Page 100 of The Rules
And he fell for it. Every. Fucking. Time.
You trusted her. You let her in. You gave her control.
His fist slammed into the counter. Once. Loud. Glass cracked beneath the impact. He didn't care.
He turned and walked out—each step clipped, controlled, the kind of control that came right before it shattered. The bathroom door swung open before him.
Ben leaned forward over the sink. Arms braced, muscles taut like a live wire ready to snap. His chest rose and fell in short, ragged bursts—as if he’d just fought for his life and lost.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Not blinking. Not breathing.
She played you. You kissed her. Craved her. Came undone for her—while she stood there pretending not to know your name.
The truth carved through him, slow and precise. Not an explosion. A dissection.
Blondie’s voice—dry, taunting. That smirk. That defiant gleam in her eyes whenever he pushed her. The flick of her fingers when she was making a point.
The way her breath hitched when he cut her off mid-sentence. It wasn’t new. He’d drawn that same sound from her before—under dim lights, on his lap, when her body broke apart on his hand.
“It’s her.” His voice cracked through the silence, low and raw. “It’s been her the whole time.”
His palms curled tighter against the porcelain edge. Cold sweat slicked his skin. His fingers flexed and scraped—seeking pain, any anchor to reality.
It wasn’t just sex. It was exposure. Humiliation.
She’d been watching. Watching him want her. Watching him lose sleep, lose control, while she played innocent. Played professional. Playedhim.
And like a goddamn fool, he’d let her in.
Not just his bed. Not just his body.
He’d given her the only part of himself he never let anyone touch. Control.
"It's her. It's been her all along."
His knuckles went white against the edge of the sink.
The same questions wouldn’t stop—short, vicious, circling like sharks.
Was it a game?Was she mocking me?Did she laugh the second I turned my back?
He’d given her too much. Let her too deep. Now every second of their time together looped like a filmstrip set on fire—scorched, warped, wrong.
She lied to his face.
By day, she buried the night.
By night, she wore the day like a mask.
Two lives, seamless—stitched so clean they bled.
And every stitch? Cut him open.
He dragged a hand down his face, trying to erase the memory. But it wouldn't fade. Instead, it sharpened, crystalized into something even more devastating.
The mask disappeared. The blonde wig vanished.
And suddenly, all he could see was Katherine fucking Winters.
