Kepler's Web: The Kepler series, #1

By Alexandra Rivers

All Kepler wanted was a new face – or so JC thought.  She couldn't have been more wrong…  

 

JC's world revolves around science and Bioprinting. She appreciates facts, analysis, and indisputable results. But when she enters Kepler's reality, she's beyond intrigued...she's captivated.  In a path paved by betrayals and obsession, the desires awakened are only the beginning.

 

"Have you ever needed something so much that you had to steal it? Steal it even from yourself?"

 

Kepler lives in a world where nothing is what it seems and first impressions are treacherous.  He has debts to pay -- both old and new -- an ironclad plan, and a course set to lead him into a new life.  Even as his past and his face haunt him, the present taunts him still more. 
When JC steps into his life, she unravels a web of possibilities, dreams, and needs that he has always denied himself.

 

 When their two very different worlds collide, the results can be explosive.

 

 

This story is recommended for mature audiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexandra Rivers
• Release date: Oct 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393036371

Alexandra Rivers

When Alexandra Rivers does not write she reads. When she does not read she makes a living as a graphic designer/illustrator. Unfortunately, not always in that order. She likes coffee, dogs, cats (!!!) and other animals (people, too, but she’s selective in that department) and LOVES stories with solid characters and a good twist here and there – the ones you want to read again and again and again. She lives with her significant other (and his endless patience) in Athens, Greece so if something “sounds Greek to you” it probably is! Yet, she writes only in English.

Book preview

About this book

All Kepler wanted was a new face — or so JC thought.  

She couldn’t have been more wrong... 

JC’s world revolves around science and Bioprinting. She appreciates facts, analysis, and indisputable results. But when she enters Kepler’s reality, she’s beyond intrigued...she’s captivated.

In a path paved by betrayals and obsession, the desires awakened are only the beginning.

Have you ever needed something so much that you had to steal it? Steal it even from yourself?

​Kepler lives in a world where nothing is what it seems and first impressions are treacherous.  He has debts to pay—both old and new—an ironclad plan, and a course set to lead him into a new life. 

Even as his past and his face haunt him, the present taunts him still more. 

When JC steps into his life, she unravels a web of possibilities, dreams, and needs that he has always denied himself.

When their two very different worlds collide, the results can be explosive.

Volume I

behind the mirror

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two

chemical substances:

if there is any reaction, both are transformed."

Modern Man in Search of a Soul

Carl Jung

Chapter 1 < Introductions and paintings

She stepped forward into the darkness. The door closed behind her and JC was bathed in a warm but dim light.

I trust you had a pleasant journey, Dr. Goodman.

JC turned to her left, trying to find the source of the bodiless male voice. She couldn’t see the far end of the room. She couldn’t even see more than a few feet ahead. The darkness was too thick to penetrate. Still, the voice was pleasing to the ear. One could claim it was even beautiful, but JC discarded the thought easily. She was not in the mood for sound appreciation.

You could serve yourself some tea, the voice offered politely. JC took in the table on wheels with the elegant black teapot and the matching cups on her right.

He must be kidding! She thought of the over two hours’ ride with Ms. Gardner as her silent companion. The English countryside after midnight looked like a dark, uninviting sea of fields with the occasional beacon lights of the random cottages. They had exited the motorway very early, choosing isolated roads and a route Ms. Gardner seemed to follow effortlessly, leaving JC in her own misery and assumptions. She didn't know where they were heading. She didn't know when they would be arriving. And every one of her questions had received vague replies as if she was asking meaningless information. No, this was certainly not JC’s idea of a pleasant journey.

Tell me, Dr. Goodman, what do you know about me? the man’s voice reached her again. Now she was certain she wasn’t listening to some speakerphone. There was a living, breathing man in the room with her. There was a hint of amusement in her host’s deep voice that any other time would make JC grit her teeth and utter a sharp response. This time she restrained herself. Talking to a voice was unnerving. Although she could hear Mr. Kepler at the far end of the room, she couldn’t even catch a glimpse of his silhouette. 

I only know what Ms. Gardner has told me about you over the last eighteen months. I met Dr. McBride a few minutes ago— She shifted her weight and waited. If you want to play it mysterious, be my guest. I couldn’t care less, JC thought, and counted her host’s steps as he paced at his side of the room. The soft light on her side allowed her to see the deep grey carpeted walls and floor but other than that...there was nothing. The space was empty. They reminded her of tennis players, strictly limited to their own courts. She wondered if Mr. Kepler would take the first step.

There is no point at playing games, Dr. Goodman, the bodiless voice said, and JC found herself smiling. Had he thought of the tennis image, too? She doubted it.

She wondered if the man was a ridiculously famous celebrity aiming to keep his anonymity. Or a filthy rich heir—the voice didn’t seem to belong to an old man—who wanted to play the eccentric benefactor. Filthy rich people could afford to be eccentric.

I’d appreciate it if you answered my question. There was a hint of irritation now, or maybe he was in a hurry. JC realized how much she based her estimations on facial grimaces. It was as if her ears had become lazy over the years. Without nods, brows lifted, or a face to watch, she was in the dark.

Mr. Kepler, I’m a scientist. The facts I knew until a few hours ago are now under question. Shattered would be a better-suited word, JC thought, but she went on in a serious voice, If you want a summary, I’d be happy to oblige, but whether these are actual facts or a picture you fabricated to get me here...this is a question for you to answer.

JC heard her voice rising and paused to take a deep breath. It’s the shock, she thought to calm herself. The adrenaline rush....

