Chapter 22 Katie #2
“Drive safe,” she says, though I won’t be the one driving.
Mary leans against the banister, pale but smiling. “Text me when you get there.”
“I will.” My voice comes out softer than I intend.
Outside, a black sedan idles at the curb, a faint plume of exhaust curling in the cold air. The driver steps forward to open the trunk, but I keep my hand on the front door a moment longer.
The wood is warm beneath my palm—our house, our life, everything familiar.
When I finally let go, the door closes with a sound that feels both soft and absolute—like the sealing of a vow.
I wave to Mom and Mary as the car pulls away, their figures framed in the doorway, small against the wash of evening light. Sadness stirs quietly beneath the calm. This is the end of one life and the beginning of another.
The city unfolds around us, growing taller with every mile. I try to steady my breathing as the skyline sharpens—glass and steel rising like gods above their worshippers.
And somewhere at the top of one of those towers, Stephan Marek is waiting for me.
The phone he gave me buzzes in my purse.
S: From now on, we communicate through these phones. There is a key waiting for you at reception.
My pulse jumps, the words thrumming through me like a command. Even his messages feel deliberate—measured, precise, inescapable.
My heart flutters, equal parts fear and anticipation.
The car glides to a stop in front of his high-rise, the kind that catches the light and makes it seem as if the sky itself is bowing to it.
I step out into a gust of cold air. The driver retrieves my suitcase, nods toward the lobby, and leaves without a word.
Inside, everything gleams. Marble floors, black columns, a hush so deep it feels curated. Even the air smells different—filtered, expensive, edged with cedar.
Behind the reception desk, a woman in a fitted black blazer looks up as I approach. “Ms. O’Shea?”
I nod.
She opens a small box, revealing a single silver keycard resting on velvet. “Mr. Marek said to expect you.”
The words send a shiver down my spine. I take the card, my fingers brushing the cool metal. It feels heavier than it should.
“Penthouse level,” she says, her smile practiced and polite.
I murmur a thank-you and turn toward the elevator, even though I already know where I am going.
As the doors slide shut, I catch my reflection in the mirrored steel—composed, professional, a woman who could be anyone. But my pulse tells the truth.
Somewhere above, he’s waiting. And the life I’ve known is already dissolving beneath me.
The elevator opens into an empty hallway with just one door. His door. I hold the card against the keypad and wait for the ding that will unlock my future.
The room is dim except for the soft flicker of candlelight. The city glows beyond the glass walls, a sprawl of lights reflecting off the polished floors. The air smells faintly of cedar and something richer—garlic, rosemary, the slow roast of meat in the oven.
Stephan is standing by the window, dressed in a surprisingly casual Henley with the top button undone. He turns as the door clicks shut behind me.
“Welcome home, Katie.”
My breath catches at the words—home.
I set my suitcase down by the door, unsure what to do with my hands. Candlelight softens the room, painting the room in gold. The air smells of rosemary, garlic, and the kind of warmth I thought I left on the South Side.
He gestures toward the table set for two.
“I thought we’d have dinner,” he says, his voice is smooth and measured. “Then I’ll show you around.”
He moves with an easy authority born of money, power, and certainty—everything I am not.
“Smells delicious,” I manage, my voice thinner than I mean it to be.
What am I doing here? This is a mistake. I shouldn’t have done this.
But then he crosses the space between us and takes my coat with quiet efficiency. The brush of his hand steadies me.
“Sit,” he says, motioning to the place at the head of the long dark table.
I remind myself: I agreed to this. I am his now, bound by my own signature.
Submissive.
I take my seat, smoothing the napkin over my lap, the gesture both automatic and reverent.
Stephan brings two plates to the table—roasted chicken and potatoes, fragrant with rosemary, and pours us each a glass of wine.
He takes the seat beside me, not across. His thigh brushes mine, close enough that I’m suddenly aware of every inch of space between us—and how little of it remains.
I stay silent. This is his home, his rules.
“You may speak freely,” he says after a moment, taking a sip of wine. “I’m only your Dom when it comes to sex. You have free will otherwise.”
The distinction settles something in me. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself until now. Freedom feels foreign, like a language I once spoke but can’t remember.
“Then…” I hesitate, glancing at him. “May I ask that we say grace?”
He stills. “You may.”
