Chapter 27
Benjamin
Benjamin hadn't slept. Not a single hour.
Every time his eyes closed, he saw her—writhing beneath him, gasping his name, her mask slipping in more ways than one.
The memory of her body arching against his burned into his retinas, the phantom sensation of her skin still hot beneath his fingertips.
Every time silence settled around him, he heard her voice—that breathy whisper, that satisfied sigh, that damning phrase.
Sinfully good.
The words had burrowed into his brain like a parasite, feeding on his rage. They echoed in his skull, a constant reminder of his lapse in judgment, his failure of control.
He'd spent the night pacing, drinking, replaying every interaction they'd ever had through this new, horrifying lens. The amber liquid in his glass did nothing to dull the edge of his thoughts—only made them sharper, more cutting.
Katherine Winters. Blondie. One and the same.
The realization sat like ice in his stomach, cold and immovable. The junior associate who challenged him in the boardroom was the same woman who'd unraveled him with her touch, who'd made him forget himself in ways no one had before.
He watched her now, standing before his desk, her expression shifting from confusion to shock to something else entirely. Something raw and primal. Fear.
Good. She should be afraid.
Her face had drained of color at the sound of that name on his lips. Blondie. The careful mask she'd constructed was cracking, hairline fractures spreading across her perfect composure.
"I don't—" she began, but he cut her off with a laugh.
Not amused. Not even close.
It was sharp. Cruel. A blade honed on betrayal.
"Don't."
The word landed like a slap. His voice was controlled, precise—but under it, the rage simmered, barely leashed.
A slow, boiling fury that licked beneath his skin, hungry and relentless.
Ben took a step forward, each movement calculated and cold. "Tell me, Winters," he said, voice low and honed to cut, "was it easy? Striding in here like nothing happened? Like you didn’t just spend last night in my lap—riding my cock like you owned it?"
She flinched. Just a twitch. Barely there. But he saw it.
And fuck, it fed something dark and ugly in him.
"You wore that mask," he continued, stalking closer, "you got on top of me. Wrapped your legs around me and moaned my name like it meant something—like I meant something.
And then what? You put your pretty little armor back on and came to work like we hadn’t just blurred every fucking line between us?"
Her breath hitched. Her eyes locked on his, wide with something unspoken—fear, shame, maybe just the recognition that he was no longer playing fair.
He leaned in, not touching her, but close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off him. "How long were you going to keep it going?" he asked, quieter now. More dangerous. "How many more nights were you planning to fuck me blind before you thought I might recognize the goddamn woman in my arms?"
Benjamin watched Kath stiffen, her eyes widening—just a flicker—but it was enough. He saw it. Felt it. The confirmation he needed.
"Did you think I wouldn't fucking find out?" The words tore from his throat, bitter and sharp.
Her mouth opened, but no sound emerged. Her hands twitched at her sides, fingers curling then uncurling, like she wanted to raise them. Defend. Deflect. Deny.
Go on. Lie to me again. See what happens.
Benjamin's jaw clenched so tight he could feel the pressure in his temples. He'd spent years building walls, constructing barriers, ensuring no one could ever catch him off guard.
And here she was—this woman who'd slipped past every defense, who'd played him like a fucking instrument.
He'd let her in. Let her see parts of him no one else had.
And all along, she'd been laughing at him. Watching him unravel while keeping her own secrets locked away.
The betrayal cut deeper than he wanted to admit, even to himself.
Benjamin reached out, his movement deliberate and precise. His hand found her waist, fingers pressing against the silk of her blouse. He felt her body tense beneath his touch, but she didn't pull away. Didn't fight him.
He lifted the fabric, just enough. Just where he knew they would be.
And there they were. The bruises. Faint purple marks where his fingers had gripped her the night before, when she'd been grinding against him, gasping his name, falling apart in his arms.
His bruises. His proof.
"Right. Almost forgot," he murmured, the words barely audible, gutted and furious all at once.
Her body froze completely. He felt it—the tension radiating through her, the panic she was trying desperately to bury.
Her breath caught, a small, sharp inhale that told him everything.
Benjamin watched her lips part, a movement so familiar it made his blood boil. How many times had he seen that exact expression on Blondie's face? That same careful hesitation, that same calculated vulnerability.
