Chapter 3
Katherine
The legal briefs blur before her eyes, exhaustion creeping into the corners of her vision like an ink spill, slow and inevitable.
The past few days at Sinclair & Associates have been a relentless blur of research, revisions, and being utterly invisible to the firm’s power players. Just how they like it.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz softly, their hum a constant reminder of the late hours she's been keeping.
Kath is still trying to shake the fatigue from her mind when a shadow falls across her desk, casting a chill over the neatly arranged papers. Patty stands there, arms crossed,
her expression unreadable beneath her usual layer of makeup.
With her bright outfits and brisk, purposeful stride, Patty’s hard to miss—Kath has often spotted her in the mornings, heading toward the upper floors where the real power gathers.
“Mr. Sinclair wants you in his office. Now." Patty’s tone is gentle, but there’s something cautious in the way she says it,
like she knows this meeting won’t be pleasant.
A flicker of unease tightens in Kath’s stomach, sharp and immediate.
Sinclair. She’s only ever seen him from a distance—moving through boardrooms like a king surveying his court, words as sharp as the suits he wears.
He’s a presence, a force that seems to bend the very air around him. And now he wants to see her.
She nods, smoothing out her blazer with steady hands, feeling the cool fabric against her palms. Stay calm.
Stay sharp. Without another word, she steps toward the elevator, the hum of the office fading behind her like a distant echo.
Each click of her heels on the floor is a measured beat, a silent mantra of forced calmness.
Alright, Winters. This is it. Don’t fuck it up.
Kath steps into Benjamin Sinclair’s office, her heels clicking sharper now—marble, not laminate.
Up here, even the floor knows its worth.
The space is exactly what she expected—modern, minimalist, designed for intimidation.
Floor-to-ceiling windows cast sharp angles of daylight across dark furniture,
but the man behind the desk doesn’t even glance up.
Benjamin skims a legal brief, expression unreadable, fingers tapping idly against the edge of his desk. The silence stretches, deliberate, pressing. Each second feels like a challenge, a test of her resolve. She meets it head-on, standing tall, her gaze steady on the polished surface before her.
Finally, he exhales, looking up with a flick of his gaze, flat and assessing. “So. Ms. Katherine Winters." His voice is smooth, controlled—danger coiled beneath courtesy.
Her name sits in the air like a test. She keeps her posture straight, chin level, face unreadable.
He leans back in the chair, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, the other twirling a pen between his fingers. Studying her. Measuring. “I have to admit, I was curious. It’s not every day that a no-name law student gets personally recommended by a dean."
Kath doesn’t react, but she feels the intent behind his words. The weight of his scrutiny is a slow drag over her skin, like a predator sizing up a meal.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The end of his pen meets the desk in a slow, rhythmic beat before he speaks again—deceptively light, but razor-sharp beneath the surface.
"Tell me, Ms. Winters—was it charm, blind luck… or did you sleep your way in?"
The words crack through the air like a slap.
Her spine snaps straight. For a moment, heat floods her face—anger, yes, but something else too. Humiliation, sharp and uninvited. She swallows it whole.
“I’m sorry… what?” It comes out steady—but thinner than she meant it to.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. He shrugs, completely unfazed. “You don’t really expect me to believe you’re some hidden prodigy, do you?"
Kath forces her hands to relax, slow and deliberate, before tilting her chin ever so slightly. Fine. If he wants to play games, she can play too.
"I’d rather you judge my work, Mr. Sinclair. Unless making baseless accusations is the only skill you value here."
His smirk doesn't waver, but something flickers in his eyes—a sharpness that wasn't there before. Surprise? Interest?
She can't tell, and that unsettles her more than it should.
The corner of his mouth curves—measured, almost amused. “Alright then. Let’s test that theory."
Without a word, he pulls a file from the neatly stacked pile beside him and slides it across the desk. The motion is effortless, detached, like he’s already decided she’ll fail.
“Summarize," he says, bored. “Thirty seconds."
She doesn’t hesitate, flipping through the file at a speed just shy of reckless. The words blur, but she focuses, scanning for key points. She barely gets five words out before another file lands in front of her with a dull thud.
“Not fast enough." Sinclair’s tone doesn’t shift. Another file. “Next."
Kath swallows the sharp retort that burns the back of her throat. Fine. If this is how he wants to play it. Her grip tightens around the pages, but she adjusts, forcing herself to think faster, speak faster, process faster.
Another file. Then another. And another.
He’s pushing her, waiting for the hesitation, the stumble.
The moment she’ll crack.
But she doesn’t.
With each file, she sharpens. Adapts. Refines. Her summaries become quicker, more precise, her breath even despite the mounting pressure. If he wants a war, she’ll give him one.
His expression doesn’t change—detached, unreadable—but his eyes flicker. Recalculating.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he sits back in his chair, watching her. The silence stretches. Then—
“Not terrible."
Katherine keeps her breath steady, eyes on the files in her hand. She feels the tension in her shoulders, tight but controlled. No praise, no clear signal—just enough to keep her uncertain.
She glances up once. His gaze is already elsewhere, face impassive, like she hadn’t spoken at all.
Sinclair shifts slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting in something that might’ve been a smirk—or maybe not. Hard to tell. Nothing in him gives much away.
He turns back to his computer, dismissing her with a single sentence.
“Try not to embarrass me.”
That’s it. No confirmation. No follow-up.
Kath exhales, nods once, and walks out—back straight, pace measured. If he’s testing her, she won’t give him anything to mark down.
She steps out of his office, tension still coiled low in her chest. She should feel accomplished—but instead, her hands tremble slightly as she buttons her coat. Not from fear. Just pressure. The sense of being watched. Measured.
She exhales through her nose, rolling her shoulders back as if she can shrug off the last ten minutes. Her pulse is steady now, but her mind keeps replaying the exchange, cataloging every pause, every flicker in his gaze. None of it felt accidental.
The elevator dings. Doors slide open. Forward, then.
A hand catches the door. Patty.
“Where are you going?” she asks, brow lifted.
Kath doesn’t quite look at her. “Back to my desk.”
Patty hums, light but knowing. “Right. To get your things.”
She stops. “What?”
A vague wave of Patty’s hand toward the office.
“Your things,” she says. “You’re on Sinclair’s team now.”
She lets it land, then adds, a touch softer:
“Don’t stress if he’s hard on you at first. He doesn’t make it easy. Just don’t take it personal, and you’ll be fine.”
The elevator is quiet. Still. The words settle—not like fire, but like weight.
Kath blinks once, then nods. No protest. Just understanding.
She should have seen it. Of course he knew exactly what he was doing. That whole interaction—tight, deliberate, surgical.
A test. Not cruelty, just calculus.
He doesn’t trust her. Not yet.
And that’s fine. She’s not here for hand-holding.
She presses her lips together as the elevator doors close.
She’ll meet the expectation. And if he’s watching, that’s good.
He should be.