Chapter 22
Benjamin
Benjamin Sinclair doesn't want coffee. Doesn't want food.
He wants answers.
The break room is unusually quiet. Ben leans against the counter, fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the side of a ceramic mug he hasn't bothered to fill.
His mind replays the night at the club in excruciating detail—every sound she made, every tremor he felt under his hands, every whispered breath tangled in heat and shadow.
And now she's here.
Walking into the room like nothing happened. Like she hasn’t unraveled beneath him. Like she hasn’t spent the last several days pretending he doesn’t exist.
She heads straight for the fridge. Calm. Composed. Alone. Perfect in a way that feels intentional. Performed.
Ben watches the way she moves—precise, controlled, curated to look effortless. It’s a show, and she’s good at it.
He keeps his voice light, casual. Disarming. "You ever meet someone you can't quite figure out, Winters?"
She doesn’t rise to the bait. Just lifts an eyebrow as she pulls a water bottle from the fridge, twisting the cap with cool indifference. "Is this your way of saying I’m smarter than you?"
He smirks, but there’s no ease behind it. Not today. This isn’t banter. It isn’t flirtation. It’s something sharp, coiled just beneath the surface—something he can’t let go of.
"Careful. I might take that personally," he says, voice dropping just enough to test the air between them.
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t twitch. Her expression remains an unreadable mask as she gathers a file from the counter and closes it with deliberate grace.
"And no," she says, tone flat, dismissive, "I don’t waste time overanalyzing strangers."
Ben hums, the sound low, thoughtful, edged. He tilts his head, studying her the way he does opposing counsel—looking for the crack beneath the confidence.
"Not even the ones you spend time with after hours?"
That lands.
Her hand pauses mid-motion. Just a beat. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Ben does. He sees the flicker—the ripple in the facade.
She recovers quickly. Adjusts the closed file, her movements sharper than needed—punctuating her silence with motion.
"My evenings are none of your concern, Mr. Sinclair."
And then she walks out.
Not fast. Not rattled.
Because she didn’t flinch. And she sure as hell didn’t explain.
By the time he notices the shift, he’s already seated in the next meeting—legal briefs open, partners speaking. But the words pass through him like fog.
He should be listening. Should be leading. But he isn't.
He’s staring.
Watching Katherine Winters across the table like she’s a puzzle he’s dying to solve—but can't.
She’s perfect. Maddeningly so. Her voice steady, her logic impeccable, every legal nuance pinned down like it was child's play. And it grates on him more than it should.
Because it’s not about the case. It hasn’t been for days.
He wants her to crack. Wants it too badly.
And that’s the part he hates.
The words leave his mouth before he thinks them through. "You're missing a crucial angle, Winters."
It lands sharp, unnecessary. A precision strike meant to wound.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink wrong.
"I'm considering the case from every angle, Mr. Sinclair."
Flawless.
Except—her fingers. He sees the grip tighten around her pen. Barely. A flicker. But it’s enough for his hunger to twist into something meaner.
He pushes. Harder.
"Then why does it feel like you're distracted?"
The silence after is too long. He feels it like a slap. Not hers—his.
She holds her ground, of course. Straightens her shoulders. Smooth delivery.
"I assure you, I'm fully focused on this case."
And just like that, the moment passes. The room shifts back to normal.
Ben didn’t hear the next three sentences that left Winters’ mouth. His attention wasn’t on the file. It wasn’t on the room. It wasn’t on anything except the slow, creeping realization that he was the one unraveling.
You’re supposed to be the sharpest mind in the room, Sinclair. Instead, you're throwing punches like a jealous schoolboy. What the fuck are you doing?
His grip tightened on his pen. The tightness in his chest wasn’t anger anymore—it was shame. Cold. Bitter. Familiar.
He closed the file in front of him with a quiet finality.
“I’m stepping out,” he said, voice clipped. “Winters, you’ll handle the rest of the meeting.”
Heads turned. One associate blinked. Ranford sat straighter. But Ben was already rising.
No explanation. No eye contact.
Just an exit.
The door clicked shut behind him. Not with drama. Not with rage.
Just with the soft, unmistakable sound of a man who needed to get the hell out of his own mess before it swallowed him whole.
Now, Benjamin sat behind his desk, elbows resting on the polished wood, a pen idle in his fingers.
He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, staring at nothing.
The room was quiet—too quiet for his nerves.
He could hear the faint hum of the city outside the glass, a siren in the distance, the occasional clack of heels somewhere down the hall.
