Page 33 of The Rules
His profile sharpened, a subtle shift that Ian doesn’t miss.
The word—“unattached"—crawls under his skin, leaving an unwelcome sensation behind. He doesn’t react visibly, but the flicker in his gaze is enough to give him away.
Ian leans in, smirking as he watches Ben’s controlled response. “Didn’t think one of my girls would leave this kind of impression on you." His tone is light but deliberate, pushing, testing the boundaries of Ben’s composure.
Ben exhales. Doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he sets his glass down—not hard, not dramatic.
Just precise. A controlled exit. A silent dismissal.
"Enjoy your night, Ian." The words are steady, polished—exactly what they need to be. But something in Ben’s posture shifts—just enough to betray the effort it takes to stay composed.
He turns. Measured steps carry him toward the exit. He won’t engage. Won’t offer Ian another opening. He won’t let him see the cracks.
But Ian?
Ian sees people the way others read music—by rhythm, by silence, by the note that lingers too long. He’s spent a lifetime knowing when to say little… and when to say just enough.
“Give my regards to your brother.”
Ben stops. Just for a fraction of a second—too short for most to notice.
But Ian isn’t most people.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t gloat. But the smirk in his voice is unmistakable.
“It’s been a while. Hope he’s doing well.”
Ben doesn’t turn. Doesn’t speak.
He just keeps walking.
But the tension wraps around his spine like a vice, squeezing tighter with every step.
And behind him, Ian watches—still, knowing, gleaming with quiet satisfaction. Not gloating. Not cruel. Just... certain. As if he always knew Ben would flinch.
The elevator ride is silent. Long.
By the time the penthouse door clicks shut behind him, night has thickened outside, swallowing the skyline in velvet black.
Inside, the silence is heavier.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the space, the city sprawling beyond the glass, pulsing with life. But inside?
Only shadows. Only tension.
Ben rolls his cuffs back, fingers skimming the crisp fabric. His muscles coil—tight, restrained beneath the expensive cotton.
His movements are sharp. Precise.
He doesn’t drink this late. Doesn’t need to. Doesn’t want to.
But tonight, need and want are the same thing.
The whiskey bites, but not hard enough. Nothing cuts through the echo she left.
A single sip of whiskey—neat, measured. The liquid burns down his throat, a controlled fire that does nothing to loosen the knot in his chest. He sets the glass on the polished counter, the clink of crystal against marble sharp in the quiet.