For the last eighteen months, I thought that my father’s medical bills were paid by OKTO, Inc. as part of the company’s multiple charity activities— To earn a tax reduction, JC added inwardly but avoided saying it out  loud. It might seem naïve of me now, but Ms. Gardner did show me a report list of other charities she was responsible for. JC gulped. Maybe there was no time for beating about the bush. After all, she had some questions herself.

"You know that I was in desperate financial state. My father is in a coma, he’s breathing by himself, but the care he needs costs more than I could pay in three lifetimes. He’s not going to wake up any time soon."

And if he did, that could cost even more, JC thought, not prickled by guilt. For eighteen months, she had experienced the luxury of not measuring everything by the money it cost, comparing it with all the cheapest alternatives, and deducting it from her pathetic bank account. Now, that unwanted skill should be resurrected.

There are state facilities for patients like your father, Dr. Goodman. The voice again.

JC wondered how he would react if she ran and kicked him hard in the leg. She looked at her dirty sneakers. The man was too far away. There was no way she’d surprise him and she’d probably hit first onto a wall. She bitterly smiled at her sneakers and the old pair of jeans she was wearing. These lousy clothes and her own realistic notion of her beauty...or the lack of it, helped her keep her sanity during the trip in Ms. Gardner’s car. There was a point at which she had honestly thought she was abducted. No, no handsome Sheik would bid for her beauty. That fear never crossed JC’s mind, not even trafficking. But organ trade.... That was a whole different thing. She could bet her Spartan way of living granted her a pretty nice liver. Her dislike of water would probably destroy her kidneys in the future, but she was still young with a fairly well-working heart.

She had wholeheartedly agreed to meet Mr. Kepler, OKTO’s CEO, some day in the vague future, but Ms. Gardner’s appearance at her apartment that Sunday afternoon was quite sudden. Her tone was urgent. Mr. Kepler’s request hardly sounded like an expression of a polite wish. Ms. Gardner’s tone had made it clear: Mr. Kepler’s wishes were commands for the rest of the world. JC had wanted nothing more than to send the old crone away but her own life had revolved around the Kepler axis for so long and her old life seemed like such a nightmare that she complied relatively easily. A few faint excuses and attempts to postpone the appointment. Nothing more.

During the endless, silent drive JC had concluded: she wasn’t a bitch. She did feel genuine gratitude for her benefactor, but, like all people in need, she was ashamed of that need that showed how weak she really was. Ashamed she had been someone’s charity project, and that shame had awakened a hostility she couldn’t restrain. Her eyes fell on her shoes again. JC tried to persuade herself that if she did have the time she might have bought a new dress and a pair of pumps, but she knew better than that. All her friends had pointed out her absolute lack of taste, so a pair of jeans would always be a safe choice. After all, when rich people wanted to see those who received their charity, they’d better look poor enough.  Okay, she looked poor enough.

The man cleared his throat and JC had to concentrate hard to remember his last question.... State facilities for patients like her father.

Have you ever visited those places you recommend, Mr. Kepler? She couldn’t restrain the sarcastic edge in her voice. Her father would survive no more than a month in a place like that. No matter the staff’s efforts, cross-infection was a constant threat for patients like him. The unit he was in at the moment looked more like an ICU than anything else.

"As a matter of fact, I have visited one of those places. I’ve even lived in one for a while."

He had her full attention, but he didn’t say more. Instead they were both drowned in a long, uncomfortable pause. A silence where she was standing under the dim, depressing light like a spoiled, insolent student after making a humongous mistake. Or even worse...she felt like a reprimanded snob.

Mr. Kepler— she tried hard to finish her sentence but she couldn’t. What was she trying to do? Urge him to talk? The man didn’t want to even show himself before her. What were the odds he’d behave like a normal person?

"Since you are not in the mood for conversation, let’s focus on what I know about you, Dr. Goodman. Your CV is very impressive. You were the youngest Development and Clinical Project Manager assigned by BDS International. Still, you are not working as a biomedical engineer anymore. You have a BA in biochemistry and minored in psychology.  Even though you were born in the U.S., you earned your PhD in molecular biochemistry and engineering in the UK, partly because there is a more friendly environment for stem cell research here and partly because BDS International funded your PhD. I understand that is not the norm—"

I was interested in tissue engineering and BDS is...BDS.

It had to do with your dissertation. Something about enzyme kinetics.

I’m impressed!

I’ve studied! 

She was sure there was a smile somewhere behind that rich voice. She wished she could see him.

Then you know that my PhD was financed partly by my university in the States and partly from BDS, she paused. BDS is based in the UK. I didn’t want to teach. I preferred to work as a research assistant.

However, your days as Development and Clinical Project Manager were numbered. A statement.

Easy come, easy go, she tried to joke but, as always, the attempt to joke over that particular matter wasn’t very successful.

This is the way you see it?

Was he angry? He didn’t sound angry and JC had no solid evidence for her intuition. His voice was the same in volume and tone. She even took in for the first time the richness of its timbre and its melodic quality. It didn’t sound like an angry voice. It felt angry and that feeling, evoked by no palpable objective signs, made her question her sanity.

I suppose I was too young for the task, she mumbled—the answer she had given a thousand times both to herself and others.

For the past two years you have been working as the psychology expert in Dr. Raoul Reyes’ research team, but most of the times your work is mainly secretarial—

JC gritted her teeth at how that sounded.

Even though there was a time you had a team of your own and you were considered to lead the department, Dr. Reyes took that position.

Dr. Reyes was more experienced and his team’s results—

What you do now for his team could be called a demotion, am I right? he interrupted her.

