Page 258 of The Rules
But knowing didn’t soften the blow. Didn’t stop that final flicker of hope from sputtering out like a dying match.
Ben stayed still. Unmoved. He nodded once, barely perceptible—like he’d already mourned this moment before it arrived. Then he turned. Back to the judge. Calm. Composed. Back to what mattered.
The forged evidence. Their nuclear option.
Across the room, Crawford moved.
Barely. A slight shift in posture. A lazy lean back in his chair. A flicker of a smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth. He knew. And he wasn’t concerned. He was waiting. Amused.
Katherine felt her stomach twist into knots. A cold thread of fear darted through her chest—brief but sharp.What if he’s ready for this?What if Crawford had already seen through them? What if he had something waiting in the wings—something none of them had accounted for?
Her heart slammed harder in her chest.
Whatever happened next—it wasn’t just a matter of victory or failure.
It was survival.
And Crawford? He didn’t intend to lose either.
Katherine's heart thudded hard against her ribs as the prosecution's table dissolved into quiet chaos. Neatly stacked files were now scattered, some pages bent, others marked by the sweat of frantic hands. Pens rolled, ignored. The illusion of control—gone.
She sat motionless, tension carved into every line of her body. Her eyes locked on the mess of paper they'd created—the product of sleepless nights, risks they couldn’t afford.
Of forgery, calculated and cold.
Ben had delivered them like a scalpel—precise, clean, silent.
The prosecutor fumbled, flipping through the documents with trembling fingers. His expression faltered. His mouth opened once—twice—then silence.
"Your Honor, we request—"
The judge's hand sliced through the air. "Enough," he said, tone clipped and final. "This is sufficient for a ruling."
Katherine barely breathed. The words landed sharp. Heavy.
The courtroom murmured around her. Journalists leaned forward like hounds scenting blood. Ben exhaled, slow and measured, his fingers easing from the table edge like releasing tension wound too tight.
But she didn’t look at him.
She looked at Crawford.
Still. Controlled.
But when his gaze found hers—anchored, unflinching—something shifted.
Not rage. Not denial. But clarity.
Recognition.
He knew exactly what they’d done. And he understood it.
No fury. No threat.
Just a flicker of something more dangerous.
Respect.
And in that moment, they both knew how this would end.
