Chapter 8 #2
Katherine stares into her coffee, watching cream spiral through dark liquid like smoke. Her fingers trace the rim of the ceramic mug, buying precious seconds before the confession burns its way up her throat.
"I found out who he is."
Tammy leans forward, predatory interest lighting her delicate features. The motion sends a waft of jasmine perfume across the table. "And?"
Kath lifts her gaze, throat tight. Her face tightens, the name scraping past her teeth like something bitter. "Sinclair."
Tammy blinks. Once. Twice. The silence stretches razor-thin between them as understanding dawns in her friend's wide blue eyes.
Then—she detonates.
“Wait.” Tammy’s spine snaps straight, hands flat against the table.
“As in… Benjamin Sinclair?”
Kath exhales, the sound raw and ragged. Heat crawls up her neck, settling beneath her skin like a brand.
"Yep." The admission hangs there, heavier than she expected.
For half a second, Tammy is frozen, shock written across her face. Then she fractures, dissolving into peals of uncontrolled laughter that draw stares from nearby tables.
"Oh my God." She slaps the table, eyes watering. Leans in, dropping her voice to a scandalized whisper—one that still carries way too far. "You gave Sinclair a private dance?"
Kath rolls her eyes, but a slow smirk betrays her amusement.
"Let's just say..." She lets the silence stretch, savoring it. Then—smirking, triumphant: "I made him suffer."
Tammy gasps, mock scandalized, her eyes sparkling with delight. "You pretty little devil."
Kath hesitates, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. Then, her voice drops lower, more serious. "He—he didn't know it was me."
The amusement flickers in Tammy's expression, replaced by a hint of surprise.
"He had no clue," Kath adds, her tone even, but something unreadable lingers beneath it.
Tammy shakes her head, eyes wide with disbelief.
“That is gold. Absolute gold." She exhales a half-laugh, still reeling. Then her gaze sharpens, head tilting like a cat who’s just scented something very interesting.
“So what’s the plan, Femme Fatale?" she purrs, far too amused. “You gonna disappear into the shadows, never to be seen again?"
Kath shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “It’s done. No more sessions. It got too close."
Tammy hums, unconvinced. “Mhm. And does he know that?" Her voice is slow, syrupy with smug delight. “Or is that just what you’ve told yourself?"
Katherine opens her mouth, a denial half-formed—but it stalls, snagging on something raw. Her silence says everything.
Tammy leans back like royalty settling into her throne, lifting her coffee with both hands. She sips once, then smiles—wicked, triumphant.
“Mmm,” she says, eyes glittering. “Thought so.”
Katherine lets out a breath, half a laugh, half an attempt to ground herself. She leans back, fingers still curled loosely around her coffee cup.
“What about you?” she asks, voice a bit quieter now.
“How’s Drake?”
Tammy’s expression softens immediately, that wicked glint dimming into something warmer. “He’s good,” she says, smiling into her cup. “Busy, as usual. He’s doing some advanced training thing right now—nerdy tech shit I barely understand.”
She shrugs, the affection obvious in her tone.
“But we’ve got a weekend away planned. Just the two of us. Somewhere quiet. Maybe a cabin. Maybe just a hotel with room service and a giant bed.”
She winks, voice dipping into a teasing lilt. “You know. Romantic stuff. The whole disgusting package.”
Katherine snorts, lips twitching despite herself. Tammy just grins wider.
“You need something like that too,” she says, all faux-serious. “A break. A bed. Someone to tell you to stop spiraling.”
Katherine laughs under her breath, but the words stay.
They follow her home like smoke.
Tammy’s voice won’t let go. “Does he know it’s over?
Or just you?”
It loops in her head, louder in the silence of her apartment.
The door clicks shut behind her, but the echo lingers.
She drops her keys on the table. Shrugs off her coat.
But the weight stays.
The memory creeps in—uninvited.
The way he looked at her that night. Eyes burning. Slicing straight through her. He hadn’t touched her. Didn’t need to. That gaze alone unraveled her.
That kind of focus? It pressed closer than hands ever could. Wrapped around every breath. Every slow turn of her body.
She remembers how his composure fractured beneath her. The tension coiling, snapping. How breathless he became—each inhale a surrender. His precision—so cold, so calculated—shattered. What it revealed was something raw. Human.
And still, she’s the one carrying the weight.
She had the power. She made him wait. Made him ache.
She walked away—head high, untouched, untouchable.
That was the point.
So why does he still live rent-free in her mind?
The mantra circles: She won. She called the shots.
She walked away.
That was the win.
Right?
Her steps slow. Breath catches.
Because if she really won—if she truly held the reins—why is she the one dissecting every flicker in his expression?
Every pause. Every tensed muscle.
Why does the memory of him—still, hard, undone—send heat curling low, impossible to ignore?
She exhales, sharp and deliberate. Wills it away. Dangerous ground. That night meant nothing. It can’t. Not with everything still teetering on secrets and lies.
She crosses the apartment, each step a sharp punctuation mark on the hardwood.
But no matter how far she paces, the question clings:
If she won… then why does it feel like she lost?