She shrugged. Since I did everything faster, I can afford some wasted years. She didn’t allow bitterness to show. After all, she was the youngest Development and Clinical Project Manager. That was a record she still had on both sides of the Atlantic.

Dr. Reyes clearly considers it a ‘charity’ to keep you in that position. How do you feel about it?

JC took in a deep breath. Slowly. Did he know she was proud and want to hurt her? Could a benefactor know that a charity project may have pride of her own?

Were you angry before? She tried to change the subject. Why were you angry? She risked one more step in her assumption.

We are not here to psychoanalyze me, Dr. Goodman, he reprimanded her. JC smiled, satisfied by the obvious confirmation in his voice. Can I call you by your first name? His question surprised her. Just when she had forced him to take a step back, he became bolder.

You can ask me a bunch of personal questions, but I have no such right, do I? Who do you think you are? Why have you brought me here...this way? And why should I answer all those questions?

Maybe out of...gratitude? There was no cynicism in his reply. Other than a playful tone, JC could detect nothing more. She remained silent. Was she supposed to apologize for her outburst? She couldn’t. She took in a couple of deep breaths to calm herself. The possibility to just turn and leave that arrogant bastard hiding in the dark was just too tempting at the moment.

As if he had read her mind, the light expanded, revealing more of the room that was in the dark. Not the man though. Never the man.

JC dismissed the familiar scenery—more carpeted walls and floor—and focused on the painting hanging over a tall and narrow glass table attached to the wall. She registered the file on the table’s surface but she couldn’t move her eyes from the captivating portrait. A man’s portrait. There was something grotesque about it. His out-of shape, twisted features were contorted, distorted, as if trying to escape towards different directions.

It’s an original Francis Bacon. One of his Heads series. Are you familiar with his work?

She unconsciously took a step towards the painting, mesmerized. The glass that covered it didn’t reduce any of its brutal strength, the energy of that man who looked as if caught in the moment of transformation. There was a tension in that distorted face, a vigorous movement in the distortion itself and JC wished she could touch it. Realizing her hand had risen of its own accord, she let it fall by her side, hoping her host hadn’t noticed.

It’s an oil painting. Bacon is famous for this kind of work. Do you like it?

JC nodded, not able to move her eyes away from the artwork just yet.

I don’t know if this contortion shows a transformation or...is it supposed to reveal the inner self? she whispered mostly to herself. Excuse me, I got carried away. I’ve never seen anything like it before. She took a step back. It’s so beautiful.

Beautiful?

I mean...you know.... There is such strength. It’s not...realistic, but there is a physicality there.... It’s so intense. Excuse me. I’m sure not an art expert.

Neither am I. There was a smile in the voice now. I only buy the art I need.

JC smiled back, unable to avert her eyes from the painting yet. How would it feel to own this? To be able to look at it whenever she chose? Something told her it wasn’t a cheap painting.

Raoul is not just my boss, she started. She owed her host something. A quid pro quo for letting her be near such a masterpiece. He has been a friend. And— she paused to find the right words.

And you had a kind of crush on him when he was teaching in the States.

Geez! If you are going to finish my sentences, this will take hours! She didn’t let her astonishment show. That man knew way too much about her. "I was going to say that in addition to Raoul being a friend—emphasis on ‘friend’—I wanted to hang around and find out what went wrong."

What I did wrong would be the right phrasing but she should be very careful with that man.

"Which brings us to the purpose of this rather unconventional meeting. What if I could guarantee you your position back—in due time, of course—and your father’s well-being at the same time? Would you consider this an interesting proposal? You could start as a Laboratory and Scientific Information Manager and, at the right time, you could lead the Research Department yourself. You may share the leadership with Dr. Reyes if you are too young for the task or you don’t have the heart to remove him," he mocked her previous words. She didn’t need to see him to hear it.

Questions about his sanity arose for the first time, and JC was surprised it took her so long to consider the possibility.

I don’t see how ... She took a step back, trying to remember how many steps separated her from the door behind her.

"Of course you’ll have to do something for me first, Dr. Goodman." This time he was mocking her fear.

JC took a deep breath, relieved. She preferred a blackmailer to a psycho on any given day.

What do you want me to do? Her voice was steady.

I want you to make sure that a certain man will be included in BDS’s Phase II of Face Bioprinting. I know for a fact—a word you seem to favor—that Dr. Reyes’s team will start working on a new experimental phase for BDS’s Bioprinter.

But how—? She was stunned.

How do I know or how will you do that? The answer to the latter question is that you are the psychological expert. You’ll train this man so that he’ll pass the psychological evaluation and you’ll provide all the inside info we need. You know the drill. Every step of the way. As to ‘how do I know’ this is not your business, Dr. Goodman.

That would destroy the entire clinical trial protocol— she muttered to herself when she realized what he was asking of her. It will ruin the data, the objectivity— she tried to explain to him.

If I were the perfect candidate, there would be no point in all this. Don’t you agree?

JC’s eyes opened wide upon catching the reflection of a man mirrored in the glass surface of the Bacon painting. Her ears had betrayed her once more. She hadn’t heard him move but somehow he was there, standing behind her. The reflection of his face was crystal clear upon the portrait’s twisted features, but the man had no face. He was wearing a full-face white mask. He just stood there behind her, tall, unmoving, as if afraid that any movement would scare her. Perhaps he was right. JC had to take a step forward. She leaned on the table before her, pretending to be interested in the file.

A gloved hand stopped her from opening it.

