Page 127 of The Rules
But behind it, his eyes burned with something less clean. Something hungry.
“First—you're coming back to the firm.”
The breath left her in a rush. Back to Sinclair & Associates? After everything? After the humiliation, the rumors, the way he'd torn her apart?
“That’s not—” The words caught in her throat. She shook her head.
“It’s not up for debate,” he said, slicing through her protest. "You need access to files, to people, to power. You won't get any of that dancing on a stage."
She hated that he was right. Hated even more that part of her still wanted to argue—still wanted to win. But need was louder than pride. Her father’s freedom, the truth buried for years, the justice no one else had fought for—Ben held the key. And he knew it.
Katherine studied his face—every stillness, every controlled blink—searching for a tell. A crack in the mask. A flash of the old Ben Sinclair beneath the polished veneer. But his eyes held, cool and unyielding. Whatever this was, it wasn’t the game they used to play.
This version had teeth.
“Second,” he said, voice smooth as cut glass, “we need a cover story. The rumors need to die. Fast.”
Smugness laced the words, subtle but enough to spike her pulse.
A muscle twitched in her cheek. Barely visible. Her nails bit into her forearm, the sting a grounding wire.
“And what do you want me to lie this time?” Her voice came out flat, brittle.
“Not a lie,” he replied, steel behind the calm. “A strategy.
You were out for personal reasons. I brought you back because you’re that damn good.”
It hit like a velvet-covered brick. Elegant. Brutal. Effective.
Because it would work. Of course it would.
Her lungs tightened. Every breath felt rationed. Already she could hear it—the low hum of gossip, the glassed-in stares, judgment soaked into the office walls like secondhand smoke. And she’d have to carry it. With poise. With posture. Like it didn’t cut.
“What’s the third condition?” she asked, voice carefully neutral, though her throat burned from holding too much in.
Ben’s smile faded. Something in him went still.
The temperature dropped—not physically, but in that way power shifts a room. The air between them sharpened.
“Rules,” he said, leaning closer—not much, but enough to make her spine lock.
She frowned. “Rules?”
His voice dropped, low and cold. “You want justice, Winters? You go through me. My way. No side plans. No secrets.
No crusades. This isn’t your case anymore—it’s mine. And if you want in, you follow every damn rule I set.”
A retort rose—and died. Because underneath the authority, beneath the clipped delivery, was something bone-deep and final.
He wasn’t bluffing.
And worse—he wasn’t wrong.
The word hung in the air like a locked door:Rules. No give. No loophole. Just a boundary drawn in reinforced steel.
His gaze didn’t waver.
This wasn’t an offer.
