tight over her curves, a secret molded to her body.
The pearls at her throat catch the light like rosary beads.
Candlelight burns in her hair, casting a halo that should belong to a saint.
She is temptation incarnate—something designed by the devil himself to test me. And I’m already failing the test.
Cassian’s words echo—bury this impulse before it buries you. But standing here, I realize it’s already started digging.
She speaks to Carlyle—his hand is on her elbow—posture composed, smile immaculate and manufactured.
I know her real smile. It's a genuine thing, bright and unrestrained, and it belongs only to me.
The sight of his casual, possessive touch across the floor sends a familiar, ugly spike of jealousy into my gut.
He acts like he owns the space around her. He acts like he owns her.
From this distance, she looks untouchable—as though the noise and the decadent flash exist for her and not the other way around. Her restraint traces every line of her body, and it sets my blood on fire.
My fingers itch to touch her—months of distance collapse in an instant. Every argument I’ve made about professionalism, about control, dissolves under the sight of her.
Instead, I ball my hands into fists and head for the bar.
Cassian reads my expression instantly and claps a hand against my shoulder. “Feeling alright?”
“Fine,” I say, catching the bartender’s eye. “Scotch, neat. Macallan, if you have it.”
The amber liquor slides into the glass, clear and clean. I take it in one swallow, letting the burn cauterize what’s left of my composure.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Cass murmurs under his breath.
I can’t shake the image of Carlyle’s hand on Katie—the memory plays on repeat, a ghost I can’t exorcise. I’ve spent my career reading motive in every flicker of a witness’s pulse. But jealousy makes me blind, turning analysis into hunger.
Damien leans back against the bar, scanning the crowd. “Looks like someone’s taking a liking to our new Lead Discovery Counsel.”
“Don’t remind me,” I mutter, signaling for another.
The second glass goes down faster, sharper, until my nerves hum in perfect, dangerous equilibrium.
I gave her the title to protect her, but standing there next to Carlyle, she doesn't look protected. She looks like bait. And I am the one who set the trap. If the partners caught wind of this, I’d lose more than my standing—I’d drag the firm’s credibility down with me.
Carlyle shouldn’t even be speaking to her without counsel present. Every word between them could be admissible. Every smile could be used as leverage. And I’m standing here, watching the firm’s liability waltz across the floor in heels I approved.
The lights dim—our cue for dinner—and I brace for impact.
At the table, I take my seat between Cass and Damien, two sentinels flanking me against my worst impulses.
Katie glides into view.
She moves through the crowd as if born to it, the picture of grace, the chandeliers’ gold light catching in her hair. Conversation falters around her; even the orchestra seems to pause.
Every eye is on her. And they should be.
She is a goddess among mortals here—untouchable, and all the more dangerous for it.
Katie takes the seat directly across from me.
“Mr. Marek.” Her tone is professional, the same one she uses in partner meetings. A soft nod follows. “Mr. Roth. Mr. West.”
I incline my head. “Ms. O’Shea.”
Her scent cuts through the candle smoke. It shouldn’t matter, but it registers like evidence: involuntary, undeniable, incriminating. I should look away before the evidence becomes intent.
The orchestra swells as the last of the guests sit. Candlelight flickers between us, breaking and reforming her reflection in the crystal stemware. It’s a small mercy that the table is wide.
She glances down at her menu, lashes casting shadows over her cheekbones. The lamplight glints off her necklace.
Cassian leans toward me. “Relax. It’s just dinner.”
“Dinner,” I echo, and take a long sip of scotch.
Damien chuckles. “You’d think we were going into trial.”
I manage a faint smile, but my focus keeps slipping back to Katie. She’s laughing at something Carlyle’s deputy says, her posture flawless, her smile polite. But I can see it—the tension in her shoulders, the way her hand grips the base of her glass just a fraction too tight.
The sight ignites something protective and dangerous in equal measure.
Cassian notices. “Eyes front, Stephan.”
I exhale slowly, straighten my posture, and fix my attention on the speech beginning at the podium. I’m grateful for the reprieve—Carlyle’s voice filling the hall, giving me something neutral to look at, to focus on.
Dinner is served mid-speech: silver domes lifted in unison, a performance of precision. The scent of truffle and wine drifts through the air.
Across the table, Katie’s gaze catches mine, just for a second. She offers a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes before turning back toward the stage.
I lower my gaze to the plate in front of me. Perfectly seared, perfectly plated—utterly tasteless.
Because the only thing I want is the one thing I can never have.
The applause from Carlyle’s speech hasn’t even died when the orchestra changes tempo—strings rising into the first waltz of the evening. Chairs scrape back. Laughter grows louder, looser, as couples drift toward the open floor.
Carlyle steps from the podium with a glass still in his hand, the practiced smile of a man who has never been told no.
“Ms. O’Shea,” he says, appearing at our table with predatory ease. “Would you grant me the honor of the first dance?”
Katie blinks, caught off guard, but her composure returns in a heartbeat.
“Of course, Mr. Carlyle.” She doesn’t look at me for permission.
Instead, she rises, smooth as breath, the black satin of her gown whispering against the chair.
He offers his hand; she takes it. Together they walk to the center of the room, gilded by the chandelier’s light.
Around me, Cassian and Damien resume their conversation as if nothing has happened. I can’t. My jaw locks. My fingers curl against the linen tablecloth until the seams of the cuff dig into my skin.
Carlyle places his hand on her back—too low, too familiar—and something in me goes cold. The orchestra swells, and they begin to move: his lead confident, hers impeccable, the two of them spinning through gold light like a painting come alive.
Every instinct in me says intervene. Every rule says don’t.
The balance between the two is razor-thin, and I’m the blade.
Control is supposed to make me invulnerable, but this isn’t control—it’s paralysis.
Watching her with him and pretending restraint is a choice.
If I move, I’m jealous. If I don’t, I’m complicit.
Cassian doesn’t look up, but his voice is low enough for me to hear. “You can’t glare him off the floor, Stephan.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“Then unclench your fist before you draw blood.”
I force my hand open, one finger at a time, and reach for my glass instead. The scotch burns going down, but it’s the only warmth I’ll allow myself.
Across the room, Katie laughs politely at something Carlyle says. The sound carries, light and sharp as glass.