Page 85 of The Rules
The bruise was real. He hadn’t imagined that. Same shape. Same spot.
But everything else?
Maybe it was all noise. Maybe she gripped that pen because he was being a condescending asshole. Maybe she stormed out because she'd had enough of his bullshit, not because she had secrets to protect. Maybe she was just done with him.
And honestly? Who could blame her?
He dropped the pen onto the desk with a dull clatter, eyes narrowing.
He’d overstepped. No question. Pushed her too hard, tested her too much. He thought he was being clever, strategic—surgical.
But it wasn’t strategy anymore.
It was obsession. It was impulse. It was fucking personal.
"You don’t chase ghosts,"he muttered to the empty room."And you don’t hunt women who didn’t ask to be hunted."
And yet here he was, checking every goddamn tick in her expression like it held answers he didn’t deserve.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaled slow.
She’s not Blondie. She can’t be. That’s over.
That’s over.
Right?
His fingers drummed once against the armrest, then stilled.
Then why couldn’t he stop?
Why did she get under his skin like no one else? Why did she linger in his thoughts like a splinter he couldn’t dig out? Why the hell did her voice echo in his skull at night when everything else went quiet?
No more games, he told himself.
No more pushes.
But the truth slithered in behind the lie:
This wasn’t over. Not really.
Because whatever Winters was—Blondie or not—she was a problem.
A complication he couldn’t control.
???
And Ben Sinclair fucking hated not being in control.
Benjamin heard the knock—calm, deliberate. Three measured taps against the door. He didn’t need to look up.
It was her.
"Come in," he said, keeping his tone even, neutral. Professional.
The door opened, and Katherine Winters stepped inside, spine straight, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. The light framed her in a way that should’ve felt ordinary.
It didn’t. She was too composed. Too quiet.
