Page 111 of The Rules
And then—silence.
Chapter 28
Katherine
The edge of the bed barely supports her weight, spine slumped, hair tangled from restless hands and darker thoughts. The laptop balances in her lap, its cold blue glow casting long shadows across eyes that haven’t known sleep—only regret, and the things that come after.
She feels wrung out—like every nerve was twisted and released, leaving behind a body that no longer fits. As if she’s wearing a life tailored for someone else. A dull ache pulses between her shoulder blades, tension coiled so tight it refuses to unravel, no matter how she shifts.
But her mind? Her mind won't stop. It calculates, analyzes, dissects every moment with surgical precision, cutting deeper with each thought.
You still have to eat. You still have to work. You still have to keep going.
She scrolls. Job board after job board. Firm after firm.
Big names. Small ones. Boutique firms. Contract gigs.
Her fingertips press against the trackpad with mechanical precision, the rhythm of rejection becoming familiar.
Every description feels sharp. Unsafe. Each requirement and qualification a blade against her throat. Words like "team player" and "professional conduct" make her stomach clench, acid rising.
He could make a call. Just one. Whisper something. Laugh in someone's ear. And then it's over before it starts.
Her fingers hover over a 'Submit Application' button.
They don't move. She can't. They remain suspended, trembling slightly, caught in the gravitational pull of consequence.
Her pulse throbs in her wrist, each beat a reminder of what she's lost.
Benjamin Sinclair doesn't need to blacklist me. All he has to do is exist in the same industry.
She sees his face again. That final look—cold, brutal, unforgiving. The way he tossed that Plan B box on the desk like it was proof she couldn't be trusted to breathe. The precise, calculated movement of his hand. The contempt in those green eyes that had once looked at her with something else entirely. The memory makes her chest constrict, lungs refusing to expand fully.
He hated me. He meant it.
The thought doesn't come with drama—it justsits. Heavy. Settled. Like something that’s been true for a long time, only now she finally let herself say it.
Her fingers tremble. A cold sweat clings to her lower back, soaking into the cotton like shame she can’t scrub out. She doesn’t cry. Not at first. She just... folds.
Closes the laptop. Quietly. Like the click might hold the rest of her together. It doesn’t.
A sound slips loose—less a sob, more a broken breath too jagged to swallow. It escapes before she can stop it, cracking the silence wide open.
Then stillness.
She stays there. Sitting. Breathing in the dark. The laptop closed. No job. No calls. No Ben. Just the quiet echo of too many choices she can’t take back.
She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t break anything.
She already broke. And now, all that’s left is her.
Still. Silent. Staring at the phone in her hand.
The screen blurs with unshed tears. No hesitation.
No second-guessing. Just a name on the screen—then the call.
Please pick up.
