Page 38 of The Rules
Fucking bastard.
Kath sucks in a sharp breath and drops her eyes back to the papers scattered across her desk. No. This has to end. He doesn't know her secret, and he never will. She won't allow herself to feel this way again.
???
Gregory Ranford’s space is all dark wood, brandy, and leather—like every powerful man in this firm is required to have the same decorator.
But it’s not the decor that makes her skin crawl.
It’s the man sitting across from him.
Samuel Crawford.
Effortless control.
The kind of power that doesn’t need to be loud to be terrifying.
She lingers outside the glass, gaze slipping through the slit in the blinds. Not eavesdropping. Just—tracking the game before she steps onto the board.
Inside, Ranford leans back in his chair, too relaxed. His voice is light, conversational.
“I hear your son is doing well in his studies."
Crawford inclines his head, movements slow, measured.
“As he should." A pause. “He understands what is expected of him."
Kath grips the folder in her hands just a little tighter. Then—a knock at the door. Before Ranford can respond, it swings open. And Benjamin enters. The shift is immediate. His expression is neutral, but his movements aren’t. There’s a tightness in his jaw, a sharpness in his gaze—one she recognizes. He doesn’t like surprises. And this? This is a fucking surprise."I wasn’t aware we had company." His voice is smooth, but there’s a razor edge beneath it.
“Mr. Sinclair," Crawford acknowledges slowly and deliberately with no hostility or warmth—just acknowledgment. Kath isn’t sure what exactly passes between them. But whatever it is—it’s heavy. Then—a flicker of movement. Crawford’s head tilts, just slightly, just enough.
His gaze lands on her. Holds. Decides.
The shift is instant. His gaze settles on her through the glass, unreadable but weighted, like he’s already drawing conclusions. Then, he moves.
The door swings open with quiet finality. Kath straightens instinctively. Not a flinch. Not a shift. But a readiness. Because if Crawford is coming to her, it’s not by chance.
"Miss Winters," he says. His voice is too calm.
Too deliberate.
Kath lifts her chin slightly. "Mr. Crawford."
A simple exchange. But the room feels colder. The silence stretches. And then…
"Curiosity," Crawford murmurs, "is useful. Until it cuts too deep."
Her stomach knots. The warning lands somewhere below her ribs, cold and sharp. The words settle—deceptively simple, but heavy with implication. A challenge. A reminder. A threat.
Kath exhales slowly. And then—she tilts her head. Lets the silence drag between them just long enough to make it clear—she's not afraid. "Good thing I know how to handle a blade."
A flicker of something at the corner of Crawford's mouth. Amusement. Or maybe nothing at all. He doesn't respond immediately. Just nods once. As if noting something to himself.
???
By the time she makes it back to Crimson, the day is a weight on her shoulders. The city hasn’t slowed—but Katherine has. She steps into Ian’s office, arms crossed, her weight shifting just enough to feign indifference. Just another conversation, another night. Except it isn’t. Not when her stomach is already knotting itself into something she refuses to name.
Ian looks up, already smirking—that slow, knowing curve of his lips. The kind that doesn’t just say he knows something she doesn’t, but worse—something she’s not ready to admit.
