Chapter 26 Katie
Katie
The small conference room seems designed to make people feel exposed.
Floor-to-ceiling glass, polished chrome, Lake Michigan flashing in the distance—the kind of transparency that promises honesty while hiding nothing at all.
I take the seat nearest the end of the table and pretend to focus on my notes.
Cassian stands at the head, tablet in hand, posture a perfect blend of calm and authority.
Stephan’s beside him, dark suit, hands clasped, radiating a quiet control I can’t help but respond to.
Damien’s voice filters through the speakerphone. “The Department of Justice issued a parallel subpoena this morning. They’re requesting full internal communications—emails, draft filings, anything tied to Halcyon’s side-trial disclosures.” The words clang in my skull—internal communications.
That means my files. My emails. My notes. My only saving grace is that I never put my feelings for Stephan in writing. Only he and I know my sister is in the trial. Only he and I know about the contract.
Cassian scrolls through his screen, expression unreadable.
“We’ll form a firewall team by end of day.
No leaks. Stephan, you’ll oversee communications review.
I’ll coordinate document production.” Stephan nods once.
“Understood. I want transparency with counsel but discretion internally. We keep this contained.”
I should be taking notes, but all I can do is watch the way his jaw tightens around the word contained.
My pulse syncs to the rhythm of his speech.
I sit a little straighter when he talks.
Mortified, I realize I’m responding to him the way I did the other night.
My body follows command without being told.
Cassian keeps talking. “O’Shea, you’ll assist on the initial log correlation.
You know those files better than anyone.
” A tremor starts low in my chest. If DOJ sees my annotations—the margin notes Stephan dictated— I glance up.
Stephan’s eyes catch mine for half a second. Just a flicker. A silent warning.
Breathe. Stay still. Follow his lead. Everyone here lives by contracts—client agreements, NDAs, ethics clauses—but mine is written in silence and desire.
If anyone links my name to Mary’s trial ID, it won’t matter that I never touched the data.
They’ll call it tampering—conflict of interest. Corruption learned from him.
“Understood,” I start to say—then the word slips out before I can stop it.
“Yes, sir.” It lands sharp as muscle memory.
For a heartbeat, I wait for someone to notice—for the entire room to turn and see what I’ve become.
Stephan’s head turns slightly, eyes cutting toward me.
“Not here,” he says, voice low enough only I can hear.
Heat floods my face. “Sorry—yes. I understand.”
Damien’s voice fills the pause. “This goes beyond civil exposure. If they find evidence of intent, we’re in criminal territory. So let’s assume they will.” The room goes silent. Stephan’s presence beside Cassian is a current—still, heavy, absolute.
He finally speaks, voice measured. “Then we build our defense accordingly. Order the chaos before they can weaponize it.” Order the chaos. It shouldn’t sound intimate, but it does.
By the time the meeting ends, my notes are useless scribbles. Cassian reminds me about cross-prep deadlines and leaves. Damien disconnects with a crackle of static. Only Stephan stays.
I gather my papers, hoping my shaking hands aren’t obvious.
He waits until the door clicks shut behind Cassian.
“You’ll stay on Cass’s directives. Keep your head down.
If they request interviews, we’ll handle it through counsel.
Understood?” “Yes, sir.” The words escape before I can stop them.
His eyes narrow. “Not here.” Heat floods my face. “Sorry—yes. I understand.”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me for one long second before turning toward the window. “Go get some air, Katie.”
I nod, flee the room, and make it to the hallway before breathing again.
The hum of the office swallows me—keyboards clacking, printers humming, people moving on autopilot.
I clutch my coffee cup to keep my hands steady.
Two paralegals whisper near the copier. They go quiet when I pass—one glances at me, then at Stephan’s door. The rumors have already started.
I tell myself I still have free will. But the truth hums under my skin. My body already knows how to obey.
At my desk, I force deep breaths. Stephan’s words echo in my head, calm and absolute—an order disguised as reassurance.
I open my laptop and start scrolling through old correspondence.
Every email. Every text. He was careful—always business in writing.
Still, fear worms through me: what if they dig deeper?