"Ben—" His name fell from her lips, soft and trembling,
a whispered plea that struck him like a physical blow.
A laugh tore from his throat before he could stop it—sharp, bitter, completely devoid of humor. The sound echoed in the empty office, bouncing off glass walls and polished surfaces.
It didn't sound like him. It sounded like someone else entirely—someone cold and dangerous.
"No. Don't you fucking dare say my name like that."
The words came out as a snarl, low and lethal. He'd heard her say his name too many times now—gasped in pleasure, whispered in need, moaned against his skin. The memory of it burned through him, acid in his veins.
She had no right to use that voice here. No right to look at him with those eyes—the same eyes that had watched him come undone, that had held his gaze as she took him inside her.
Not after what she'd done.
Benjamin watched her body tense, shoulders squaring as if preparing for battle. It was the same stance she took in the courtroom—chin lifted, spine straight, eyes flashing with defiance. Like armor sliding into place.
You think this is a trial, Winters? That you can argue your way out of this?
The thought cut through him, bitter and sharp. She always did this—treated everything like a case to be won, like she could simply present the right evidence and walk away unscathed.
As if there were some technicality she could exploit to make this all disappear.
His voice shifted—low and clipped, honed to a cruel edge. "How long were you planning it?" he asked, each word measured, almost surgical. "How long did you sit across from me, nodding, taking notes, arguing case law—while you were lying to my face?"
He didn’t step closer this time.
He stepped back.
A single, deliberate move. Like he needed distance. Like the sight of her turned his stomach.
Each word fell between them like a blade, precise and cutting. He didn't raise his voice. The quiet intensity of it was far more devastating than any shout could be.
He watched the impact of his question hit her, watched something flicker behind her eyes—panic, perhaps, or guilt.
It was impossible to tell which, and that only fueled his anger. Even now, she was hiding. Even now, with everything laid bare between them, she was calculating, measuring, trying to find the right angle.
Benjamin’s mouth set into a grim line as he studied her face, eyes scouring for any trace of the woman who’d been in his arms just hours ago. The one who’d gasped his name, come undone beneath him—and made him believe, even for a moment, that it meant something.
But that woman had never existed. Just a mask. A perfect performance.
And the one standing before him now? She was the one who wrote the script.
Katherine’s voice cracked, barely audible. “I never meant to hurt you.”
A bitter laugh escaped him, harsh and cutting. "You think this is about feelings? You think this is about me being hurt?"
He turned away sharply—hands fisting at his sides, energy crackling off him in waves.
Then, without warning, his fist came down hard on the edge of the desk.
The impact was brutal—sharp and final. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot, paper and pens jumping in place, a mug toppling over with a sharp clink.
One of his knuckles reddened instantly, the skin tight and flushed where fury met bone.
"This is about betrayal," he ground out, his voice low and lethal. Each syllable a blade. He didn’t look at her—he glared through her. "You fucked me with a mask on—and then walked in here like it meant nothing. Like you didn’t cum on my cock just hours ago."
Benjamin watched her expression shift, the defiance slipping like a mask too heavy to hold. And underneath it—desperation. Her eyes darted from his, voice catching on the edge of something far too fragile.
"I did it for Lisa," she said, barely above a whisper.
“Her tuition—”
She looked lost. Not composed. Not in control. Just cornered. But he doesn't care.
He laughed. Hard. Cruel and bitter, the sound punching through the room like broken glass.
"For Lisa?" he spat. "That's your excuse?"
He stepped back, shaking his head as the fury tore through him unchecked.
"You think I'm that stupid?" His voice lifted—no longer flat and composed, but edged and rising, like pressure breaking the surface. Sharper. Louder. "You think I’m going to swallow that noble bullshit like you’re some tragic fucking hero?"
"You could’ve waited tables. Poured coffee. Taken student loans or two jobs or a hundred other options." His voice cracked with disbelief. "But no—you chose stilettos and shadows and whispers in dark rooms."
Then he looked at her—really looked at her. Like he didn’t recognize the person in front of him anymore.
"And what pisses me off the most?" His voice sharpened, cold and brutal. "You thought I’d buy that it was never a choice. That you were just a girl trying to survive?" He took a step closer, fury coiling just beneath the surface. "Don’t insult me."