You will have access to this after your decision is made. JC’s eyes met the mask reflected in the painting. She didn’t need an extra confirmation of the obvious. The voice belonged to him. It was louder now and a notch gentler. His glove was made of black soft suede leather. It looked very fine, for the touch was warm as if a real hand had touched her. She removed her hand and pretended she was focusing on the file’s cover. She couldn’t stand looking at the mask’s reflection before her and she was certain that if she took a step backwards she would fall on him.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched him move towards the trolley and pour a cup of tea. Would he remove his mask to drink? She looked at the file again to give him some privacy.

I like this flavor, this aroma, even though I prefer coffee, he answered her unspoken question with a hint of amusement. Did he think she would shiver at the sight of his face? She straightened her shoulders and put on her professional look—what she liked to think of as serious and to-the-point.

I need some time to make my decision. She deluded herself that she had some power now, over him.

Even though you’ll see for yourself that this time is limited, the choice is yours.

He sounded calm and cool and in control, and that irritated her. She had so many questions but she was too frustrated to think straight. 

What do you think? Are we now on a first name basis?

Of course. Call me JC.

JC? What kind of name is that? he asked, disapproval evident in his voice.

That is what my friends call me, she replied, just on the verge of proposing to go back to Dr. Goodman or Miss Goodman instead.

We are not friends. We are going to be partners in a project. The finality of his phrasing didn’t escape her. Did she really have a choice in this? It will last less than six months but it will demand your complete devotion. After that, you will be free to go on with your life. And free of worries for your father’s welfare for the rest of your life.

Call me whatever you like. She was resigned. The adrenaline high had subsided, leaving her body cold, sleepy, and drained. At this point, she could have agreed to sell her soul for a chair and a warmer jacket.

It’s Juliet, then.

God, no! Not Juliet! Anything but Juliet! She covered her face with her hand.

Christine? That’s the only other alternative— There was an uncertainty in his voice. She wondered what he would do if she went into hysterics over the name and started yelling Call me 'Bob' then! Better 'Bob'! Would he let her go, certain of her insanity? She felt too exhausted even to smile at the picture in her head.

Okay, I’ll be Christine for you, but I can’t promise I’ll answer all the time. She ran a weary hand over her forehead. What should I call you? Honorable Mr. Kepler? She couldn’t restrain her tongue and couldn’t care less at the time.

If you are Christine and there’s a Raoul in the picture, there was clear amusement in his voice again, what does that make me?

Chapter 2 < Reward and Betrayal

E rik? Who’s Erik? Cassandra’s muffled voice traveled all the way from the deep chaos reigning in her closet and reached JC’s ears.

A novel hero. A semi-sociopath, semi-romantic figure. Certainly a genius. He transforms a dancer into an opera diva but at the end she leaves him for her childhood friend—an ordinary guy, JC provided, doubting Cassandra could actually hear her.

Oh— 

He’s deformed, by the way— she offered louder.

And he wears a mask like your Mr. Kepler! Cassandra exclaimed. I’ve seen it! He becomes the Phantom of the Opera!

"He is the Phantom of the Opera!"

Keith took me to the musical, Cassandra paused, No, Keith invited me to the musical but I was with Ryan when I finally managed to go. Another pause. JC wasn’t certain whether Cassandra had finally found her scarf buried somewhere in her closet or she was trying to remember her musical companion in that unique time-metric system of hers based on boyfriends and men in her life. For Cassie, the London Olympics did not take place in 2012 but when she was with Peter. They split soon afterwards, so the Olympic Games was never a favorite topic.

I’ve seen the musical! Cassandra repeated, exiting the closet with a victorious smile. But I don’t recall any name.

There was a book in the first place, and the Phantom’s name there is Erik, said JC, looking suspiciously at the piece of fabric Cassandra was carrying.

There is always a book...I prefer the musical. It’s fun and we went for drinks afterwards. Cassandra threw the obviously wrong scarf on her bed, disappointed.

In the beginning there is a book, then they make a movie for those who don’t like to read, then a musical for those who want some more fun...what comes next? An app?

Funny! Be that funny and I’ll never find that scarf you want, Cassandra said and got lost again in the treasure trove her closet had become. And don’t forget! I have a bikini wax appointment in a couple of hours. The same vague concept of time, Cassandra’s concept of time, all over again. JC was certain Cassandra didn’t know what time exactly it was.

I saw that grimace! her friend accused her from the closet’s door.

What time is your appointment, Cassie? JC asked tiredly.

At noon.

"A couple of hours ago."

Cassandra mouthed a curse and ran to her phone. JC did a quick inspection of the scarf her friend had finally found. Unlikely for Cassandra, she had it safely packed in a plastic bag.

I arranged it. I have a new appointment in a couple of hours! No one could escape Cassandra’s charm, JC included. JC had come to terms with simple truths of life like that long ago. It wasn’t that her own dark hair or her grayish eyes were not nice enough, even though she could do without her long nose and her pointed chin. The bottom line was that JC could be beautiful if she wanted to, if she tried to. She just was too serious all the time. Cassandra was beautiful all the time. She was more of an attractive woman with style rather than a classic beauty with perfect features, but she had a natural appeal. And not making a great fuss about it was part of her charm, too.

I saw that grimace, too!

I can think of better ways to spend my afternoon, JC retorted, ironing the scarf with her hands. It was even dry-cleaned!

