Page 148 of The Rules
She opened her mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to laugh, but he cut her off—soft, brutal:
“Since you want to blur the lines so badly, I’ll make sure you remember exactly where they are. Every. Damn. Day.”
He leaned in then, voice dropping to something darker.
“You’ll feel it all day. And I’ll know. While you sit across from me in meetings, while you try to act like you’re not squirming. That’s your punishment. You wanted to make your own rules?” He smiled wider. “Now you wear mine.”
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
And Ben?
He just watched her. Drank it in.
Because that wasn’t just compliance in her silence. That was memory. Shame. Want.
All tangled together.
Exactly as intended.
???
The lights were low. The city hummed beyond the windows, blurred and distant.
Ben poured himself a drink—neat, efficient. But the glass just sat there, untouched. Sweating on the counter.
His mind was on Kath. On her recklessness. On the rule she broke without blinking. The image of her sitting at her desk, defiant and unrepentant, replayed in his thoughts. She'd met a witness alone. Deliberately kept it from him. Violated their agreement without hesitation.
She'd worn that look—the same one she'd given him when she was in his lap at the club. Like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.
But deeper than that—beneath the irritation—was frustration. Real frustration.
Because it had been weeks now. And they'd gotten nowhere.
Every lead? Dead. Every potential witness? Ghosted. Every time they got close—close enough to breathe on the truth—it slipped away.
Someone was tying off every thread before they could pull.
Ben rubbed the back of his neck, jaw tight, eyes scanning the same half-dozen documents he'd read too many times.
The evidence was there, fragmented and incomplete. Patterns that hinted at Crawford's corruption, at the manipulation of Niel Winters' case. But nothing concrete. Nothing that would hold up.
They were stuck.
And he knew it.
That's when the thought came. Sharp. Unwelcome.
Julian.
His name didn't come with comfort. It came with consequences.
Ben glanced at his phone. Didn't reach for it.
Not yet.
It hadn't started with the case. It had startedlongbefore that.
Ben was already interning—eager, idealistic, obsessed with following in their parents' footsteps. The Sinclair name hadmeantsomething. For three generations, they'd been lawyers, judges, advocates. Fighters for truth.Believersin justice.
