Chapter 22 Katie
Katie
Iwalk straight out of Stephan’s office and down the hall to Cassian’s. My stride is steady, my face blank—the efficient associate leaving a productive meeting.
A faint breeze lifts my skirt, cold against bare skin, followed by a rush of heat—the echo of what just happened. The absence of lace is the loudest secret in this polished building.
I am bare. I am signed. I am sold.
I pass the immaculate glass walls of the firm, the quiet hum of professionalism surrounding me. Just moments ago, I knelt on the floor of a senior partner's office, my body on display, my will pledged in two simple words: Yes, sir.
The memory of the lace between my teeth, the possessive weight of his hand on my jaw, and the bulge of his arousal against the fine wool of his trousers, all collide with the need to focus on discovery logs and trial prep.
I reach Cassian’s door. It is closed, suggesting importance and quiet concentration.
I take a deep, steadying breath, fighting the wild flutter in my belly.
My lawyer mask snaps firmly into place. If he suspects anything, we’re both finished.
I wonder if he can smell Stephan’s cologne on me.
No, you’re being ridiculous. I smooth the edges of my expression until I can pass for the woman I was two hours ago—the one who still believed professionalism could save her.
I knock once, sharply, before the memory of my own submission can break my composure.
Cassian opens the door—tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair pushed back with the careless precision of a man who never needs to check a mirror. “Ms. O’Shea. I’ve been waiting for you.” His tone is all business. No warmth, no curiosity.
He turns without another word, and I follow him inside, closing the door behind me.
Unlike Stephan’s office—polished wood, muted light, the quiet suggestion of comfort—Cassian’s is spare. Glass desk, steel shelves, a single framed photograph faced away from the room. Everything about it says: this is a place for work, not attachment.
My gaze drifts to the wall of diplomas: University of Chicago. Northwestern. Both local. Both impeccable.
He stayed close to home—just like Stephan.
Cassian gestures to one of the steel chairs opposite his glass desk. I sit, hands folded neatly in my lap.
“Welcome to trial prep, Ms. O’Shea.” His voice is even, pragmatic. “Stephan speaks highly of you, so I’ve no doubt you’ll fit in just fine here.”
My pulse kicks. Does he know? No—his tone is too neutral, too clean. He’s talking about my work, not the way Stephan’s hands were on my jaw not long ago.
He leans back, the glass desk reflecting the clean lines of his suit. “Like discovery, we comb through every detail. The difference is that our job isn’t just to find the truth—it’s to decide what to do with it. How to spin it. How to bury it when we must.”
I nod, keeping my tone professional. “Understood.”
Cassian scrolls through a set of files on the tablet in front of him, then slides one across the desk. “This is Halcyon’s internal communications log for the last quarter. You’ll focus on the exchange between their CFO and legal counsel.”
He glances up. “Stephan said you have a good instinct for patterns. I want you to trace how the narrative around the side trials evolved. It’s the sort of detail that can either protect a client or destroy them on the stand.”
“I can handle that,” I say, surprised at how steady my voice sounds.
“I know you can.” His tone softens, just slightly. “But understand—trial prep isn’t discovery. We don’t just catalog evidence, we decide what story survives. If you can learn that balance, you’ll do well here.”
I nod, taking the file. “When do you need my notes?”
“By end of day tomorrow.” He stands, signaling the meeting is over. “If you have questions, ask. Otherwise, get familiar with how I like things organized.”
I rise too. “Yes, sir.”
His mouth twitches—almost a smile, almost not. “You don’t have to call me that here, Ms. O’Shea. ‘Cassian’ will do.”
I return his look evenly. “Of course.”
As I turn toward the door, a strange awareness flickers through me—how easily the word yes comes now.
Every yes feels contractual, as if my mouth still belongs to the signature on that page locked in Stephan’s desk. If I can lie to Cassian this easily, maybe I’m not pretending anymore.
The day passes in a blur of emails, meetings, and trial prep.
I don’t glance at Stephan’s office once.
Instead, I stare at the internal logs, seeing the fingerprints of corporate greed in every line of CFO chatter.
A month ago, this would have made me sick.
Now, I just see the math. Their sins buy my sister's life. I am no longer an observer of corruption; I am its most dedicated guardian. Because Stephan owns me, and I own the defense. If that’s what salvation looks like, maybe I’ve been praying to the wrong God all along.
