Page 23 of The Rules
But Blondie doesn't run.
She exhales slowly, forcing her posture to stay fluid, graceful.
His expression remains unreadable, but his eyes—God, his eyes don't miss anything. They track every movement, every breath, as if he wanted to prove something.
Like she's familiar.
Like he's almost—almost—figured it out. The thought sends a bolt of panic through her, but her body doesn’t betray her.
Each step remains deliberate, rehearsed.
Katherine’s lungs burn as she forces herself to breathe normally, to keep her movements fluid and practiced.
Her heart pounds against her ribs as Sinclair shifts in his chair—not the restless movement of an eager client,
but something deliberate. Calculated. His fingers flex against the leather armrests, but his face remains a mask of cool assessment.
The way he watches her sends ice through her veins. There's no hunger in his gaze, no mindless desire clouding his judgment. Instead, his eyes track her with sharp focus.
He's studying her. Learning her. Breaking her down
piece by piece.
Panic claws up Katherine’s throat as she realizes just how dangerous this is. The mask conceals her features, the wig hides her real hair, the makeup transforms her face—but Sinclair sees things others miss. He notices details that slip past everyone else. It's what makes him brilliant in court. It's what makes him lethal.
Her fingers shake slightly as she steps out of the silk pooled at her feet. The air kisses her exposed skin, leaving her in nothing but delicate lace and the rhinestones adorning her breasts. The heels give her height, give her power, but she’s never felt more vulnerable.
One wrong move. One familiar gesture. One slip in her carefully constructed persona, and everything she has built could shatter. Her career, her reputation, her ability to provide for Lisa—all of it balances on the razor's edge of Sinclair’s perception.
Kath forces herself through each practiced movement, every shift of her body precise, rehearsed. The music pulses around her, but she barely hears it over the roar of blood in her ears. Fingers tremble slightly as they push lower the lace straps.
A shiver crawls over exposed skin beneath that unwavering gaze.
The cool air hits her breast, and she fights the urge to cover herself.
The lace garter slides lower, a whisper of fabric against heated flesh. Rhinestones catch the dim light, throwing sparkles across her exposed skin. She's done this a hundred times before, but tonight—
The realization slams into her with the force of a physical blow.
Benjamin fucking Sinclair is watching her strip.
That man is sitting mere feet away, his eyes tracking every movement of her body with the same ruthless attention he gives to dissecting case law.
Stomach lurching, throat tightening—still, her body keeps moving.
Kath lets Blondie take over, sliding into the persona like armor. Her breath steadies, her movements becoming liquid grace as she closes the distance between them. The golden lights catch on her skin, casting shadows that hide as much as they reveal.
She doesn't let herself think about the way how his fingers rest against the chair's arms—the same fingers that had marked up her legal briefs in red ink just hours ago. No. Those thoughts belong to Katherine Winters, and Katherine isn't here right now.
Benjamin watches her with that piercing focus, his chest rising with a measured inhale.
Her stomach knots. She sees the moment his mind starts working, trying to connect dots.
Panic floods her system, but Blondie doesn't show fear. Blondie takes control.
A practiced smirk curves her lips as she steps into his space, deliberate grace in every move. The air hums with electricity. His eyes darken, focus shifting from analysis to something raw.
She leans in close, her nail dragging a slow line down his thigh. Her voice comes out low, teasing, wrapped in seduction:
