Chapter 27 #2
He closed the distance again, slower this time, deliberate.
"Lisa didn’t make you beg for my fingers. Lisa didn’t make you ride me like you couldn’t breathe without it. That wasn’t for her tuition." His lip curled. "That was for you."
Benjamin watched her—really watched her. Every flicker behind her eyes, every stutter in her breath, every minute twitch in her fingers like she was resisting the urge to run.
But she didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because she knew—this wasn’t a conversation. It was an autopsy. And he was about to dissect every lie she’d ever told.
The silence between them wasn’t peace. It was judgment. The kind that came with no jury. No appeal.
He stepped forward, slowly, deliberately, the rhythm of a man who didn’t need to shout to dominate a room. He braced one hand on the desk—right beside her. Not touching. But close enough to steal her air.
She flinched—just the tiniest shift—but he saw it. And he savored it.
The desk between them was no longer furniture. It was a weapon. His body radiated control, precision, cruel intent.
He wanted her to feel how utterly cornered she was.
"Tell me something, Winters," he said, his voice low—pure venom. "Do you even know what it means?"
Her brow furrowed, lips parting like she might ask what. Like she might plead. Like redemption was still something she could buy if she just found the right words.
Good.
Let her think she had a chance.
Benjamin leaned in. Slow. Measured. Devastating.
His presence alone coiled around her like a snare, and he felt her tension spike, saw the pulse in her throat flutter like something hunted.
He brought his mouth close to her ear. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, but far enough that no part of him touched her.
"What it means when a man takes a woman raw?" he asked, quiet and sharp as a knife unsheathed in the dark.
Then—nothing.
He let the question hang.
No explanation. No follow-up. Just silence.
Deliberate. Cruel.
And effective.
Because that’s when it happened.
Kath's expression shattered.
Not dramatically—not like in the movies. It was worse. Slower. Her features buckled under the weight of understanding, the realization clawing its way across her face as if it physically hurt. Because it did.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her eyes searched his—desperately, like she needed him to undo what he'd just said, or worse, confirm it.
Tears welled up, uninvited and vicious, slipping free despite her trying to hold them in. One blink. Then another. And she broke—right in front of him. No scream. No gasp. Just silent, awful unraveling.
And Ben?
He watched it all with ruthless precision.
Every flicker of emotion. Every tremble. Every tear.
And when it finally overtook her, when her shoulders curled inward, when her hand lifted like she might shield herself from him or from the truth—he just straightened, cold and composed.
Inside, it didn't feel like victory.
But it sure as hell looked like one.
He watched the tears spill down her cheeks, each one carving a path through her carefully applied makeup.
"I see you understand now," he said, his voice soft with mock sympathy. His smirk was cold, pitying—a man delivering punishment with a scalpel rather than a hammer. Designed to cut deepest where she was most vulnerable.
He studied her face, searching for any hint of calculation behind those tears. Was this just another performance? Another mask she wore to manipulate him? The thought made his fist clench, fury thrumming just beneath the surface of his control.
“Winters,” he continued, his voice shaking—not just with rage, but with something heavier. Something that sounded an awful lot like pain. “Was that part of the game too?”
Her body jolted as if he'd struck her. She shook her head frantically, her composure completely shattered now.
"No—Ben, I swear—I wasn't lying—" Her voice cracked, breaking over the words like waves against rocks.
And for a second—just a second—he almost believed her. The desperation in her eyes, the tremor in her voice, the way her fingers clutched at nothing as if searching for something to hold onto—it all seemed genuine.
But almost doesn't mean shit.
He watched her crumble and he felt rage.
White-hot and coiled tight in his chest, thrumming with every breath.
His voice was a blade, each word honed for maximum damage.
“Or maybe that was the plan all along.” He didn’t shout. Every syllable landed like a gunshot. “Get in my head. Get in my bed. Then what?” His nostrils flared. His teeth clenched.
“A baby?” He leaned in now, no room for escape. “Tie me down with a fucking accident?”
She flinched. Her face broke. Good.
“Is that why you didn’t want protection?” His voice was low, lethal.
"That's not true..." Her voice cracked, thin and shaky like wet paper.
Ben didn’t give a damn. He was past caring.
“You think I give a fuck what you say now?” He stalked away, pacing like a man trying not to put his fist through a wall. “You lied to my face for weeks. You fucked me and smiled while you did it. And now you expect me to believe this?”
He turned, eyes blazing. Ruthless.
“How do I even know you take anything at all?”
That did it.
Kath stumbled, like the accusation alone knocked the breath out of her lungs.
“I do! I swear, I do!” she gasped. “I take them every time—”
But he cut her off with a bitter laugh, ice-cold.
“You swear? Now? Now you want me to take you at your word?” His voice was venom. “The word of a liar who’s been acting every day since the moment she stepped into this building?”
His eyes didn’t leave hers.
No softness. No forgiveness.
Just the brutal, inescapable truth:
He didn’t trust her.
Not with his future.
Benjamin strode to his desk, each step precise and controlled despite the fury coursing through him. His mind was a battlefield of rage and calculation, each thought sharper than the last. He yanked open the drawer.
The box felt heavy in his hand. Heavier than it should.
He tossed it across the desk toward her.
It landed like a gunshot between them.
Kath stared at it, her tear-streaked face going even paler as recognition dawned. Her hands trembled at her sides, her composure completely shattered now.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice small, breathless, already knowing the answer.
Benjamin met her gaze, his expression carved from stone. "Plan B," he said, each word quiet. Cruel. Final. "Take it. Now."
He watched as she reached for the box with shaking hands. She didn't argue. Didn't hesitate. Her fingers fumbled with the packaging, tearing it open with desperate, jerky movements.
Something twisted in his chest as he watched her—not sympathy, but something darker. The knowledge that she was doing this because she knew there was no way out. Because she understood exactly how badly she had miscalculated.
There's nothing left to say, he thought, watching her with cold detachment. Nothing she could say that would make this okay.
She looked small standing there, the pill in her palm, her shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself disappear.
Gone was the confident lawyer who challenged him in meetings. Gone was the seductive dancer who had made him lose control. All that remained was this—a woman cornered by her own deception.
And when she swallowed that pill?
Benjamin saw it in her eyes—her pride went with it.
That fierce, defiant spirit that had drawn him to her in the first place crumbled before him, washing away with each tear that fell.
"Now pack your shit, Winters," he said, voice flat and final. "You're done here."
No yelling. No tantrum. Just a fucking verdict.
The words hung in the air between them, heavy as a death sentence. He could see the moment they landed—the slight flinch, the way her shoulders curved inward for just a second before she forced them straight again.
He expected her to fight. To argue. To remind him of her value to the firm, her contributions to their cases. The Katherine Winters he knew would never surrender without a battle, would never accept defeat without exhausting every possible avenue of resistance.
But she didn't.
She just nodded once, the movement so small it was barely perceptible. Her face was blank now, tears drying on her cheeks, leaving faint tracks through her makeup. She looked... hollow. Like something vital had been carved out of her.
Benjamin turned away, unable to look at her any longer.
He fixed his gaze on the window, on the city sprawling below them, uncaring and oblivious to the destruction happening in this room. He heard her movements behind him—the soft rustle of fabric as she gathered her things.
He didn't watch her go. Not with his eyes.
But he heard it. The soft drag of her heels against the carpet. The whisper of the door opening. The final, definitive click as it closed behind her.
And then—silence.