Kathleen checked the room once more—tank readouts steady, lights on automated timers, sample trays sealed—and only then allowed herself to leave.
The elevator ride down was silent. Kathleen stood perfectly still in the centre, hands clasped loosely behind her back, avoiding the walls. Outside, the evening had cooled and streetlights buzzed to life against the creeping dark. She walked two blocks to the parking garage, her steps brisk, counting without thinking. Always counting.
Her apartment was on the fourth floor of a quiet building overlooking the East River. Security-coded, soundproofed, efficient. Inside, she locked the door behind her with a soft click and reset the deadbolt out of habit. Shoes off immediately. Bag hung precisely on the hook by the door. Jacket folded, not thrown.
The apartment was spare but elegant: pale wood floors and built-in shelves lined with reference books and research journals. No clutter, nothing unnecessary.
Kathleen exhaled slowly and crossed to the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the induction plate. She hated microwaves; they made the water taste strange. While it heated, she pulled a small ceramic jar from the cupboard—white tea, lightly floral—and lined up the tea strainer and cup.
When the kettle clicked off, she poured the water with steady hands, watching the pale leaves swirl. Only then did she allow herself to sit, tucking her legs neatly under her on the wide, low couch by the window.
The city stretched out before her in a glitter of lights. The chaos outside never touched her here. Behind triple-glazed glass and a locked door, the world was a safe, distant thing. She sipped her tea and reviewed tomorrow’s schedule in her mind.
Lab work in the morning. Tank Two adjustments. Meeting with the board of the Atlantic Environmental ResearchFoundation at three o’clock. She grimaced slightly at the thought. Formal events made her skin itch. Too many expectations, too many conversations that felt scripted.
But it was necessary; the funding mattered and the project mattered.
She reached for her laptop, swiping through the latest growth charts. The numbers settled her. They were clean, orderly and honest.
People lied, not numbers.
Kathleen drained her tea, set the cup precisely on its coaster, and reached for the small remote that controlled the apartment’s lighting. One touch, and the room dimmed to a soft, even glow—no harsh fluorescents or flickering bulbs.
She let herself sit there a little longer, then picked up the pictures of the three women.
Each one was clipped to a small, white profile card from the agency. Professional headshots, with age, background, education and hobbies attached.
It had taken Kathleen weeks to even reach out. She’d drafted three separate emails before finally she rang, and only after her mother had brought it up again during their last call.
"You can’t go to another event alone, Kathleen. People talk. You’re thirty-three, darling, not a recluse in a lab coat."
Shewasa recluse in a lab coat, but she knew better than to argue. It wasn’t only about appearances. These events—fundraisers, gala dinners, political gatherings masked as science symposiums—they were part of the work now. And showing up alone always made things harder. The conversations dragged. The introductions grew strained. And sooner or later, some man in a tailored suit would corner her, trying to explain her own research back at her like she hadn’t written it in the first place.
It was exhausting.
Worse, there had been... moments. Expectations and awkward touches. Smiles that lingered too long. Men who’d assumed that her silence meant permission, that her discomfort was simply shyness, waiting to be charmed away. Three awkward nights in bed with men had made her more adamant that she preferred women.
She had never said her preference aloud to anyone except one person at university, and that hadn’t ended well. She wasn’t ashamed of it—only ... uncertain what to do with it. Romance was complicated and messy. People were hard enough to decode in the lab, let alone in her living room.
The agency offered something simpler. Controlled, clear boundaries. No guessing games or unwanted touches. It wasn’t an escort service in the traditional sense. There was no sex involved. It was service catering for clients wanting a plus one at a function, or a companion for a night out.
If pressed, she could explain it to her mother.A business arrangement.
There was nothing strange about that. Scientists were practical people. Some of the wealthiest men in the world had been hiring companions for years and no one questionedthem.
She studied the first profile: Ava, age twenty-five, blond hair, with prominent cheekbones and a grin that looked like it belonged on a yacht. According to her file, she worked in PR and moonlighted as a yoga instructor. She wouldn’t suit at all. Too high energy and social. Too young and eager.
Kathleen flipped to the second.
Ophelia. Twenty-eight, a model. Tall, willowy, the kind of beauty that walked into a room and made people stare. Her photo showed her in a sleek black dress, eyes downcast, the image of effortless sophistication.
Kathleen frowned. Women like Ophelia intimidated her. They reminded her of the girls at college who had movedthrough parties with practiced elegance, while she’d hovered near the wall, pretending to check her phone or refold napkins. She didn’t need someone who drew attention. She needed someone who could help her deflect it.
She picked up the third profile.
Veronica Hale.
Kathleen stared at the photo.
