Chapter 36 Katie
Katie
“Katie?”
My mother’s voice pulls me out of sleep like a hand dragging me to the surface—the room tilts. My stomach clenches.
It was all real. God didn’t grant me the mercy of a nightmare.
Mom nudges the door open and sits on the edge of my bed, her silver hair knotted into the bun she’s worn for as long as I’ve been alive. “What are you doing here? It’s Wednesday. I thought you were staying in the city this week.”
My body aches—some of it from the hours I spent wrapped in Stephan’s arms, most of it from the emotional freefall of the last twenty-four hours. Everything inside me feels frayed, strung too tight to hold.
The world is dark outside. I have been asleep for most of the day.
I don’t know what to tell my mother or my sister. I’ve been training to be my boss’s sexual submissive, but then we fell in love, and now the DOJ is investigating us—won’t help the situation.
“I… I just wanted to come home,” I manage. “I’m feeling a little burnt out.”
Mom smooths my hair back, the same slow gesture she used when I was little and came home crying from school. “Of course, dear. You’ve been working yourself to the bone. I’ll make you something to eat.”
“Thanks, Mom.” I pull the blanket closer, cocooning myself. “Where’s Mary?”
“She’s resting. The new treatment really takes it out of her the first day, but she’ll perk up tomorrow.”
“That’s good,” I say, even as dread curls low in my stomach.
The door clicks shut, and the silence of the house rushes in, heavy and familiar.
But I am not the girl who left this room.
My body feels foreign. I can smell the ghosts of our night on my skin—the sharp, expensive cedar of Stephan’s cologne and the metallic tang of the city air—clashing violently with the scent of my mother’s lemon polish and the lingering aroma of boiled potatoes from the kitchen.
The comfort of home should be a balm, but instead, it feels like an indictment.
When I shift under the covers, a sharp ache blossoms between my thighs and back—the physical aftermath of the window, the floor, the desperate way he claimed me. The ache burns like a brand—my body a walking exhibit of what we did.
Pressing a hand over the bruise at my hip, I half-expect it to vanish with enough pressure. Instead, pain blooms—proof. This happened. I wanted it. The admission hits harder than any sermon could.
We burned the paper, but not the terms. They still live under my skin—the clauses memorized, the obedience instinctive.
A crucifix hangs on the wall, its wooden arms outstretched in eternal judgment, and the realization hits with a sickening jolt—I can never truly come home. I have been hollowed out and filled with something darker. I am a martyr who has tasted the fire and found it warmer than the light.
I almost reach for the rosary on the nightstand, then stop. There’s no invocation that won’t sound like his name.
At this rate, I can’t pay for another treatment. Stephan’s promise lingers like prayer, but prayer doesn’t keep Mary alive.
I stare at the ceiling, replaying every second from this morning—my confession to Cassian, the way he looked at me, the way the walls of the firm seemed to close around me like a verdict.
I picture Stephan finding the letter I left him. Was he angry? Sad? Did he accept it with quiet resolve?
He didn’t text me. He didn’t email. Maybe he realized it was better this way because it is.
He will hate me for this. But at least he will be safe.
Safe means untouched by scandal. If the DOJ links his signature to my case notes, he could be disbarred before the week ends. One whisper of coercion, and the contract becomes a weapon.
Cassian told me to take some time to think about it, but I’ve already made up my mind. This is what has to be done. I can go back to being a nun or maybe get a job at a church. Something other than litigation.
But part of me wants to get paid for a few more days of work. Every penny will count when I’m unemployed and disbarred.
I open the laptop like a confessional door—because faith doesn’t pay for salvation—and by the time the screen loads, my fingers are already moving.
To: Cassian Roth
From: Katie O'Shea
Subject: Decision
Dear Mr. Roth,
Thank you for meeting with me this morning. I took what you said to heart and have decided to take the weekend to consider my options.
Sincerely,
Katie O'Shea
He writes back almost immediately.
Good thinking.
-CR
I stare at the two words on the screen, my thumb hovering over the banking website.
With a bracing breath, I tap it. The screen flickers white, then blue, before revealing the devastating reality of my freedom: $412.
08. That’s all that’s left after the last pharmacy bill and the mortgage payment.
It’s enough for a week of groceries and half a tank of gas, but it’s nowhere near enough for a sister with stage-four cancer and an unemployed “martyr.”