I bow my head and murmur the words I’ve repeated over countless meals, my voice low but steady. The room smells of herbs and candle smoke, the city humming faintly through the glass. It’s almost domestic.
When I finish, I lift my eyes to find him watching me—not indulgently, not skeptically, simply attentive. The kind of attention that feels like both permission and scrutiny.
“So,” he says, cutting into his chicken with practiced precision, “how are you liking Cass’s team?”
“He’s more stoic than you,” I answer, taking a small sip of wine.
One corner of his mouth lifts. “That’s saying something.”
“He’s fair,” I add quickly, “and patient. He doesn’t waste words.”
“That’s Cassian,” Stephan says. “Still waters, sharp mind. You’ll learn a great deal from him.”
I nod, unsure whether he’s proud of the compliment or testing me with it. The wine burns pleasantly down my throat, loosening the knot of nerves that’s been sitting there since I arrived.
We fall into an easy rhythm, and slowly my walls begin to fall. Being with Stephan feels natural, easy even. I have to remind myself this is not a relationship. It is a mutually beneficial paid partnership.
“So,” I ask. “I noticed you and Mr. Roth have a similar collegiate background. Did you know each other before law school?”
Stephan nods. “Cass and I grew up together. We’ve been best friends since we were ten.” The glimmer of a fond memory shines in his eyes. “And he’s been getting me out of trouble since then, too.”
“You? A troublemaker?”
The ghost of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Hard to believe?”
I examine him. Trying to picture the stoic man I’ve come to know as a child. “Yes. You’re so…controled.”
He taps his fork on his plate. “I was angry when I was young, with nowhere to put any of my feelings. That got me into a lot of fist fights. Cass was usually the one who smoothed everything over.”
“So he’s been protecting you for thirty years?”
“You could say that.” He takes another sip of his wine. “He was the one who encouraged me to go to college and then to law school. That’s where we met the ‘boy wonder’ Damien. We all worked at the same firm before striking out on our own.”
“The three musketeers,” I say before taking another bite of chicken.
A small laugh ripples through his shoulders. “If the three musketeers were out to protect the wicked.”
I smile, but his words echo in my chest. That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? Protecting the wicked. Pushing the thought from my mind, I take another sip of wine.
Stephan must read my expression because he reaches over and places a hand on my mine. “I know this is tough for you.”
Something in me wants to pull away—just to prove I still can.
I stare at my plate– ashamed at how easy it actually is. For all my piety, it scares me how easily I can slip into the role of vicious litigator. And into the role of submissive.
“I tell myself it’s not forever.” The admission slips out before I can stop it. “That someday I’ll do something noble like pro-bono work, but I don’t know if that’s true anymore. I like the thrill of the hunt.” My eyes lift to his. “And I like being with you.”
Silence stretches between us.
“I like being with you, too, Katie.” He tightens his grip on my hand.
“You’ve changed me in ways I can’t explain.
” He looks around at the temple of control he’s built for himself.
“This is the most domestic I’ve been in years.
Usually, I eat alone while working. And I don’t cook.
In fact, I forgot how much I enjoy it until now. ”
The thought of him with an apron on, towel slung over his shoulder, fills my heart with warmth. But the thought cools when I remember I am here under contract. He is my Dom, and I am his Sub, and soon I will find out what that means.
After dinner, he washes our plates, the domesticity jarring against the modernity penthouse, and grabs my suitcase. “Follow me.”
He leads me past his room down a long hallway. This condo is too big for his life—a museum of silent wealth. Most rooms lie empty, sealed behind doors of dark wood, save for a study with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and one he must use as a gym.
“Anything here is yours,” he says, his voice taking ownership of the silence, before stopping at a door at the opposite end of the hall from his own.
“This is your room, Katie.” He opens the door. It is surprisingly cozy, an oasis of plush cream pillows and a bed that looks like I would sink into it and never surface. The sheer volume of this space makes my small bedroom at home feel like a shoebox.
“I won’t be sleeping with you?” I ask the question tight with a mixture of disappointment and sudden fear.
“You will,” he assures me, his gaze intense. “But this is a place just for you. Here, you are in control. It is your sanctuary.”
I take a step in. My eyes catch on the closet—a large walk-in—and I push the door open. My breath hitches. The space is filled not with my worn thrift-store clothes, but with a dizzying display of designer garments in silk, cashmere, and sharp, expensive wool.
