Page 84 of The Rules
"I assure you, I'm fully focused on this case."
And just like that, the moment passes. The room shifts back to normal.
Ben didn’t hear the next three sentences that left Winters’ mouth. His attention wasn’t on the file. It wasn’t on the room. It wasn’t on anything except the slow, creeping realization that he was the one unraveling.
You’re supposed to be the sharpest mind in the room, Sinclair. Instead, you're throwing punches like a jealous schoolboy. What the fuck are you doing?
His grip tightened on his pen. The tightness in his chest wasn’t anger anymore—it was shame. Cold. Bitter. Familiar.
He closed the file in front of him with a quiet finality.
“I’m stepping out,” he said, voice clipped. “Winters, you’ll handle the rest of the meeting.”
Heads turned. One associate blinked. Ranford sat straighter. But Ben was already rising.
No explanation. No eye contact.
Just an exit.
The door clicked shut behind him. Not with drama. Not with rage.
Just with the soft, unmistakable sound of a man who needed to get the hell out of his own mess before it swallowed him whole.
Now, Benjamin sat behind his desk, elbows resting on the polished wood, a pen idle in his fingers. He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, staring at nothing. The room was quiet—too quiet for his nerves. He could hear the faint hum of the city outside the glass, a siren in the distance, the occasional clack of heels somewhere down the hall.
All of it sounded detached, irrelevant. Like the world kept spinning while his mind short-circuited.
He stood abruptly and crossed to the window. Rested a hand against the cold glass.
Below him, people moved like clockwork. Tidy. Predictable.
He envied that. The illusion of order.
His reflection stared back at him faintly, distorted in the glass.
You used to be that man. Cool. Composed. Efficient.
Now?
He couldn't even tell if he was chasing a truth or running from one.
The file on his desk lay open, but the words bled together. Dead ink. Useless. His mind wasn’t here—it hadn’t been for days.
Winters.
Always Winters.
She hadn’t flinched. Not when he tested her. Not when he all but accused her of playing games after dark. Not when he pushed, poked, provoked. She just stood there. Cool. Controlled. Untouchable.
That should’ve been the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Because now, even with the decision made—especially with the decision made—his thoughts kept circling her like a storm too stubborn to pass.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, the scrape of his palm against stubble doing nothing to ground him.
What if it’s not her?
