Page 31 of The Rules
Or just you?”
It loops in her head, louder in the silence of her apartment.
The door clicks shut behind her, but the echo lingers.
She drops her keys on the table. Shrugs off her coat.
But the weight stays.
The memory creeps in—uninvited.
The way he looked at her that night. Eyes burning. Slicing straight through her. He hadn’t touched her. Didn’t need to. That gaze alone unraveled her.
That kind of focus? It pressed closer than hands ever could. Wrapped around every breath. Every slow turn of her body.
She remembers how his composure fractured beneath her. The tension coiling, snapping. How breathless he became—each inhale a surrender. His precision—so cold, so calculated—shattered. What it revealed was something raw. Human.
And still, she’s the one carrying the weight.
She had the power. She made him wait. Made him ache.
She walked away—head high, untouched, untouchable.
That was the point.
So why does he still live rent-free in her mind?
The mantra circles:She won. She called the shots.
She walked away.
That was the win.
Right?
Her steps slow. Breath catches.
Because if she really won—if she truly held the reins—why is she the one dissecting every flicker in his expression?
Every pause. Every tensed muscle.
Why does the memory of him—still, hard, undone—send heat curling low, impossible to ignore?
She exhales, sharp and deliberate. Wills it away. Dangerous ground. That night meant nothing. It can’t. Not with everything still teetering on secrets and lies.
She crosses the apartment, each step a sharp punctuation mark on the hardwood.
But no matter how far she paces, the question clings:
If she won… then why does it feel like she lost?
Chapter 9
Benjamin
The club breathes around him—silk-lined shadows, amber light pooling in corners, music coiling through conversation like smoke, each note a whispered promise. Temptation saturates every breath, but Benjamin cuts through it all with knife-edge focus.
A figure materializes—fluid, deliberate. Inevitable.
