Page 124 of The Rules
But nothing felt the same.
He shouldn't fucking be here.
His teeth clenched, tension corded down his neck as he scanned the room. The bartender recognized him and gave a slight nod.
And then, his gaze locked onto the hallway leading to the private rooms.
She's back there.
He never felt this kind of tension before. This was different from the games they played, the teasing, the control. This wasn't Mr. S. and Blondie anymore.
This was Benjamin Sinclair and Katherine Winters.
And he was about to burn whatever was left of that distinction to the ground.
Ian caught his eye from behind the bar, his expression unreadable. He wiped his hands on a towel, deliberate and slow, before approaching.
"Mr. S," he said, voice neutral but eyes sharp. "Wasn't sure you'd actually show."
Ben didn't bother with pleasantries. "She's here."
It wasn't a question.
Ian studied him for a beat too long. "She is."
Ben's fingers flexed at his sides, a subtle betrayal of the control he was fighting to maintain. He'd rehearsed this moment, planned what he would say, how he would act. But standing here now, with the weight of everything between them, his carefully constructed script felt hollow.
"Private room?" Ben asked, voice clipped.
Ian's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Already arranged."
Of course it was. Ian had always been three steps ahead of everyone else in this place.
Ben nodded once, sharp and final. He moved toward the hallway, each step measured, deliberate. The path was familiar.
But tonight, it felt foreign.
Loaded with something he couldn’t name.
He stopped in front of door number four.
Paused.
Drew a slow, steady breath.
Then stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him. The dim, intimate lighting cast deep shadows across the room, painting everything in shades of crimson and black. The air hung thick with perfume and secrets.
Blondie was already there, leaning against the chaise lounge, mask in place, every curve of her body outlined by the tight costume that clung to her skin. Every inch of her the untouchable fantasy she was built to be—a beautiful lie crafted for men with too much money.
But when she saw him—she froze. Her chest stilled mid-breath, the slight parting of her lips betraying recognition before she could mask it.
Ben let the silence stretch, drinking in the way her posture shifted, the subtle tension that crept into her shoulders, the way her fingers twitched against the velvet upholstery like she wanted to run but wouldn't. Her pulse fluttered visibly at the hollow of her throat. He catalogued each reaction, each tell, filing them away with cold precision.
Then, finally—she smirked. It was small. Practiced.
The same expression she likely gave to every man who paid for her time.
