Page 251 of The Rules
"Then we find another way."
Didn’t look at Julian when he said it.
Didn't have to.
Already knew that grin would be there—too wide, too pleased.
"That's exactly what I'm saying," Julian purred. "We make a way."
Ben didn't like the way he said that.
He never did.
Kath leaned forward on the couch, eyes dark, body coiled. She felt it too—where this was headed. The ground shifting beneath them.
"You mean we force him to talk?" she asked, voice steady.
Ben froze.
Because for a second, he let himself believe she wouldn’t go there.
Julian laughed, soft and slow, like he was savoring a rare wine. "Oh, darling. That's so... expected." He tilted his head, and his smile twisted into something almost bored. "We all saw it back at the pub—threats won’t work on him. Not really.
He’s more afraid of Crawford than anything we can throw at him. That tells us everything, doesn’t it?"
He swirled the drink in his hand, his rings catching the light. A showman. A devil with an open bar tab.
"No, we don't need his actual words," Julian said. "We just need the right kind of evidence to surface. Something... inconvenient. Something that speaks loudly—" he gestured with two fingers, slow and theatrical, "—even if no one actually said it. You know, one of those memories that conveniently appears in the form of a document, or a recording. Something Crawford wouldn’t want in circulation."
Ben's grip on the glass went white-knuckle.
He didn’t speak because he was shocked.
He didn’t speak because he'd already decided.
But hearing it out loud—hearing the ugliness dressed up like strategy—made something inside him twist.
"You mean fabricateevidence." The words spat out, rough, laced with fury he didn’t even try to bury.
Julian didn’t flinch. He shifted, draping one arm lazily along the back of the couch like he owned the room, ankle resting atop the opposite knee in a picture of practiced arrogance.
He let his upper body tilt forward just slightly, the kind of movement that suggested interest—mocking, indulgent—as if he were humoring a particularly slow student.
"I mean," he said, casual to the point of cruelty, "ensure the truth finds its way to the surface. Call it creative justice. Call it balancing the scales. Call it whatever you need to sleep through the night."
Ben stared into the amber burn of his glass, the last ice melting into the mix.
And that was the thing—he knew he could sleep. If he let himself. If he chose to stop caring. That terrified him more than anything.
The silence closed in, heavy and breathless.
Then—
"I'm in."
Kath’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade.
Ben’s head snapped toward her.