All of it sounded detached, irrelevant. Like the world kept spinning while his mind short-circuited.
He stood abruptly and crossed to the window. Rested a hand against the cold glass.
Below him, people moved like clockwork. Tidy. Predictable.
He envied that. The illusion of order.
His reflection stared back at him faintly, distorted in the glass.
You used to be that man. Cool. Composed. Efficient.
Now?
He couldn't even tell if he was chasing a truth or running from one.
The file on his desk lay open, but the words bled together. Dead ink. Useless. His mind wasn’t here—it hadn’t been for days.
Winters.
Always Winters.
She hadn’t flinched. Not when he tested her. Not when he all but accused her of playing games after dark. Not when he pushed, poked, provoked. She just stood there. Cool. Controlled. Untouchable.
That should’ve been the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Because now, even with the decision made—especially with the decision made—his thoughts kept circling her like a storm too stubborn to pass.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, the scrape of his palm against stubble doing nothing to ground him.
What if it’s not her?
The bruise was real. He hadn’t imagined that. Same shape. Same spot.
But everything else?
Maybe it was all noise. Maybe she gripped that pen because he was being a condescending asshole. Maybe she stormed out because she'd had enough of his bullshit, not because she had secrets to protect. Maybe she was just done with him.
And honestly? Who could blame her?
He dropped the pen onto the desk with a dull clatter, eyes narrowing.
He’d overstepped. No question. Pushed her too hard, tested her too much. He thought he was being clever, strategic—surgical.
But it wasn’t strategy anymore.
It was obsession. It was impulse. It was fucking personal.
"You don’t chase ghosts," he muttered to the empty room. "And you don’t hunt women who didn’t ask to be hunted."
And yet here he was, checking every goddamn tick in her expression like it held answers he didn’t deserve.
He leaned back in his chair, exhaled slow.
She’s not Blondie. She can’t be. That’s over.
That’s over.
Right?
His fingers drummed once against the armrest, then stilled.
Then why couldn’t he stop?
Why did she get under his skin like no one else? Why did she linger in his thoughts like a splinter he couldn’t dig out? Why the hell did her voice echo in his skull at night when everything else went quiet?
No more games, he told himself.
No more pushes.
But the truth slithered in behind the lie:
This wasn’t over. Not really.
Because whatever Winters was—Blondie or not—she was a problem.
A complication he couldn’t control.
◆◆◆
And Ben Sinclair fucking hated not being in control.
Benjamin heard the knock—calm, deliberate. Three measured taps against the door. He didn’t need to look up.
It was her.
"Come in," he said, keeping his tone even, neutral. Professional.
The door opened, and Katherine Winters stepped inside, spine straight, heels clicking softly against the polished floor. The light framed her in a way that should’ve felt ordinary.
It didn’t. She was too composed. Too quiet.
She held a folder in one hand, no tremble, no hesitation—but her eyes lingered on him a beat too long. Long enough to notice. Long enough to question.
Ben kept his eyes on his screen. One more line. One more second of control.
"I need your advice on something," she said, voice smooth but… careful.
He leaned back slowly, finally meeting her gaze. "That’s new," he said, arching a brow. "You don’t usually ask."
Her lips twitched—something that might’ve been amusement. Or annoyance. "I don’t usually need to."
He hummed. Noncommittal. Sharp. "And yet—here you are."
She took a step closer, setting the file down with absolute precision. The gesture was quiet. But deliberate.
“It’s not work-related,” she said. “But I trust your judgment.”
That word hit like a sucker punch.
Trust.
Ben sat back further in his chair, gaze narrowing just slightly. "Funny choice of word."
Her expression didn’t shift.
"You could’ve taken it to Ranford," he added, cool and clinical. Like he wasn’t trying to provoke.
"I didn’t want Ranford," she said flatly.
A beat passed. Dense. Loaded.
He studied her, silent.
He should’ve asked what it was. Should’ve reached for the folder. Should’ve done something other than sit there, trying to pretend her presence didn’t light every fuse inside him.
But if he opened that file, opened that door—it wouldn’t stop there.
So he didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just nodded, slow and unreadable. "Leave it with me,"
he said, voice low. “I’ll look when I can.”
Katherine nodded, but her eyes lingered again—just long enough to leave a scratch behind.
No thank you. No smile. Just a quiet exhale as she turned and left, her heels echoing like punctuation.
The door clicked shut.
Benjamin stared at the folder like it might bite.
And still—he didn’t touch it.