I shut my laptop and curl up in my childhood bed on the South Side, the tennis bracelet still glinting on my wrist. A delicate chain of diamonds, catching what little street light filters through the curtains. Proof that I’m still his—and the one piece of evidence I refuse to return.
I trace the diamonds in the dark, counting them like beads of a rosary. One for every lie. One for every touch. Hail Mary, full of grace... Stephan Marek, full of sin.
I crush my wrist against my chest, a useless attempt to muffle the frantic, jagged kick of my heart.
It isn't just a beat; it’s a physical bruise, a raw ache that hollows me out from the inside.
My skin hungers for the weight of his arms, for that specific, heavy heat that used to anchor me.
I can almost feel the ghost of his breath against my ear, the low vibration of his voice weaving the lie that everything is fine—a lie I’d swallow whole just to feel the pressure of him against me one more time.
But wanting him is what got us here. Wanting him is why everything is coming apart.
I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the ache. Monday, I’ll go back. I’ll walk into that office and let them carve out the truth they want.
For tonight, I lie in my childhood bed with the bracelet cutting soft crescents into my skin and pretend, just for a moment, that I’m not already destroyed.
***
By Monday, the fog has lifted, but the guilt hasn't faded; it’s just settled into my bones, becoming a part of my architecture.
I spent the weekend praying until my knees ached and the priest’s voice blurred into absolution.
And now that I am cleansed, I am more steadfast than ever in my decision to fall on my sword for Stephan.
The office is as quiet as the grave when I arrive.
Snow drifts lazily past the windows, softening the sharp lines of downtown Chicago.
The place feels hollowed out, like the memory of a life I’m already losing.
Three days away shouldn’t feel like a lifetime, but time distorts when your world is about to burn.
I told myself I’d go back to protect what little dignity I had left—if not for me, then for the people still depending on my paycheck.
Associates start trickling in, their coats dusted with snow, chatting about commutes and weekend plans—oblivious to the storm creeping toward us.
I stare at my inbox, wondering what I should be doing and waiting for Cassian to arrive so I can resign and get it over with. Stephan’s bracelet hangs heavy around my wrist, but I don’t dare take it off. I can’t. Not yet.
My screen goes blank, and I stare at my reflection. The woman looks poised and put together. When inside, I know I am falling apart.
At 8 A.M. sharp, Cassian arrives, dressed in a sharp navy three-piece suit. Hair slicked back behind his ears. He doesn’t look at me; instead, he walks straight into his office.
A few minutes later, Damien arrives, stalking across the floor in the way only a predator can.
I hold my breath and wait for Stephan to arrive, but he never does. Annie is at her desk in front of his office, but Stephan’s office is dark. The sight steals my breath before the thought forms: maybe he’s already gone.
My chest tightens with panic. Did he resign before I could? Or maybe they fired him. I wanted him safe. Now he is—and safety looks like absence.
The ache that follows feels indecent, as if grief itself were a trespass.
I glance at his office again. His nameplate still hangs next to his door. He must still be here. Maybe he needed some space, or he just couldn’t stand to watch me hang myself.
My email pings— Cassian
Meeting in my office at 2 p.m. Continue your regular duties until then.
My stomach drops. Hours of torture until I meet my fate.
I briefly consider leaving and just never coming back, but my Catholic guilt would never allow me to do that. I’m already condemned. If Joan of Arc could be burned at the stake, I can take a different kind of flame.
I spend the rest of the morning prepping documents for the DOJ. At noon, the doors to the elevators swing open, and six men in cheap suits and god complexes walk into the lobby.
The floor goes still— the DOJ is here for surprise interviews.
A receptionist ushers them to the big conference room, and my eyes shoot to Cassian, where he stands, hands in his pockets, watching them.
When the conference door clicks shut, he turns his gaze towards me. And with two fingers, he gestures for me to join him in his office.
My fate has come early.
I get up, wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt, and walk to his office. Eyes watch me with pity and malice.
I should not have flown so close to the sun.
Cassian doesn’t sit. He stands at the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect in a way that makes my stomach drop. The posture is familiar—authority carried like armor. For a heartbeat, my body mistakes his restraint for Stephan’s.
He turns, watching me with an expression I can’t read — not cruelty, not sympathy, but something colder.
“Sit.”
I do.