I won’t leave a single hair on my body—except my head of course. She checked her strawberry blonde hair in the mirror. I promised Brian, and after what he did for me last Friday—

Too much information! JC cut her off with mock dread. Thank you very much, but I’ll pass on learning what Brian did for you, to you, whatever—

You are such a hypocrite, JC. A prude and a hypocrite! The sooner you admit it, the sooner you’ll be happy. You don’t approve of my relationship with Brian—

"What I understand is that you don’t have any relationship with Brian. You just meet for sex. Okay, to ‘fulfill each other’s sexual fantasies.’ Have I gotten that right?"

And what’s wrong with that? You claim to support women’s rights but you are caught in all the silly fairy tales that keep women trapped.

Said the one who was crying her eyes out when Peter left her. JC looked at the flowery wallpaper covering the walls of her friend's room. It couldn’t get more fairy tale than that. Only watercolor castles were missing. Cassandra followed her glance. The irony didn’t escape her, either.

"And what does that have to do with what I’m saying? I claim that having sex with someone you’re not in love with is very liberating. And very, very pleasurable! I’m doing...stuff with Brian that I’d never ask Peter, I’d never dare or enjoy with a man I love. I’d be worried about what he’d think of me or whether I look attractive in bed. I don’t have any of this with Brian. Cassandra lifted her chin in a pose that said, case closed—for now."

The idea of a relationship with Brian never crossed your mind?

Cassandra flashed one of her trademark smiles. Not in a million years! I could never be with Brian like that. His political views...his love for football.... Can you imagine me as a football widow? Oh, and knowing myself, I’d pretend I like it. Cassandra headed towards the tiny kitchen. And take care of that scarf!

"It’s my scarf, in case you forgot it!"

And I gave it shelter and care to save it from you—this is the first time you considered wearing it, admit it! I also saved it from your crappy neighborhood, your crappy apartment and numerous tube rides. My responsibility is to beauty and silk, she raised her brows and nose in a mock snobbish gesture, so take care of the scarf!

My apartment is not crappy, JC said with inadequate force to even sound persuasive. She couldn’t utter a word about her neighborhood.

Your neighborhood is a sin to urban architecture, and your neighbors are either penniless students or people no one would like to meet in his lifetime. This is why you love hanging around here. Cassandra fluttered her gingery lashes, demonstrating an overblown smugness she didn't really feel.

You refuse to come to my flat!

For all the reasons I just mentioned.

JC couldn’t find a smart reply to that. It was the truth, after all. Instead, she followed her into the kitchen and watched her prepare a sandwich. When she finished she cut it in two and served it on two marvelous, different plates of china she must have discovered in the flea market. Cassandra had a weakness for beautiful things. Notting Hill antique shop owners knew her by her first name. She hardly made any expensive purchases—the disadvantages of trying to make a living as an artist—but she was lively, and people instantly liked her. Cassandra’s explanation was that every owner wanted a customer in his store to attract more customers—a rule of trade. JC doubted this rule would have worked if she herself tried to hang around in a store for hours. Regardless of the years spent living in London, it was as if she had the word tourist engraved on her forehead.

You are from the States, aren't you? That was Cassie’s first question when she had spotted her window-shopping a few years ago. JC still didn’t know whether there was a hidden insult somewhere there, but she couldn’t help it: like many people before her and more after her, she was instantly drawn to the blonde woman who eventually adopted her. It may have been because, even though Cassie was only a couple of years older than her, JC suspected she knew more about life than she’d ever dare find out herself.

What if there was someone who could change your life, make your dreams come true? JC started out of the blue, taking the plate Cassandra handed her. She frowned, looking at the lettuce inside the baguette as if she could read the future on its leaves. The future didn't appear promising.

You mean a god or a genie?

Cassandra! I wish you could be more serious.

I’m an artist. I have to see the perspectives other people prefer to leave in the dark. 

Can we concentrate on my problem for five minutes?

What problem? I thought it was a hypothetical question. Have you had more strange encounters lately? Has someone claimed to be a god, an angel, or your own personal genie? I have a couple of wishes when you summon him—

JC snorted but remained silent. If she encouraged her, Cassandra might start wondering whether genies have gender or recall a genie-themed TV series she had discovered on YouTube and no one had watched in centuries.

Okay, seriously now: a ridiculously rich man—I’d kill for an original Francis Bacon! Cassie made a grimace of mock hatred and genuine envy, wants to be part of this experimental procedure, whatever it is that you’re doing. He wants to be your guinea pig. What’s wrong with you having some benefits out of this?

It’s wrong for the research and wrong for him. I may single-handedly destroy Reyes’ work and this certainly won’t be the highlight on my resume. If I’m caught, this will be the final blow to my career. And I doubt Kepler is psychologically ready for what will follow. If he were to apply for candidate, at this stage, I’d probably reject him. I don’t know the real reason he’s doing this. JC resisted the need to bite her finger nail. She had been in high school when she quit that habit.

Other than finally having a face?

He’s not the typical patient we’d choose. He has established a life despite his deformity. Losing it may cause a breakdown that will interfere with the healing process. It’s complicated.... And if the whole thing fails, he’s facing a long series of plastic surgeries just to get back to what he looks like now. Or sort of looks like— Her voice faded. After all, she hadn’t seen Kepler’s face yet.

Wait a minute. You’d said you chose patients from burn units or someone like that poor man who was mauled by his dog.

Yes, we need fresh wounds.

You mean that this man will rip his face off to provide that? Cassandra visibly shuddered.

