Chapter 18 Katie
Katie
Carlyle’s hand creeps lower and lower down my back. I try to act like I don’t notice, but the contact makes my skin crawl—an unwanted brand in a room full of witnesses.
“You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he whispers as we turn. His breath smells faintly of wine.
I force a polite smile. “Thank you.”
“What’s a woman like you doing at a law firm?” he murmurs. “You should be pampered. You should be worshiped.”
The words make my stomach tighten. “I like the work,” I manage, keeping my tone even.
“You’re certainly a woman who knows what she wants.”
We spin again, the chandeliers blurring into halos above us. I fix my eyes on anything but his face—until they find Stephan.
I shouldn’t look. I promised myself I wouldn’t.
But I do.
Just for a moment.
Our gazes lock across the room, and everything stops—the music, the crowd, even Carlyle’s hand at my back—the air between us hums, alive and dangerous. If sin had a face, it would be his—immaculate, ruinous.
Then the world starts again, and I remember to breathe.
We continue to dance, and Carlyle continues to flatter me, but all I can think of is Stephan—his hands on another woman, the burning stare when he saw me earlier in the night.
Tension coils low in my stomach. I thought I was stronger than this. I thought I could get through tonight without seeking out Stephan Marek. But I don’t know if I can.
I am drawn to him like a magnet, his energy cutting through the pomp and circumstance—straight to the heart of me. He is sin turned into flesh and blood, and I want to taste everything he has to offer.
The final note fades, and polite applause ripples through the room.
Carlyle bows, self-satisfied, and releases my hand. “Thank you, Ms. O’Shea. I hope I can count on your continued… cooperation.”
I summon a thin smile. “Of course, Mr. Carlyle.”
He moves off toward another circle of admirers, leaving me stranded at the edge of the floor.
My pulse is still uneven. I watch Stephan drop the brunette’s hand as if she were made of lead, his back turning to the crowd. He heads towards the bar, and the hunger inside of me grows with each step.
His expression is unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders gives him away.
He doesn’t look back.
The space he leaves behind feels like a vacuum, pulling every thought out of my head. The gala resumes its rhythm. It spins on as if nothing has happened. But something has—something small and yet seismic.
The sound presses in on me. I need space to breathe.
Taking a glass of champagne, I head into one of the open galleries and take a seat in front of a Renaissance painting of Mars and Aphrodite.
In the painting, Mars raises his sword as if to defend her, but his eyes are turned away.
Aphrodite kneels, already conquered. I don’t know which of them I am.
“How did I know I’d find you in here?”
The voice behind me steals the breath from my lungs. I shut my eyes for a brief moment before turning around to face Stephan Marek.
“Because you were looking,” I want to say. Instead: “I guess you know me too well.”
Stephan’s stoic demeanor doesn’t change as he takes a seat next to me on the bench. The scent of scotch and starched linen clings to him — restraint made tangible.
The simple act of him sitting down changes the air pressure in the room.
He is so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body through his tuxedo and hear the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing.
The only things separating us are the satin of my gown and the invisible walls we have built to protect ourselves.
We sit in silence, neither of us knowing what to say. Neither wants to ruin what might be the last time we’re ever this close, the quiet a fragile container for the raw desire we both deny.
Stephan moves his hand, slowly, deliberately, across the cool stone bench until his warm palm covers mine.
The act—sensual and straightforward, a private claim witnessed only by the ancient gods on the canvas breaks me.
The heat of his skin seeps through the satin, flooding every nerve with memory and want.
I shouldn’t say anything. Silence is safer; silence keeps what’s left of me intact. If anyone from the firm saw us like this, the whispers alone could sink the case. Conflict of interest. Breach of ethics. Words that have destroyed careers for less.
But my body betrays me—the pulse in my wrist jumping beneath his thumb, the taste of champagne still sharp on my tongue. I could still pull away. I could still stop this before it turns into something I can’t take back.
I don’t.
“I’ve missed you.”
It leaves me like a confession, a breath I can’t take back, the final crack in my armor.
Stephan’s hand tightens over mine—a brief, hard squeeze that acknowledges the confession.
I expect him to violently reassert his distance—to snatch his hand away and deliver the cold professional order.
He’s a partner. One accusation of impropriety and every verdict he’s ever won becomes suspect.
