Chapter 20 Katie #2
Because it wasn’t a one-night stand. It was a line crossed, a vow broken, a contract waiting upstairs that could rewrite my life.
Mary kicks at a pile of leaves, the brittle sound scattering through the quiet morning. I watch her, alive and laughing, her scarf slipping back to reveal the faint fuzz of new hair. That’s what this is for. That’s what I tell myself.
Her laughter carries down the block. I try not to think about the Halcyon files still on Stephan’s desk—my name printed on the cover sheet beneath his. One rumor, one careless whisper, and both our careers would vanish in the same breath.
Still, her words echo long after we turn back toward the house: You’re allowed to have a one-night stand.
If only it were that simple.
After lunch, I decide to go to church to clear my head. The sky is washed pale, the air sharp with rain.
Something about the silence, the reverence of the cathedral, always steadies me—reminds me who I’m supposed to be.
Confession is still going on when I arrive. I slip through the heavy wooden doors, greeted by the faint scent of candle wax. A few parishioners kneel scattered among the pews, their whispers rising and falling like the tide.
The sound of the confessional door opening makes my pulse jump. I shouldn’t be here. Not like this. Not when I know what I’ve done. But part of being a Catholic is facing your sins.
The confessional curtain stirs, and I slip inside. The wood smells faintly of polish and time. On the other side of the lattice, the priest’s voice is soft and steady. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. How long has it been since your last confession?”
“Too long,” I whisper. My voice sounds small in the dark. “Months.”
“That’s alright,” he says gently. “Begin when you’re ready.”
I clasp my hands in my lap, my knuckles white. “I’ve broken vows I once swore to God,” I start, my voice barely above a breath. “Not the kind I took in a convent, but the ones I still kept in my heart.”
Silence follows. I can almost hear him leaning closer.
“I’ve wanted something I shouldn’t want,” I continue. “Someone I shouldn’t want. And the worst part is…” My throat closes around the truth. “…I don’t feel sorry. I feel alive.”
Silence gathers in the confessional—thick as candle smoke.
He doesn’t speak at first. Then, quietly: “Temptation is not sin, my child. It’s what we do with it that defines us.”
I close my eyes, tears pressing behind my lids. “What if temptation is the only thing that makes me feel close to God?”
The priest exhales slowly, and for a moment, I think I hear sorrow in it. “Then you must ask yourself whether it’s God you’re reaching for… or simply permission.”
His words cut deep, deeper than I want them to— to a part of me I dare not touch.
When I leave the confessional, the church is almost empty.
Candles flicker at the altar, halos of trembling light.
I kneel in the last pew, staring up at the crucifix, and begin to pray.
“Please, God. Show me the way. Give me a sign of what to do.” The sound of my own voice startles me—too loud, too raw for this quiet place.
“Is this your mercy? To let Mary fade while You test me with desire?” The question ricochets off the marble, and the echo feels like an accusation.
For the first time, I know what I’m saying isn’t prayer.
It’s fury. I cross myself out of habit, not faith, and walk toward the door.
Outside, the wind whips at my hair, reddening my cheeks. The air is cold, slicing through the last of the incense clinging to my clothes. For the first time in weeks, I feel lighter—stripped bare, emptied. Not forgiven, exactly. Just free.
By the time I reach home, the sky has bruised into twilight. Mom’s upstairs reading to Mary, their voices soft through the thin walls. The sound steadies me, even as my pulse quickens.
I climb the stairs and step into my room. The black folder sits on my bed, exactly where I left it, catching the faint light from the streetlamp outside. For a long moment, I just stand there, watching it—ordinary leather, and yet it hums with possibility.
I cross the room, sit down, and lay my hand flat on its cover. The surface is cool against my palm.
“Please, God,” I whisper, staring at the ceiling as if heaven might break open above me. “If this is wrong, stop me.”
Silence stretches—no creak of the house, only the rhythm of my breath.
When nothing comes, I close my eyes, my hand still resting on the contract.
A gust of wind rattles the windowpane. The lamp flickers once—just enough to make me look up. For a heartbeat, the light seems to pulse across the black leather cover, like a living thing.
Then it steadies again, still and silent.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.
I don’t wait for another flicker. I don't wait for the sky to fall.
Faith taught me obedience. Desire teaches me choice. Both demand surrender.
Tomorrow I’ll sit in my cubicle, calling him Mr. Marek while the word ‘Submissive’ bleeds through my skin.
I pick up the pen from my bedside table—the one I used to use for my RCIA notes—and I mark up the first page.
No clause covers what I’ve just given him.
Paper can’t quantify consent once it turns to devotion.
The ink is blacker than the folder, a dark tether that connects the South Side girl to the Penthouse Monster.
Tomorrow I will officially become Katherine O'Shea, the Submissive.
And for the first time in my life, I don't need to ask for permission.