Veronica had been a companion for the night. A temporary arrangement.
But somewhere between the foyer of the gala and the last flash of Veronica’s eyes across the candlelit table, Kathleenhad started wanting something she didn’t have words for. Not exactly romance, a connection. That rare, precious feeling of not being alone.
And now she’d gone and shut the door on it.
She turned her head into the couch cushion and let a soft sound escape her throat, a half sigh, half sob. Not loud. She wouldn’t give herself that, but it was there to be screamed out.
She didn’t cry often. There was rarely time. Tonight, the tears came like visitors she hadn’t invited but couldn’t turn away. Not grief or heartbreak, only the aching sense that she’d touched something gentle, something good, and pushed it away out of fear.
After a long time, she stood and moved to her bedroom, stripped off her dress and carefully hung it over the chair. She brushed her hair in the mirror and saw the faint smudge of mascara under her lashes, the pink flush in her cheeks.
She climbed into bed and lay on her side, facing the window. She stared out at the dark shape of the skyline, her fingers clutching the sheet.
Ten days later, Kathleen stood in the lab, her hands deep in nutrient gel, her mind far away.
The plants in Tank Two had responded well to the adjusted conductivity levels—better than she’d predicted. Their leaves gleamed under the spectrum of light, veined silver like delicate circuitry. A small miracle, a breakthrough even.
Kathleen couldn’t feel excited about it.
She adjusted the filter settings with the tip of her stylus, watching the nutrient solution swirl, and caught herself thinking—not of the cell structure, not of the scaled implementation protocols—but of Veronica Hale.
Her smile.
The way it bloomed slow and sure, like a secret that only you got to share. The way she’d spoken so warmly, so calm and certain that Kathleen had found herself leaning in without even realizing it.
Her body, too. There was no point denying it anymore. Veronica had curves that made her ache in ways she didn’t know how to name. It wasn’t lust—not exactly. It was something quieter, deeper. A fascination. A pull. The way she moved, the way her blouse had draped across her collarbones, the warm weight of her presence when she’d stepped slightly in front of Kathleen to deflect that donor’s question.
You set the pace, she’d said.
And Kathleen had. Straight into a wall.
She sighed and moved to the sink, rinsing her gloves in silence. Ted was off today, which was both a blessing and a curse. No one to ask questions or interrupt or distract her.
She had barely slept the past few nights. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Veronica sitting beside her at the gala table, leaning in with that quiet way, listening like no one else ever had.
Kathleen turned off the tap and dried her hands mechanically. Her eyes drifted toward her office door, the one space in the building that didn’t smell like bio-nutrients. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, suddenly tired of pretending she was getting anything useful done.
She stood there for a long moment, staring at her desk, where the three profile cards still sat in the drawer. She hadn’t thrown them away. She hadn’t wanted to. Veronica’s picture was still on top.
She pulled it out and looked at it. That same poised face. That self-assured gaze. That same flicker of warmth behind the polish.
Kathleen’s thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the card.
She didn’t want to go to another event. She didn’t need a buffer or an excuse this time, but she wanted to see her again.
She wanted... to try once more without a ballroom, or speeches, or donors and board members, and eyes she didn’t trust.
Just dinner.
Somewhere quiet where she could hear her voice and not the clatter of plates and chatter of people who didn’t really see her.
Kathleen sat down, her hands feeling suddenly clumsy as she reached for her phone. She stared at the agency’s contact number for a long time before she tapped it.
The line rang once.
Then again.
Then—click.