JC remained silent. Cassandra had only an inkling of what she had seen at that cottage in Wales. She assumed JC had seen Kepler’s face, and that they had had a normal conversation. The sudden meeting, the darkened room, the secrecy—except for the eccentricity of his first name—were parts of the story JC had kept to herself. Cassandra knew that Kepler was the generous man who paid her father’s hospital bills but JC was too embarrassed to reveal his promises about her future in BDS. 

"He’s very wacko, duck, and consider this my scientific evaluation." JC smiled at the endearment Cassandra used. She knew she was trying to lighten their spirits but she was dead serious.

It certainly hadn’t escaped Cassandra either that Kepler had been preparing all this the last eighteen months through his targeted generosity. JC already knew she was the weakest link on her team. Her friend was just too kind to point that out. JC was the one who would open the doors and allow a man like Kepler in. On the other hand, maybe that was her chance to get back in the game.

Where will you wear it anyway? Cassandra stroked the scarf’s soft fabric absentmindedly.

Reyes, BDS is giving a party. If it survives, meaning if she didn’t spill anything on it, I’ll wear it again when I meet Kepler.

And what’s Reyes celebrating? Cassandra sat Indian style on her bed, which also served as a sofa, and used her knee as a table for her plate.

Kepler was right. The program is starting again. No more tests on pigs. The wheels are moving again and they’re moving fast, JC offered, enthusiasm pouring from every word she said.

And Kepler knew this all along.

Maybe even before Raoul himself found out. I talked to him on Monday and he didn’t have a clue. It’s a bit scary, isn’t it? And exciting, but she didn’t utter that thought.

"And how’s this Erik Kepler? I mean what does he look like?"

I don’t know...there was so much going on that I didn’t notice much.

Is he tall?

He’s tall, I guess. JC was a tall woman herself and if she had to look up to see his reflection in the painting he must have been tall. He was dressed in black. Black pants and a turtleneck. She didn’t say anything about his soft gloves or the way he had stood close behind her. Have you ever seen therapeutic masks?

Nope.

It doesn’t matter. His mask was a kind of molded plastic. Not like the transparent plastic ones they use for facial burns. It wasn’t a theatrical mask either—the facial characteristics were not clearly sculptured. There were no details on the features and I could barely see his eyes moving behind the mask. I haven’t seen anything like it in the hospital.

Did it cover his hair?

No. It must have had straps. His hair was well groomed, black, thick, and slick.

How about his arse?

Cassandra!

You said you didn’t notice him! You sure noticed a lot!

Can you blame me?

"JC, if you are telling me the whole story.... If this man isn’t blackmailing you with nude photos or a murder you did back home, I can’t see why you should do this. On the contrary...if you do it, then he will have something against you, something to blackmail you with afterwards."

But what may he possibly want from me afterwards?

You don’t know how crazy people think— Cassandra’s voice faded.

And what about my father?

You’ve done your duty to your father, duck. Sometimes you have to let people go. You owe it to yourself. You owe it to your father. He’d never want you to be this man’s victim for his sake.

*

ARMED WITH THE TOUCH of elegance her silk scarf provided, JC walked through the heavy door that separated OKTO and its offices from the rest of the world. She was more than a few minutes early but she had tired of the ten-minute walk—she had already done it twice—between Notting Hill Gate and the four-storey Georgian house where OKTO was based. The location itself was the exact opposite of the isolated cottage in Wales. The neighborhood was very central. It was also very quiet. Nothing betrayed the fact that all the tourist sites she had visited when she first made it to London were within walking distance. Numerous tube lines and train stations were close, too—one of the reasons for arriving so unreasonably early—but JC suspected that public transportation didn’t matter a lot to residents of Marylebone Village. The parade of Georgian houses spoke volumes of money and the obviously refurbished OKTO building just underlined the rule.

The woman who greeted JC talked to her warmly, as if she already knew her. She had introduced herself and led her into an empty office on the first floor but after a few seconds all JC remembered was her clothes. If OKTO’s reception employee wore an outfit that cried Bond Street from miles away, she sure expected a lot from just one silk scarf she had bought at Harrods with her first paycheck.

Using the nearest window as a mirror, she adjusted the scarf around her neck. The little purple skulls on it were faintly visible as it fell in a way that gave her bosom some extra volume. What more could one ask from a scarf? Her hair was still very much under her hairdresser’s spell which meant the layers looked good and very feminine, curling outwards around her face and falling over her shoulders. She even wore mascara, lipstick, and a hint of makeup. Her shield was on and her armor shone.

JC turned her back to the windows—more contemplation on her image would only raise her insecurities—and took in the details of the room: neutral-colored wallpaper, a modern desk, a couple of designer armchairs matching the desk’s style, a coffee table with the usual books about art and professional photography. The place looked as if it had come to life out of the pages of an interior decoration magazine. In a strange way, it had style, very good taste but it lacked character.

JC checked her watch—two minutes hadn’t felt that long since her GRE tests—and approached a window on the other side of the room, stealing a glance at the patio garden and the no more than 12-year-old girl playing on her PlayStation. As if on cue, the girl looked up and smiled at her, causing JC to almost jump back, embarrassed.

Trying hard to avert her eyes from the desk and the papers on it—the last thing she needed was to be caught snooping around—she concentrated on a huge painting on the wall. It was a huge print of a London map. The blocks were drawn in a free 3D style and there were symbols of the city's various means of transportation. To her knowledge, the information was pretty accurate.

Do you like it? Kepler’s familiar voice reached her from the open door behind her. It was weird to see him in bright daylight, as if it didn’t suit him somehow. I apologize for keeping you waiting. He had shifted to a formal tone that contrasted completely with the familiar feel of his initial question. JC turned her back to the artwork to greet him, but she didn’t know whether a hand shake would be welcome. Once more, he was immaculately dressed in black—black pants, black turtleneck sweater, black leather gloves. JC wondered whether it was a kind of uniform he had chosen for himself.

