Page 83 of The Rules
"Careful. I might take that personally," he says, voice dropping just enough to test the air between them.
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t twitch. Her expression remains an unreadable mask as she gathers a file from the counter and closes it with deliberate grace.
"And no," she says, tone flat, dismissive, "I don’t waste time overanalyzing strangers."
Ben hums, the sound low, thoughtful, edged. He tilts his head, studying her the way he does opposing counsel—looking for the crack beneath the confidence.
"Not even the ones you spend time with after hours?"
That lands.
Her hand pauses mid-motion. Just a beat. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Ben does. He sees the flicker—the ripple in the facade.
She recovers quickly. Adjusts the closed file, her movements sharper than needed—punctuating her silence with motion.
"My evenings are none of your concern, Mr. Sinclair."
And then she walks out.
Not fast. Not rattled.
Because she didn’t flinch. And she sure as hell didn’t explain.
By the time he notices the shift, he’s already seated in the next meeting—legal briefs open, partners speaking. But the words pass through him like fog.
He should be listening. Should be leading. But he isn't.
He’s staring.
Watching Katherine Winters across the table like she’s a puzzle he’s dying to solve—but can't.
She’s perfect. Maddeningly so. Her voice steady, her logic impeccable, every legal nuance pinned down like it was child's play. And it grates on him more than it should.
Because it’s not about the case. It hasn’t been for days.
He wants her to crack. Wants it too badly.
And that’s the part he hates.
The words leave his mouth before he thinks them through. "You're missing a crucial angle, Winters."
It lands sharp, unnecessary. A precision strike meant to wound.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink wrong.
"I'm considering the case from every angle, Mr. Sinclair."
Flawless.
Except—her fingers. He sees the grip tighten around her pen. Barely. A flicker. But it’s enough for his hunger to twist into something meaner.
He pushes. Harder.
"Then why does it feel like you're distracted?"
The silence after is too long. He feels it like a slap. Not hers—his.
She holds her ground, of course. Straightens her shoulders. Smooth delivery.