“What’s this?” The whisper scrapes my throat.
A smile tugs at the corners of Stephan’s lips, a flash of pure, unapologetic possession. “I took the liberty of hiring a personal shopper to fill this with clothes. Whatever you don’t like, just set it aside.”
I run my hands over a soft silk blouse. The fabric is both cool and heavy with the weight of its price tag. This room is worth more than I could make in three years at the firm. “You didn’t have to do this.”
His eyes narrow on me, the warmth vanishing in an instant, replaced by the precise calculation of the Dom.
He hooks a finger beneath my chin, tilting my face up until I am forced to meet his gaze.
“I told you I would take care of you, Katie. I plan to do that. Every need, met. Every desire, controlled.”
My pulse stutters at his words—care and control are synonyms to him. There’s a tenderness in his power that frightens me more than cruelty ever could.
“Thank you,” I manage to mumble. The words taste like acceptance.
“There is no need for thanks. Your suits will be delivered in the coming days.”
He crosses to the far end of the closet and parts the garments with two fingers. Silk slips over silk, whispering as it moves—smoke, champagne, dusk-toned blush—each piece translucent enough to promise more than it conceals.
“When you enter my room,” he says, pointing to the small stack of barely there satin slips, “I want you to wear one of these.”
I nod, my mouth too dry to speak.
Stephan turns and heads out of the closet, the sound of his shoes clicking on the polished floor echoing the finality of the transaction.
I follow him back out into the room.
He checks his watch, the gesture sharp and professional, a reminder that his schedule dictates time here. “I will leave you to get settled. I expect you in my room, and on your knees at eight-forty-five.”
The casual brutality of the command cuts through the haze of wine and rosemary, breaching my sanctuary.
“Yes, Sir,” I say, the familiar submission, a comfort and a shackle all at once.
Stephan leaves and I sit on the edge of the bed, taking a deep breath. This is it. This is what I wanted. I feel like a stranger in my own skin. What am I doing here?
Pulling my rosary beads from my purse, I kneel on the side of the bed. It’s the only thing I can think of to do.
“God, you put him in my path. Don’t forgive me—guide me,” The words sound like confession and command all at once. I prayed once for deliverance. Now I pray for control.
The beads slide through my fingers, cool and certain, before I set them on the nightstand, and set up a picture of Mom and Mary next to my bed before heading into the en-suite bathroom.
The white stone basin fills with scalding water, the steam rising to choke the mirrors. I watch the world beyond the glass dissolve into a gray smudge. I sink into the heat and scrub until my skin is raw—flushing away the South Side, the convent, and the “Good Girl” who used to live in this body.
As I dry off, I catch a glimpse of myself in a clear patch of the glass.
I look the same, yet I am a stranger. I am a woman who just prayed to a holy God for the strength to commit a beautiful sin.
My god cross hangs around my neck like a relic of someone I used to be.
Part of me wants to take it off, but there is something comforting about its light weight around my neck. A reminder I can be redeemed.
Back in the closet, the negligees shine in the soft lights like jewels. I, too, am a precious stone now– something to be kept, polished, and displayed.
I sift through the silks—blacks, reds, deep plums—before my fingers settle on a slip of pale, shimmering champagne. It’s barely there, a whisper of fabric held up by straps no thicker than a thread.
The silk slides over me, a cool whisper against heat it can’t disguise. The fabric clings, translucent, catching on my nipples; in the mirror, my body is softened and exposed all at once—lace and light where devotion once lived, a woman dressed for the moment she finally steps across the line.
I check the time. 8:43. In a few minutes, I will leave the nun behind and become the siren— the whore. But Mary Magdalene was a whore too, and she went on to become a saint. So perhaps I, too, can be redeemed after this.
The walk down that long hallway feels like a funeral procession for the person I used to be. Every step toward him is a kind of surrender—against God, against reason, against the girl who believed salvation only came through suffering.
The penthouse is quiet, the shadows of the high-rise city stretching across the floors like bars. With every step, I feel the lack of my underwear, the freedom of the silk, and the heavy, pulsing truth of my own heartbeat.
I reach his door at the stroke of 8:45 and say a silent prayer for the girl I was, and the woman I am about to become.