By six, I’m in the car heading home. Stephan and I haven’t spoken since this morning. It’s strange how a single day can hold two separate lives: the one people see, and the one you’ve already given away.
My phone buzzes. It’s Mary—a photo of her and Mom at the Lincoln Park Zoo. My heart lifts. Mary loves the zoo, but she hasn’t felt well enough to go in months. The treatment must be helping.
I have to win this case. I have to keep her treatment going. Halcyon cannot collapse. I will not lose my sister because of their greed.
I tap a heart on the photo and lean back in my seat. For the first time in a long while, everything feels steady. Peace, like grace—undeserved but intoxicating—settles through me.
The sky is bruised red and violet when we pull up to the house. Before I can open the door, the driver turns and hands me a small white box.
“A delivery from Mr. Marek,” he says.
Inside is a brand-new iPhone—sleek, perfect, already glowing to life in my hand. Its surface is cool against my skin.
Is this a gift or a leash? Either way, I take it.
That’s the part that frightens me most. Then, my chest tightens—for all his power, Stephan’s license hangs by the same thread as mine.
If the bar got wind of what we signed, he’d lose everything—the firm, the case, the credibility he built from nothing.
He could buy silence, but not absolution.
I almost text him from my old phone to say thank you, then stop.
Every word, every call, every breath belongs to the new device he controls.
I say goodnight to the driver and head inside, where Mom is already hard at work on dinner.
“You’re home early,” she says, stepping away from the stove to wrap her arms around me. The scent of onions and thyme on her hair pulls me back to a world that still feels safe. I breathe it in as if it can save me.
“I’m on a new team now at work— trial prep. And the firm is getting me a hotel room for the weeknights starting next week since I’ll be working late a lot.” The lie burns on my tongue, but I hope she believes it.
“Oh wow, they must really like you,” she says, returning to her pot.
“Something like that,” I reply, before heading upstairs to change.
Stephan’s sweats are still neatly folded on my dresser. I lift them to my nose, inhaling his scent— cedar, scotch, and smoke. A vision of his hands on my hips flashes through my mind, making my breath catch in my throat.
In a few days, I’ll leave this house behind, step fully into the life I chose this morning. For now, I just stand there, suspended between two worlds, trying to remember which one is still mine.
***
The rest of the week flies by, and before I know it, it’s Saturday night, and I’m packing to move into Stephan’s. Mary lies on my bed, scrolling through her phone.
“I’m going to miss you,” she says, watching me fold what little clothes I have into an old suitcase.
“I’ll be back on weekends,” I tell her. “And besides, I spent six years in a convent. This will feel easy by comparison.”
She doesn’t look up. “I wasn’t sick then.”
The words hollow the air between us.
I stop folding, my hands still on a worn sweater. My heart aches with everything I can’t explain—that this move, this choice, is for her; that the price I’m paying might buy her more time.
If only she knew how much this will change our lives.
Mom taps on the door a little later, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Almost ready?”
“Almost,” I say, closing the suitcase.
She steps into the room, glancing around at the half-empty shelves and the neatly made bed. “You’ve done well, Katie. Your father would’ve been proud.”
The words hit harder than she intends. Pride and loss—two things I’ve learned to hold in the same breath.
“I’ll only be gone during the week,” I tell her. “It’s just work.”
I’ve never lied so easily. Maybe that’s what submission does—it teaches you how to say what someone needs to hear.
She nods, smiling in that quiet way she does when she wants to believe me. “Just don’t forget to rest. And eat something that doesn’t come from a vending machine.”
Mary laughs softly from the bed. “She’ll have people bringing her salads and coffee every hour. Big-shot lawyer life.”
I smile, though it doesn’t reach my eyes. “Something like that.”
We talk a little longer—about groceries, about the neighbors, about the tiny things that make up a family’s rhythm. I keep waiting for the moment to feel normal again, but it never comes.
***
Sunday morning arrives gray and silent, the kind of quiet that makes every sound echo.
I dress slowly, the fabric cool against my skin. The suitcase waits by the door, heavier than I expected. At the threshold, I pause. The air still smells faintly of thyme and dish soap—last night’s dinner lingering like a memory.
Downstairs, Mom looks up from the sink as I enter the kitchen. “They’re sending a car for you?” she asks, half pride, half disbelief.
I nod. “Just for the weekdays.”
She wipes her hands on a towel and pulls me close. Her arms are warm, her heartbeat steady against my cheek. I almost forget why I’m leaving.