Chapter 29 Stephan
Stephan
Iwake to find Katie’s spot empty next to me.
The sheets have gone cold. She’s been awake for a while.
Wrapping a robe around myself, I move through the penthouse, last night replaying in flashes—her body trembling beneath mine, the sound of her voice breaking as I told her to let go.
I lost control because I wanted to see her release.
I wanted to feel it. That was stupid of me. It cannot happen again.
The contract was supposed to create distance—a set of rules to contain what I wanted. Instead, every clause is an echo of the restraint I keep losing.
The morning light slices through the blinds—clean, judicial, exposing.
A dozen notifications from the DOJ already burn behind my phone screen, the phantom weight of them pressing against my ribs like a leaden verdict.
Every fracture in this case leads back to my door; every jagged inconsistency and stalled hour carries my fingerprints.
I can see the connections I didn't explain, the threads I let tangle, all of them tightening into a noose.
Katie’s name is on the privilege logs. Mine is on the filings. If anyone outside this room connects them, the fallout will be catastrophic.
I should be thinking about discovery strategy, but all I can think about is the mark of her cross on my hand—a brand that feels more like evidence than memory.
I find her deep in prayer in her room. Knees bent, head resting against her bed.
My feet linger at the edge of the doorway. This is her space, her sanctuary. I don’t dare enter.
Her hands are clasped around a rosary, eyes shut tight as she whispers something I can’t make out under her breath. Is she praying for guidance? Strength? Is she praying to escape me or to forgive me for making her stay?
Flashes of last night flow through my mind. Her hands bound by the very beads she clings to now. We made something holy, sinful, or did we? She could have stopped me at any moment, but she didn’t.
My gaze drops from her hands to her wrists—and I wince. Faint red circles line the delicate skin, a brand and a warning in one. My own hands did that. I tell myself it was part of the lesson, but the lie tastes bitter.
I clear my throat, and she cracks an eye at me.
“Sorry, I didn’t notice you there.” She rises, setting the rosary on the bedside table.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say. “I just saw your wrists.”
She rubs them awkwardly. “Oh—yeah. I can just put some makeup over it. It should be fine.”
I take a step forward, then stop myself. I want to ask if she slept, if her wrists hurt, if she dreams about me—but simple questions feel more dangerous than orders.
“You may enter,” she says quietly.
The air between us tightens, still humming with the electricity of last night. I step inside.
“You can’t go to work like that. Cassian will notice.”
Cassian doesn’t ask questions—he documents them. One photograph of your wrists and he’ll hand it straight to HR.
“I’ll wear long sleeves.”
“And what will you say if he asks about them? You can’t show up to work like that. Email and tell him you’re sick, but you’ll work from home.”
She scrunches her nose. “I think you’re overreacting.”
I close the gap between us and take her face in my hands. The bruises are so faint, but they burn into my conscience. I want to kiss them away. I want to pull her against me and promise I’ll never let anything hurt her again—not even me.
Instead, my voice comes out low, measured. “We have to be careful. The DOJ is breathing down our necks. I can’t have Cassian looking into this too. I’ve done my best to protect you, but you have to help me. We cannot be too careful.”
She studies me, her eyes soft but steady. “You can’t protect me from everything, Stephan.”
The words land harder than she knows. Because she’s right—and that truth terrifies me. I need her near me so I can believe I’m still the man who makes rules instead of breaks them.
“Please,” I say, softer now. “Just this once.”
Her eyes lower. A flicker of conflict passes across her face before she exhales. “I guess you’re right. Better to be safe.”
“Thank you.” My voice tightens despite myself. “There’s more than just us at stake right now. The firm could lose everything. If the SEC or the DOJ digs any deeper into Halcyon, it could all come crashing down.”
I reach out, tracing the line of her jaw, but my gaze drifts to the nightstand. The silver rosary catches the morning light, the beads glinting—the same beads I had wrapped around her wrists hours ago to hold her still.
“Things are going to get... intense for a while, Katie.” My voice is lower than I intended, gravelly with the weight of the secrets I’m already carrying for her.
I look back at her, seeing the smudge of eyeliner she didn't quite wash off, the faint shadow of the woman she became in my bed.
“The DOJ isn't looking for the truth; they’re looking for a sacrifice. And Cassian... he’s looking for anything that doesn't fit the pattern.” I gesture toward the rosary.