I pull out the phone he gave me—the one meant only for us. I stare at the screen for a long second, thumb hovering over Delete. In the convent, I used to kneel in a dark wooden box and whisper my failures into a screen, waiting for a priest to grant absolution. Now, the ritual has changed.
I begin to swipe. One by one, the messages vanish.
The sound of each chime feels like a frantic, digital confession.
Delete. Delete. Delete. I am scrubbing my soul clean, not for God, but for the man in the corner office.
Each deletion feels like faith turned inside out—penance without grace.
The contract said I would obey. It didn’t say what that would cost. By the time the screen is blank, I don’t feel forgiven. I just feel erased.
I catch my reflection in the black glass. The eyeliner—that sharp, dark wing I’d drawn this morning—looks back at me. The mark of a woman who has stopped seeking the light and started learning how to thrive in the shadows.
My mind goes to the contract locked in his desk drawer, and my stomach knots. That single document could burn us both. No one can ever know. Maybe he’s shredded it already. Maybe he’s moved it. I pray he has.
“Hey.”
Carmen’s voice jolts me back. She’s swiveled her chair around, studying me over the rim of her coffee mug. Her eyeliner is perfect, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Everything okay?”
I blink, force a smile. “Just the usual case chaos.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Case chaos doesn’t usually make you look like you’re about to hurl.”
I let out a nervous laugh, hoping it sounds real. “Guess I skipped breakfast.”
“Uh-huh.” She spins back toward her monitor, but not before shooting me one last knowing look. “Eat something before you faint on the evidence logs, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I manage. “I’ll be fine.”
But the truth lingers just beneath my voice: I’m not fine. The DOJ wants our files. Stephan holds my secret. And somewhere between obedience and fear, I can’t tell which part of me is still my own.
My mind drifts back to last night in the kitchen. The man I saw there wasn’t the commander from the bedroom or the courtroom. He was quiet, almost tender, sleeves rolled to his forearms while he made tea.
It makes me wonder which one is real. And worse, which one I want.
Before I can untangle my thoughts, Cassian’s voice cuts through the low hum of the office.
“O’Shea. My office.”
The air leaves my lungs in one sharp exhale. Cassian doesn’t summon people without reason.
I smooth my jacket, grab a legal pad I won’t use, and follow him down the hall. His office is the same as always—sterile, precise, not a single item out of place. The blinds are half-drawn, slicing the morning light into neat, ordered stripes across the floor.
He gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “Close the door.”
I do. The sound is soft but final, like a prison cell locking behind me.
Cassian leans back in his chair, studying me for a long moment. “You’ve been working late,” he says. “Even before the subpoena dropped.”
I clasp my hands together in my lap. “I wanted to stay ahead on prep.”
“Of course you did.” His voice is mild, but there’s something pointed beneath it. “You’re good, O’Shea. You’ve got discipline. But lately…” He trails off, then tilts his head. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m not,” I say too quickly.
He gives a small, almost sympathetic smile. “I didn’t say unfocused. I said distracted. There’s a difference.”
The silence stretches—my pulse hammers in my ears.
He taps a finger once against his desk. “You and Stephan spent a lot of time on the Halcyon discovery together. Unusual hours. Private meetings.”
I swallow hard. “He was my supervising partner at the time.”
“True.” His gaze sharpens just slightly. “And he’s a man who doesn’t usually mentor associates this closely. Which makes me wonder what he saw in you.”
I swallow hard. “I was just doing my job.”
He leans forward, and his mouth straightens into a thin line. “So nothing untoward happened?”
My throat closes, and I almost blurt out the truth.
“No,” I whisper, thinking about the time I took off my panties and gave them to him in my mouth.
Cassian studies me for another long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, softly: “You should be careful, Katie. Stephan’s brilliant, but he’s compartmentalized. When he lets someone in, it’s because they’re useful to him. And when they stop being useful—” He lets the sentence trail off.
He doesn’t need to finish it. Part of me wants to believe he’s wrong. The other part already knows he isn’t.
“I appreciate your concern,” I manage, my voice tight.
“Good.” He nods once, as if something has been settled. “Then get some rest. You’ll need it.”
When I step back into the hallway, my palms are damp, my legs unsteady. I tell myself Cassian was just looking out for me. But a small, traitorous part of me wonders—was that concern or a warning?