Page 19 of The Rules
Not until she’s nearly collided with his chest.
Her hand flies up instinctively, papers fluttering.
She freezes—half from shock, half from recognition.
Sinclair.
He steps back just enough to maintain composure, expression unimpressed. “By all means, Winters. Walk straight through me next time.”
Kath blinks once, quickly regaining her footing—and her posture. “Maybe if you didn’t materialize like a ghost in the middle of the hallway.”
He exhales, more scoff than breath. “Or maybe if you looked up once in a while.”
The air tightens—brief, pointed.
Then he tilts his head, gaze cool. “If you’re done babysitting junior cases, you might actually get something real next week.”
She squares her shoulders, tone dry. “Didn’t realize you were promoting based on near-collisions now.”
A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—flashes in his eyes. But it's gone in an instant. “You haven’t drowned yet,”
he says, voice low, measured. “So maybe you’re worth testing.”
Kath’s heart trips, quick and unwelcome. But her face doesn’t move. “Can’t wait,” she answers, voice sharp as glass.
Then she walks past him—faster than before, spine straight.
Ben watches her go, expression unreadable. But his gaze lingers longer than it should.
Benjamin
The office is quiet. Too quiet.
Ben sits at his desk, the familiar weight of silence pressing against his shoulders. The city sprawls beneath his window—a maze of lights and shadows he usually finds comforting. Tonight, it only emphasizes his isolation.
His fingers tap against the wood, an irregular rhythm that betrays his usual composure. The case files before him remain unopened, their presence almost accusatory.
He loosens his tie, a sharp gesture that lacks his typical precision. The fabric slides against his collar, and for a moment, he remembers—soft fingers trailing up his tie, teasing, deliberate. Blondie's touch, light but calculated, designed to provoke.
His posture tightens. He shouldn't be thinking about this. About her. The way she moved—controlled, yet dangerous. Like she knew exactly what kind of game she was playing.
The memory of her smirk flashes in his mind.
Not submissive, not coy—but challenging. As if she was daring him to look closer, to see past the mask.
His hand clenches. This is precisely why he doesn't do distractions. Why he's spent years building walls between himself and anything that could compromise his control.
And yet.
There was something in her eyes. Something familiar. Like she was wearing more than just a physical mask—like she was playing a role, just as carefully constructed as his own.
Ben exhales sharply. The leather chair creaks in protest as he pushes back, tension coiled in his spine. He should leave.
Go home. Focus on what matters.
Instead, he finds himself staring at the city again, his reflection ghosted against the glass. The same unreadable expression he always wears, but tonight, something else lurks beneath it.
His fingers pause over his phone—not hesitation, just precision. He doesn’t waver. Not about cases, not about decisions. And certainly not about this.