"I have to apologize for being this early. It’s a bad habit of mine, I’m afraid." JC just stood, not knowing what else to say.

Would you like some tea? He didn’t have the boldness JC remembered. It was the same beautiful, deep voice asking her, but now he was more of a polite host than the authority figure "who bought only the art he needed."

No, thank you, she declined, with equal politeness. She had no desire to drink alone and suddenly she longed for the meeting to end as soon as possible.

So, what do you think? Do you like it? He approached her and stood before the painting beside her, their shoulders almost touching. JC had no alternative but to turn back and look at the darn thing again. This time she noticed a You are here sign pinned on the surface. It was on the block where OKTO’s building was supposed to be.

Well? he urged her with some of the audacious amusement she remembered in his voice.

I told you I’m not an art expert, she mumbled.

I don’t care for art experts. I asked your opinion.

Are you an art collector?

Hardly. I just bought some pieces when I had the chance. One more evasive reply. JC wondered whether that man irritated her because of the lack of control she had over the situation or because he was genuinely irritating.

Well, it actually reminds me of a board game. Have you ever played ‘Scotland Yard’? Four players work together to hunt down one of the players, ‘Mr. X’. Everything happens around the streets of London. I played it with my roommates when I first got here. It helped me get a sense of the city. It had all the railway and the underground stations marked very much like this one— She stopped herself. She had said too much.

Is this ‘Mr. X’ a villain? He was still facing the painting.

"Well, when I was ‘Mr. X’, I was falsely accused, of course—"

Of course.

Or for some reason betrayed by my gang. A misunderstanding of sorts—

Undoubtedly. Listening to his playful tone, JC realized her previous irritation had evaporated. This is a friend’s work, he added after a while. OKTO’s location is ideal for Mr. X, isn’t it? He could blend with the tourists at the Regent’s Park, use the tube, the train. See? It even has the arrow to the A40. A friend with a very evil sense of humor gave it to me.

To help you escape? she risked the joke.

He chuckled. It was a strained chuckle. A real chuckle but it was strained by the mask. As a matter of fact, I think it served the exact opposite reason. She said she made it to show me the way home.

JC made a mental note to google the name of the female artist signed at the bottom right of the artwork. Taylor Wallace. It was one thing not to be an art expert and another not to recognize a famous painter. When JC had asked Cassandra whether she had heard of Francis Bacon, she had looked at her with an expression of deep and honest pity.

Have you decided? The question was spoken in that baritone voice of his, casually, as if offering her tea. He leaned against the desk. He had his hand in his pocket, his body language telling her he was calm, even relaxed. Only his other hand with the soft leather stretched on his knuckles as he cupped the edge of the desk betrayed him. 

I have a question for you, she started.

A question? Your answer depends on a question? He sounded incredulous.

Humor me, Mr. Kepler.

No ‘Erik’ then? What happened to the first name basis? I thought I had conquered at least that. JC noted the choice of words. For a man like Kepler everything was fight and conquer. In a way, she sympathized. It mustn’t have been easy to live his life.

Erik...does anyone else call you Erik?

He shrugged. People usually call me Kepler.

Kepler, then, do you have a family? Do you have a wife, a child? It was a sudden impulse but she couldn’t shake away the image of the girl on the patio.

As you will see in my file if you accept working with me, my parents are both dead. I have no wife or kid that I’m aware of, no girlfriend to rely on me one way or the other. I’m free and at your service.

My service? She was actually relieved by his reply and that surprised her.

Consider it a figure of speech. So what is your answer? There was an urgency in the casual tone this time. As if his patience was wearing thin.

I asked this because the program really isn’t worth it if you have a family. Bioprinting is in its very early stages and you risk a lot even without a family. You already have a life—

I didn’t call you here to help me appreciate my life, Christine. There was nothing soft in his softly delivered words. He stood at his full height now, challenging her.

I’m not sure you realize the risks. JC went on, unaffected by his tone. She was accustomed to stubborn men and she had no sympathy for them. She was equally stubborn. "Even though you won’t have to take them for a long period, the immunosuppressant drugs alone may have serious side effects. An ordinary cold may turn to pneumonia. You risk certain types of cancer... lymphoma, for example, and all this if the procedure succeeds. If it doesn’t, you’ll need multiple operations to go back to a stage very similar to the one you’re at now, if not worse. Trust me when I say—"

Christine, I have a disposition against trusting people in general, he interrupted her. You will soon find out that this is a trait of mine. His words were a bucket of cold water dumped on her spine.

But you have to trust someone. If he didn’t trust her, what was the point of all this? You have to trust someone.... If not me, Dr. McBride could explain—

I trust common interests and goals—not people. This is enough and far more practical.

The insult was measured by these words, lessened somehow, but she couldn’t help being bothered by it. Of course he didn’t know her, and the circumstances were not ideal to evoke trust, but how did a man who couldn’t trust anyone—anyone!—survive in this world? Was that a kind of paranoia or was there sound reasoning behind his logic? She recalled Cassandra’s scientific evaluation. Kepler wasn’t a wacko, but she couldn’t help wondering what she was getting into.

Mr. Kepler, there are far more grievous outcomes than years of plastic surgeries. JC took a deep breath. There were some things that ought to be told. At the least, she owed it to herself. Even your life will be at risk. Nothing guarantees—

"I know all I need to know about your statistics, Dr. Goodman. I’m aware of BDS statistics, your personal statistics, too, and I have complete faith in your abilities."