“The world out there doesn't care about your intentions or your prayers. They only care about the paper trail. And right now, that trail leads straight to us.”
She follows my gaze to the beads. For a second, I see the old Katie—the one who believed a penance could wash away every sin. But then she looks back at me, her eyes hard and clear.
“Then we’ll make sure the trail ends where we want it to,” she says with a quiet absolution that makes my cock twitch.
The conviction in her voice is a terrifying thing. I’ve turned a saint into a conspirator, and the worst part is, I don’t know if I did it to save her or to keep from drowning myself.
I press a kiss to her forehead before I leave, and she leans into me. The scent of her citrus shampoo lingers in my lungs. I want to stay like this—still, suspended, safe—but I know that’s a foolish dream.
As she turns back toward her rosary, I linger in the doorway, watching the soft curve of her shoulders, the fragile peace she’s fighting to rebuild.
I will keep you safe. The words echo through my mind, hollow now—because it’s the kind of promise a man makes when he’s already unable to contain the truth.
***
By the time I get to the office, the city is already awake—horns blaring, people rushing, the endless churn of ambition devouring everything in its path. The noise matches the static in my head.
Cassian’s already in the conference room when I arrive, a spread of files and exhibits arranged with military precision. Damien’s pacing near the window, tie loosened, coffee in hand.
“Morning,” Cassian says without looking up. “We’ve got a situation.”
I let out a sigh. Of course we do. There’s always a situation.
He slides a folder across the table. “The DOJ sent an updated inquiry this morning. They’ve requested direct access to all partner communications from the last fiscal quarter.”
I stop halfway into my chair. “Direct access?”
Cassian nods grimly. “Every email. Every internal message. If there’s anything that even smells like concealment, they’ll use it.”
Damien lets out a bitter laugh. “They’re not investigating Halcyon anymore—they’re investigating us.”
My pulse spikes. I can feel Katie’s words from this morning circling back—You can’t protect me from everything.
Cassian’s eyes flick toward me. “I’m assuming your discovery team’s clean?”
“Yes.” The answer is automatic. I file through the memories in my mind. Did Katie and I ever communicate via email explicitly? Over text? I don’t think so. Just that one time on our way to California, when I told her to meet me in the Delta lounge.
Cassian doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t push. “Good. Then you’ll be point on this. I want a full audit of every file, every message. Anything that could even be misinterpreted, flag it. We’ll run it through privilege review before it leaves the building.”
I nod once. “Understood.”
Cass leans back, studying me. “You alright?”
“Fine.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
He hums, unconvinced, and turns back to his notes. “We’ll regroup tomorrow. And Stephan—no surprises.”
When the meeting ends, I retreat to my office, closing the door quietly behind me—Chicago sprawls below—lit, efficient, indifferent.
I should be thinking about subpoenas and privilege logs, about protecting the firm, but all I can think of are the faint red marks on Katie’s wrists. The lie I told her this morning. The phone sitting in my desk drawer that holds messages we should’ve never sent.
No surprises.
I stare out at the skyline and realize that the biggest threat to this firm isn’t the DOJ.
It’s me.
The rest of the morning dissolves into chaos—emails, redlines, calls from Halcyon’s general counsel. I respond, I delegate, I issue orders. On the surface, I’m the same man I’ve always been. But underneath, something is shifting. The control I wear like armor is starting to crack.
Everywhere I look, there’s a reminder of her. Her handwriting in the margins of the Halcyon binders. Her scent on the jacket I left hanging on my chair. Her voice, soft but certain, whispering You can’t protect me from everything.
By noon, I’ve reread the same email three times and still can’t remember what it said. I push back from my desk, rub my temples, and glance at the clock.
All I can think of is Katie and the way she came undone around me last night—the hitch of her breath, the smell of her arousal. I have an erection just thinking about it.
The secret phone I use only for her beats like a heart in my desk drawer, and below it, I still have her panties.
I buzz my assistant.
“Yes, Mr. Marek?”
“Hold my calls for the next forty-five minutes. I have something personal to attend to.”
The impulse is reckless, juvenile. I can already picture Cassian’s raised eyebrow if he saw my call log. But the silence in this office is louder than any risk. I need to hear her voice just to remember I still exist outside the walls I built.
“Yes, Mr. Marek. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”