Chapter 30 Katie
Katie
Ilay back on Stephan’s bed, my body still trembling, adrenaline coursing through every vein. The cool sheets do nothing to calm the heat radiating from my slick skin. I want more. I want to spend the rest of the day lost in this pulse, touching myself until Stephan comes home and finds me undone.
Visions of us flash through my mind—his breath, his voice, the weight of his command—and I have to still my hand to keep from chasing that exquisite edge again.
Even thinking it feels dangerous.
The Bible calls lust a sin, but what I feel when I hear Stephan’s voice isn’t lust—it’s freedom.
Freedom from expectation. From fear. From the endless, quiet ache of being good.
To think that people go their whole lives without ever feeling their bodies like this…
that feels like real blasphemy. Maybe holiness was never the absence of want, but the courage to face it.
My chest tightens. The call happened while he was at work, while I was supposed to be working. If the DOJ ever found out, if anyone ever traced that call—it wouldn’t just ruin us—it would expose everything.
A clause from the contract floats up like a warning: All communications of an intimate nature shall remain private and confined to agreed circumstances. The legal phrasing once felt clinical. Now it sounds like a trap we built together.
I sit up, the sheets falling from my skin, and quickly dress. The cool air sobers me.
Back in the study, the black screen of my computer reflects a woman I barely recognize.
Composed. Professional. But beneath that reflection is the truth: I am a woman who had phone sex with her boss during a federal investigation.
How can both women live inside the same skin and not destroy each other?
Before I switch on the screen and return to the world, I step into my bedroom, sink to my knees, and clasp my hands around my rosary. I beg for forgiveness—for what I’ve done and for what I will fail to do again, and I almost hope God isn’t listening.
The ping of an incoming email shatters my prayer. The sound vibrates—jarring, mechanical—a digital summons back to the reality I’m trying to escape.
I wipe the dampness from my palms, rise, and cross back to the study. The screen glows to life, the blue-white light cruel against my eyes. The sender’s name stops me cold.
From: Cassian Roth Subject: DOJ Review—Immediate Attention
My stomach knots. I open it, scanning the clipped sentences that follow:
Katie, the DOJ liaison requested updated logs on the internal Halcyon review. Pull the most recent privilege notes and prepare a draft summary by end of day. —CR
There’s nothing accusatory in the message, nothing personal—just business. But my pulse won’t slow down. The DOJ wants the logs. Which means someone will be reading our messages, our drafts, our words. The words blur; for a second, I think I see my name where it isn’t—Katie O’Shea, Exhibit A.
I force myself to breathe, to think. Stephan said everything was under control.
Still, I pull up the file list and start scanning through them—methodically, obsessively—looking for anything that could connect me to him beyond the professional.
It’s how he would do it. The more I think like him, the safer we both are—and the more I lose what’s mine.
There’s nothing. He was careful. We were careful. Except for the phone.
My eyes flick toward it, sitting face down on the desk, silent now—a relic of a secret I can’t afford to own.
I draft a quick reply to Cassian.
On it. Will send summary by EOD.
I open a new text to Stephan. Just one sentence, typed and then deleted:
I’m scared, Stephan.
The cursor blinks in the empty field, relentless and accusing. That one sentence would have undone every inch of control I’d fought for.
Even this—reaching out first—would have been a breach. The contract didn’t forbid emotion, but it did demand discipline. I wonder when it stopped protecting me and started protecting him.
I close the phone and sit back, pressing my palms to my face.
For the first time since signing that contract, I realize I’m not afraid of what Stephan might ask of me.
I’m afraid of what I’ll give him without being asked.
And worse—I’m afraid I won’t be able to save Mary.
She was the reason I did all of this. But somewhere along the way, she stopped being the only one.
The guilt settles like ash, soft and suffocating. But instead of panic, something else takes root—resolve.
If this ever comes out, I’ll take the fall.
Stephan’s built an empire; I’m just an associate. No one will question who seduced whom. They’ll believe I crossed a line, that I was na?ve. And maybe they’d be right.
He can’t protect me from everything. But I can protect him.
If I can make this last until January, I will receive my first payment from him, and that should be enough to cover Mary’s treatment. That’s all I need. That’s all that matters.
Mary’s medical bills flash through my mind, half paid, half plea. Just a few more weeks. Just a few more sins.
The thought steadies me, terrible and holy all at once. It feels almost like a prayer—this quiet promise to sacrifice myself for him. I used to pray for deliverance. Now I pray for time—time to finish what I started before the truth finds us.
When I finally open my laptop, the inbox refreshes with a soft ping. At the top is an email marked Privileged & Confidential.
From: Stephan Marek Subject: Halcyon follow-up—read tonight.
It’s probably just about the case. But the sight of his name makes my heart skip, a pulse of longing and dread tangled together. Even his subject lines feel intimate now, coded messages in the language of secrecy.
I click the email open, bracing for whatever comes next.
From: Stephan Marek To: Katie O’Shea Subject: Halcyon follow-up—read tonight Privileged & Confidential – Attorney-Client Work Product
O’Shea,
Revisit the internal counsel memos from March through May. Focus on inconsistencies between the second and fourth drafts of the Halcyon safety disclosures.
Pay particular attention to redactions marked “preliminary.” They may become relevant if the DOJ requests the unfiltered data sets.
If you find anything that could expose our internal process, flag it for my direct review only. No one else needs to see it until I approve.
S.M.
I read it twice, my eyes lingering on the last line. He didn’t need to add “for my direct review only.” It’s the firm’s version of trust me. He tells me what to hide, but it feels like he’s the one I’m protecting.
The tone is professional, but I can feel him in it—the weight of his control, the promise of his protection. And suddenly, I know this isn’t just about Halcyon or the DOJ. It’s a coded tether, a reminder that our secret still binds us.
I hover over Reply, fingers poised on the keys. The rational response would be a quick acknowledgment. But what I want to type is I miss you. Come home soon.
Instead, I type:
Understood. I’ll handle it personally.
K.O.
Then I hit send and close the laptop.
The room goes quiet again. My pulse slows. I tell myself it’s just work— but I know it isn’t.