Page 138 of The Rules
“Is there something I should know before I open this?”
she asked, tone cool, clipped—but her pulse roared in her ears.
Ben didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just looked at her with maddening stillness, like he already knew exactly how this would play out.
“Everything in there’s relevant to what we’re chasing,”
he said, voice smooth as ever. “Unless you'd prefer I walk you through it… page by page.”
The worst part? There was a glint. A flicker of smugness just beneath the surface. Not overt. Not theatrical. But enough.
She tugged the file from under his hand—sharper than she meant to—and straightened. “You can spare me the commentary.”
“Oh, I plan to,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
But those eyes—dark, steady, annoyingly amused—didn’t move.
And when she finally turned away, the echo of that touch still lingered.
Right where he wanted it.
She closed the office door behind her and stood in the hallway—just breathing.
It wasn’t a breakdown. Not yet. But her hands were still trembling from the ghost of his voice and the deliberate brush of his fingers.
Her reflection in the glass panel next to the door looked like a stranger—polished, unreadable. But inside? Static. Heat. Shame. Anger. Want. All twisted together in one choking knot.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t collapse. She just walked. One foot in front of the other, until her legs remembered what it meant to belong to her.
???
Most of the firm had cleared out hours ago. The buzz of phones, footsteps, and office chatter had faded into silence, replaced by the low hum of overhead lights and the occasional shuffle of paper. It was late—too late for anyone but the obsessed or the damned.
Katherine Winters sat at the far end of the long conference table, surrounded by case files, court transcripts, and half-drained coffee cups. This wasn't just any late-night work session—this was her father's case. And every word on every page felt like it was written in blood.
Across from her, Benjamin Sinclair was a study in unshakable calm. Jacket off, sleeves rolled, jaw tight with focus. He hadn't said much in the past hour. Just read. Noted. Highlighted. While her nerves frayed one shred at a time, he looked like he could sit there until the end of the world and not blink.
The conference room looked pristine on the surface—glass walls, gleaming table, organized chaos. But the tension between them made it feel like a battlefield dressed in professionalism. Legal briefs instead of bullets. Case files instead of blood.
Documents sprawled in front of her like discarded armor.
She flipped through them again, faster this time, frustration building with every useless paragraph. They were circling the fire—when what they needed was to burn everything down. The evidence they had on Crawford was circumstantial at best, pathetic at worst. Nothing solid. Nothing that would make a prosecutor blink.
She could feel Ben watching. Silent, still. Annoyingly composed.
“This isn’t going to be enough to turn the case,” she said, her voice tight and clipped.
Ben didn’t look up. Just kept scanning a deposition, his tone cool and measured. “It’s a start.”
Katherine scoffed—sharp, bitter. The sound cut across the room like a slap. “A weak one.”
That did it.
Ben lifted his head, slowly. His eyes met hers—glacial and completely unforgiving.
“Then make it stronger,” he said—low, deliberate, with a flicker of challenge curling at the edge of his voice. Final, but not without bite.
She felt the challenge like a physical blow. The implication was clear: if she thought his work was insufficient, she should do better. He wasn't going to coddle her. Wasn't going to reassure her. He was going to push her until she either broke or became unbreakable.
