Page 32 of The Rules
She moves like she owns the room and everyone in it.
Her smile unfolds like a secret weapon, crimson lips curved in presumptive victory. A huntress who hasn't realized she's stalking steel.
Manicured fingers skim his jacket, slow and deliberate—testing, tasting, claiming.
"All that tension," she purrs. "Someone should really loosen you up." Each word drips with poised amusement, as if she’s letting him in on something inevitable. "I know better ways to… release it."
She leans in, unhurried, the barest smile playing on her lips. Then, smoothly, like it’s a detail he should’ve known already—
"Aria," she says lightly, like her name should precede her.
"If you didn’t already know."
Benjamin is carved from winter itself—distant, untouched, unmoved.
She eliminates the space between them, radiating heat, her designer perfume weaving an intimate web. Her whisper brushes his ear, laden with dark promises. "Tonight could be different. No mask, no rules."
His attention finally shifts to her—not with warmth, but with glacial entertainment that flays.
His gaze dissects, methodical. Reducing her to components. Specimens. Nothing. The tension crystallizes between them, brittle as thin ice.
"If it doesn't captivate me, it isn't worth my time."
The impact detonates in silence.
A fracture. Microseconds of vulnerability. The mask slams back into place—but Benjamin sees the break.
She cloaks the wound in musical laughter. The calculation in her eyes sharpens. Not seduction. Control.
Her voice turns to honeyed glass. "Interesting," she muses. "The mighty always fall the hardest."
He doesn’t respond. Just walks away—steps crisp, deliberate. Unbothered.
Behind him, her gaze sticks like perfume—sweet, sharp, faintly venomous. He imagines the smile’s gone by now. Probably replaced with something colder.
Then, barely audible, her voice again—quieter this time, but edged like broken glass.
"Asshole."
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look back. Just lets the word fall behind him like a coin dropped in the dark.
The club hums—low conversation threading through clinking glasses, the slow pour of expensive liquor. Amber light spills across dark wood at the bar, casting a muted glow over the quiet exchange about to unfold. Ben leans against the counter, patience already thinning. He isn’t here for small talk. And Ian? Ian knows it.
Ian materializes like he’s been expecting this. Easy smirk, sharp eyes, already amused. "Mr. S.," Ian drawls, smooth, mock-casual—watching him like he already knows the answer. “Always a pleasure. Something tells me you’re not just here to enjoy the ambiance."
Ben adjusts his cufflinks, not bothering to look up. Cool. Measured. Controlled.
“I tried to book Blondie earlier." A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “The system wouldn’t let me."
Ian exhales, shaking his head like this is exactly what he expected. A fresh glass clinks onto the counter in front of Ben.
Ian grins, slow and edged with finality. "That’s because there was nothing to book."
Ben’s fingers tense around his glass. Barely perceptible. “Explain." Flat. Sharp. No patience left for games.
Ian tilts his head, taking his time, studying him like he’s enjoying this far too much. “Blondie’s particular about her clients." He shrugs, casual, unbothered. “She doesn’t do repeats for long."
Ian meets Ben’s eyes with a slow, measured look—one that lingers just a moment too long. Then, without a word, he reaches for the bottle and pours a generous measure of whiskey into the glass he places in front of Ben. “She likes to keep things… unattached."
