Work Text:
The hum of the Bartley House lobby feels suffocatingly loud tonight. Katy O’Connor stands near the high mahogany desk, her fingers digging so sharply into her leather pocketbook that the brass clasp pinches her palm. Her face burns. *One of the boys.* That is what James Devery called her in front of the entire assistant management staff—a good-natured clap on the shoulder, a booming laugh, and a total erasure of the woman beneath the tailored suit. It smarts worse than a slap. So when Randy Rand, the theatrical actor with the gleaming teeth, smooth silk cravat, and notorious playboy reputation, stepped off the elevator, Katy made her move. If Devery will not see her as a woman through her competence, he will see her through the eyes of a man who desires her.
In the dim shadow of the staircase alcove, Olive Smith waits, her posture rigid, her hands twisting her handkerchief into tight, furious knots. Her voice is a sharp, trembling thread. "So, this is goodbye, then?"
"I'm not dating him, Olive," Katy whispers, her eyes darting nervously toward the front desk before fixing on Olive’s pale, wounded face. "I'm being seen with him."
"It feels like you're leaving me," Olive says, her chin quivering, though her eyes burn with a quiet, terrifying grief.
"It's religion, Olive!" Katy’s voice drops to a harsh, desperate murmur, the weight of forty years of doctrine pressing against her chest like lead. "It's complementarianism. Read passages from Ephesians or 1 Corinthians. Men are the Head of the Household, but when there is no man, I'm still supposed to play my part."
"Phooey on religion," Olive snaps, taking a step back as if Katy’s words are a physical infection. "You're forsaking me."
"I'm really not," Katy insists, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, standardizing her fear into the rigid lines of ritual. "I'm following the Catholic Code!"
Olive stares at her, the hurt hardening into something dark, absolute, and cold. "Phooey on Catholicism."
She turns on her heel and storms off toward the back offices, her heels clicking a furious rhythm against the marble floor before the door slams shut behind her. Katy remains frozen, dropping instantly into a silent, internal pit. The air feels thin, heavy with the scent of stale incense from Sunday mass and Randy Rand’s cheap cologne. She cannot go after her. She cannot run down the hall, catch Olive by her soft shoulders, and pull her into the dark safety of their private world.
She can only smooth her skirt, turn toward the grand lobby, and step into the warm, predatory glow of the chandelier to offer Randy Rand her arm. She plaster-casts a smile onto her face, letting the actor steer her toward the dining room, while her soul kneels in the dark, feverishly praying that when the hotel goes quiet, Olive will still return to her bed tonight.