Page 179 of The Rules
"You're offering?" she asked, blinking in surprise.
He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were steady on hers, giving nothing away yet somehow seeing everything.
"You're in my space," he said simply, nodding faintly toward the office behind her. "It's either coffee or an interrogation—your choice."
Kath smirked. Couldn't help it. The corner of her mouth lifted before she could stop it.
"I'll take the coffee," she said. "For now."
He nodded once. No smile. But something flickered in his eyes—a brief, barely-there spark that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
He turned and headed toward the kitchen without another word.
And she followed.
Not because she had to. Because she wanted to.
They didn't speak for a few moments. The silence wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't hostile either. Just... present. Existing between them like another person in the room.
The sound of a spoon against ceramic cut through the quiet. The low gurgle of the coffee machine filled the space. Morning light spilled across the countertops, casting long shadows across the floor. The world was still trying to find its footing.
And for the first time since everything started... it almost felt normal.
Not safe. Not easy. But real.
???
The room was packed. Associates lined the walls, paralegals scrolled through notes on tablets, and partners murmured in low tones. The air felt thick with anticipation and something else—a current of tension that had been building since Kath's return.
At the head of it all stood Ben. Calm. Commanding.
Every sentence clipped and clean as he outlined their strategy for the Marlowe case. He didn't pace. Didn't fidget. Just stood there, perfectly still, perfectly in control.
He owned the space.
Kath sat stiff-backed at the conference table, arms crossed, expression smooth and unreadable. But beneath the calm, restlessness twisted in her gut like wire—tight and sharp. She felt the eyes—too many of them—sliding her way when they thought she wasn’t looking. Heard the muttered speculationtrailing behind her like smoke: why she left, why she came back, why she still had her job—whoshe had to thank for it.
They all had theories. And none of them were flattering.
And Ben—Mr. Sinclair—was pretending everything was fine. Like the firm wasn’t practically vibrating with rumor.
Like no one was watching the two of them like a car crash waiting to happen.
So fine.
If they were going to whisper, let themchoke.
She waited. Watched the rhythm of the meeting like a predator tracks a pulse. Timed it perfectly.
Then:
“I don’t know,Ben—maybe we should be a little more aggressive,” she said, voice deliberate, just loud enough to carry across the room.
Silence.
Immediate. Sharp. Electric.
Pens froze. Brows lifted. Someone actually gasped.