JC wished she had applied some more makeup for she was certain he could see the flush spreading to her neck. So much for looking professional....

So you don’t trust me but you trust my abilities despite what happened to my patient? She wished she had restrained herself for she sounded pathetic even to her own ears.

"My decisions and conclusions are based on data and reports, Christine. Before and after what happened to your patient. I can assure you that if I wanted Dr. Reyes, I’d have found a way to persuade him."

With one single phrase he had transformed JC from the weakest link of her team into the chosen one. JC had some serious doubts he could have persuaded her boss—Raoul’s will to succeed for one was a force of nature itself—but she appreciated Kepler’s efforts.

I’ll coordinate the evaluations, but I can’t just pass you. I’m not alone in the department. There will be a psychiatric evaluation at the end, which means that at least one more person—a psychiatrist—will interview you. I may be able to arrange to conduct the one-on-one interview myself, but if this is possible, it will only happen after the first evaluation and the tests—which you’ll have to pass yourself! The tests and the interviews are monitored. Well, almost everything in BDS is monitored, so—

What kind of tests?

The usual psychometrics assessments. I’ll coach you to detect the tricky questions. It’s part of the recently established clinical trial protocol after the case of the patient who committed suicide during a program similar to Phase II in the States. His family is still in the courts and BDS wouldn’t risk any of that. We’ll cover all the tests before you even enter the BDS building for the first time.

So, you will be with me in this? 

Yes, I will. There was no foreboding feeling. No ominous omens made their sudden appearance when she uttered her reply. JC expected it to be a heavy moment yet the words were lighter than air and evoked a silence JC could not describe. Are you surprised?

He shrugged and leaned again against the desk.

You seemed very confident and sure of my answer a week ago. After all, you yourself had said it was an offer too good to refuse.

What good is an insecure blackmailer?

She lifted her brow at his characterization.

Let’s not fool ourselves, Christine. This is yours now. He handed her a file he retrieved from the desk. His medical file had been there all along, lying beside some papers on his desk. In open view, waiting for her. Study it and we’ll talk. We’ll arrange a meeting. I’m afraid I have another appointment and I’m already late.

She looked at her watch, deflated. Was that all the time he had dedicated for such a life-changing matter?

You’ll call me, I guess. Did she really sound like a woman he had picked up in a bar and dumped, or were these her self-esteem issues rising again?

You may call me yourself if you like. I believe you’ll be busy the next few days. He gave her a cream colored card and the constant sense that he knew more about her immediate future than she knew herself. This is my private number and my less private number.

*

"YOU SEEM SATISFIED. Even though Dr. Goodman proved you wrong. She did accept your offer." Dylan McBride had entered the office without knocking, as he always did. For the first time in years, Kepler found himself annoyed by the habit.

What can I say? I expected she’d refuse, he said, focused on the text displayed on his tablet. There was a time when he had considered solitude a punishment, a form of misery designed especially for people like him. At the moment, he’d have appreciated some privacy. What did she ask you in the corridor?

Whether you know what it will take to be a candidate for the program, Dylan replied, not surprised that he was aware of their conversation. After all, Kepler had access to every camera in the building. Only their private apartments were out of reach and Kepler suspected that McBride had doubts even about that.

And?

I said you know everything there is to know.

Kepler scrolled down the page, satisfied.

"What I don’t know is why this fixation with JC Goodman."

Are you afraid that my motivation has weakened or that my determination is compromised to the extent of deviating from our plans? He was not mocking the doctor’s worries. He was genuinely amused by them. You know I need to take care of every loose end before Spencer returns. There will be very few things I’ll be able to do after that, he went on in a more serious tone. He didn’t want to have Dylan working against him on this. He watched him slump into the opposite armchair. Dylan was a good man but the last few years had taken their toll on him. He was in his early forties and this was the first time he was actually showing it. The blond man let his head fall on the armchair’s back. His eyes wandered onto the ceiling. Kepler knew he’d ask something. Dylan never liked eye contact during a tough question.

I just don’t see the point in all this.  It wasn’t a question. It was obvious he didn’t approve.

"It’s pretty simple. As important as it is to break our...enemies, it’s equally—maybe even more—important to reward those who deserve it. In my book, Dr. Goodman deserves it. It’s a matter of balance. Nothing more. Do you have any objections to that?"

None at all. But she’s not the only one who deserves a reward. I don’t see why her.

Beyond the obvious? She's useful to me. I can’t just turn up at the BDS offices asking for their help. He paused. Dylan was not asking this. She’s interesting. I won’t deny that. She hasn’t tasted betrayal yet. We have a special kind of innocence until we do, don’t you agree? Afterwards, we get attuned to betrayal. We know we’ve survived it. We’re not that afraid of it anymore, but it’s never the same. There is no way back to who we were. It is never the same.

And how long will all this last?

Kepler shrugged. You’ve seen her father’s charts. Is something changed in his condition?

Dylan shook his head but remained silent. He had his eyes closed now.

The staff knows what to do— Kepler already knew the answer to that, but he needed to check again.

Dylan nodded tiredly.

We’re running out of time. And Dr. Goodman is an intelligent woman so I won’t risk any more estimations. Why are you smiling?

There is an irony somewhere in all this, Dylan spoke without opening his eyes while a hint of a bitter smile still lingered on his lips. "You must see it. After all, you will be the one to show JC Goodman what betrayal feels like."

Kepler moved his eyes