Page 155 of The Rules
The world contracted. Every muscle going tight as frost filled his veins. The booth. The drink. Julian’s smug face. It all blurred into static behind the blow of those words.
“How the hell do you know that?” he asked, voice low and dangerous.
Julian raised a brow, mock-offended. He pressed a hand to his chest, theatrically wounded.
“Brother. Please. That’s insulting.”
He tapped his temple, slow and deliberate.
"This is what I do." Julian's words unfurled like a snake stretching in sunlight. "Would be embarrassing, really, if I couldn't connect a dancer to her legal name and the prestigious firm where she plays attorney by day." The casual cruelty in his precision made Ben's stomach turn to lead.
His hands curled into fists under the table, nails biting into his palms. The need to hit something—someone—flared, vicious and bright. But he didn’t move. Not yet.
“If you knew,” he said, each word precise as a scalpel, “why didn’t you tell me?”
Julian’s grin turned wicked. “Why would I?” he said, leaning back like a king. “Watching you figure it out on your own was so much more fun.”
Ben exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face.
The weight of his brother's knowledge pressed against his chest like a physical thing—dense, suffocating. He looked tired now.
"You're a real piece of work," he muttered, just loud enough to cut through the low thrum of the bar.
Julian raised his glass in mock salute, eyes gleaming with undisguised delight. The amber liquid caught the dim light, scattering gold shadows across the table like broken glass.
"And you’re the genius who dove headfirst into the fantasy," replied, bright as sin.
Ben cursed under his breath, something venomous and short. His fingers clenched around his untouched drink, knuckles straining white. The rest of the room dulled into static as he braced himself for what came next.
Then, "She's coming here."
Julian perked up. Visibly delighted. His posture shifted—from lazily amused to intensely interested in a single heartbeat.
His smile becamesharper.
"Winters? Ohhh, this just keeps getting better." Julian leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his interlaced fingers.
Ben shot him a look. Pure fire. The kind of look that would have made anyone else at the firm step back, reconsider, retreat.
"Don't mess with her," he said, voice flat, dangerous.
He felt his shoulders draw tight as Julian lifted both hands in mock surrender, his expression arranged into that familiar mask of exaggerated innocence. Theatrics. Polished since childhood. Ben could almost hear their mother's voice—Julian, for God's sake, wipe that smirk off your face.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he answered, mild as tea.
Ben didn’t buy it for a second.
The pause that followed wasn’t empty—it was strategic. Julian setting the table, carving space for the knife he was about to slide in. And sure enough, the smirk returned—thinner now, colder.
He tilted his head slightly, studying Ben the way a surgeon might assess a wound before cutting deeper. The gaze was invasive. Dissecting.
Then, softer—too soft—Julian leaned in.
“But you’re the one worried about howI’llbehave?”
Ben didn’t answer. Not right away.
The words hit, sharp and deliberate, and Julian let the silence stretch like wire between them. Waiting. Watching.
