Page 34 of The Rules
City lights pulse beyond the window like distant stars—mocking the stillness in the room, the stillness in him. His gaze drifts across the skyline, but his thoughts remain elsewhere.
One name. One memory. Blondie.
She walks away—heels clicking like a countdown, every step deliberate, final. His eyes stay on her, drawn to the sway of her hips, the poise in her spine. She never looks back. Not once.
She is good.
He exhales, this time slower. Rolls his shoulders, trying to shake the tension coiled between them. The glass remains untouched.
And still, the memory lingers.
The way she moved. The way she looked at him—those eyes behind the mask, sharp enough to cut through his armor.
She wasn’t supposed to matter. Just a fleeting indulgence.
A forgettable night.
But she wasn’t.
She’s something else. Something that gnaws at him like an open wound.
And the worst part? He can’t decide if he wants to forget her—or see her again
Chapter 10
Benjamin
Ben is in control. That’s the rule. That’s the religion.
Every meeting, every negotiation—he owns the room before a word is spoken. The weight of his presence fills each corner, settles into the spaces between breaths. His fingers tap a steady rhythm against mahogany, marking time like a metronome.
Sharp words. Sharper instincts. The practiced calculation of a predator who's never tasted defeat.
He isn't distracted.
He doesn't get distracted.
Then Winters speaks.
And something shifts. The air changes, turns electric.
His fingers still against wood.
At first, her words don’t register. Sound warps, distorts—white noise swallowed by the rush of blood in his ears.
He just—sees.
Her mouth moves, and his mind fucking betrays him.
The curve of her lips draws his focus like a razor's edge.
They part just slightly when she breathes in—pink, soft, dangerous. And then—Blondie. That smirk. That mouth. The way her lips curl around words meant just for him, each syllable a challenge he wants to taste. The way they would feel if—
His teeth press together. The thought dies unfinished, but the echo of it burns.
Ben locks up. Disgust slams into him—fast, nauseating, violent. Not Winters. Not her."What the hell is wrong with me?"
His fingers pressed into his palm beneath the table, nails biting into skin. He couldn't—he wouldn't—react to this. To her. But his cock betrays him, stirring, hardening—mocking him.