And I’d be proof of his hypocrisy. We both know it, and still his hand doesn’t move.
But the cold doesn't come.
His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist once, then stills. The silence between us is a held breath—too long, too deep—before he finally breaks it.
“I can’t stand seeing Carlyle touch you.”
The words hang between us, too honest, too dangerous. He shouldn’t say it. I shouldn’t want him to.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, my sister’s face flashes—her pale hands folded in a hospital bed, the IV line trembling with every breath. I promised her I’d stay steady, that I wouldn’t let anything jeopardize my work. This can’t be what faith looks like.
“Then don’t look,” I say, and the tremor in my voice betrays me.
“I can’t,” he breathes. “You are the only thing I see. In every room, every hour, every breath.”
The glass walls I have built over the past months—the walls of faith, of discipline, of professionalism—shatter. The sound is internal, but I feel the pieces fall away, leaving me exposed. Tears spill down my cheeks, hot and unstoppable.
“I can’t take this anymore. How can our wanting be so wrong?”
His answer is a look—raw and wordless, undoing me entirely. He hooks a finger underneath my chin, forcing our eyes to meet. His thumb traces the line of my jaw, wiping away the useless, desperate tears. The act is tender, yet absolutely commanding.
My breath hitches in my throat. I am a lamb to the slaughter for him.
His gaze is dark, burning with a reckless, destructive fire. The last vestiges of control have dissolved.
“It isn't,” he whispers, his voice thick with finality. “It's inevitable.”
God forgive me, I believe him.
One touch could cost him his career, my job, and everything we’ve both built to survive this place. But reason doesn’t stand a chance against the ache between us.
The thought scorches through me as his lips find mine, a prayer twisted into surrender.
It is nothing like the first time. The California kiss was raw and panicked, a desperate breach of discipline. This is a consuming declaration, fueled by Scotch, jealousy, and the impossible weight of the walls we just let fall. His lips are hot, hungry, and they demand possession of my response.
I don't hesitate. I meet his demand with my own, letting go of the bench, letting go of the shame, letting go of the gilded, terrible museum. My hands fly up to grip the silk lapels of his tuxedo, hauling myself closer, deepening the kiss until the air is thin and sharp with mutual craving.
The sound of the party—the music, the laughter—becomes a dull, distant roar. The only reality is the hard, insistent pressure of his body as he leans into me, pinning me against the cool stone bench. He tastes of single-malt and desire, and I surrender to the ruin.
I dig my fingers into his back, as if I can anchor myself to him. To this moment.
“Stephan,” I whimper, as his mouth finds my neck. Teeth gently scraping the delicate skin—a subtle, savage way of claiming me. The sensation makes me wet with need.
He pulls back, not for breath, but for control. His eyes are black with a primal intensity, and his breathing is ragged, tearing at the silence. He still holds my face, his thumb digging slightly into the soft skin beneath my ear.
"We're leaving," he growls. The command is absolute.
"The Gala—" I manage, my voice a useless, broken squeak.
"The Gala is irrelevant," he spits, his thumb tracing my lower lip, his gaze dropping to the wet sheen his kiss left behind. “Every single person out there is irrelevant. Only you and I matter now.”
For one suspended breath, I could still stop this—still pretend there’s a line we haven’t crossed. But the truth settles like heat in my chest: I’m the one stepping over it.
He doesn’t wait for my agreement. His hand finds mine, and the rest of the room ceases to exist.
The winter wind hits me like a sheet of ice as we stand outside waiting for Stephan’s car. I don’t care if anyone saw us. Maybe it’s the champagne talking, or maybe it’s the confidence I always knew I possessed, but part of me wants them to see us. To see Stephan claim me in public.
He grips my hand tightly as we weave in and out of traffic. And slowly my Catholic guilt returns. All I can think of is how wrong this is. We shouldn’t be doing this. This is not who I am.
When I look at Stephan, every worry I have empties out of my head. The city lights illuminate his sharp, masculine features. I close my eyes, lean my head against his shoulder, and give in to the overwhelming force that is pulling me toward destruction, waiting for the ride to be over.
Stephan’s doorman greets us when we arrive, and I stare up at the hard lines of his building, wondering how many women have stood where I am now.