Chapter 6
Benjamin
The sharp click of heels against the polished floor cuts through the quiet, a rhythm of incoming distraction. Ben doesn’t look up.
Patty.
She sets a folder on his desk, but it’s the smirk—the one that says she knows things she shouldn’t—that’s the real warning.
“You know, Cousin," she says, voice light, casual. Too casual. “Even you need a break sometimes."
Ben keeps his eyes on the contract in front of him. Acknowledging her means encouraging this conversation.
“I function just fine," he says flatly.
Patty hums, unconvinced. She leans against the desk, tilting her head as if studying a particularly fascinating specimen. Amused. Pushing.
“Mhm. Sure. But if you keep going like this, one day your suit’s gonna fuse with your skin."
Ben exhales slowly. Finally, he looks up.
“Tragic," he says, dry.
Patty’s smirk deepens, sensing victory. “Come on, Sinclair. Even you must have a vice. Or are you really as untouchable as everyone says?"
His grip tightens around the pen. A vice. He’s spent years making sure he doesn’t have any. Not anymore. His stare sharpens, unimpressed, but Patty doesn’t flinch. She never does.
“Was there an actual reason for this visit?" he asks, tone cool, dismissive.
Patty grins, pushing off the desk. "Just checking if the rumors are true—that you bleed ice." She tosses a wink over her shoulder and turns to leave.
Ben doesn’t move. But his voice follows her, dry as ever. "Next time you barge in here fishing for weaknesses, that photo of you kissing a Ken doll in a wedding dress goes up in the break room."
Patty freezes mid-step—just for a beat—then laughs,
full-throated. "You wouldn’t dare."
Ben lifts an eyebrow. "Try me."
She shakes her head, still laughing, and disappears down the hall.
Ben leans back, unreadable.