Chapter 11
Katherine
Kath's fingers hover over the case file, but the words blur together, meaningless shapes on stark white paper. Her attention keeps drifting, pulled like a magnet across the office space to where Sinclair stands with Gregory Ranford.
His presence commands the room without effort. One hand tucked casually in his pocket, the other cutting through the air as he makes some point to Ranford. Every line of him is control—chin set, shoulders squared, hand slicing through the air.
She shouldn't notice these things. Shouldn't catalog the way his fingers flex when he emphasizes a word, or how his throat moves when he swallows. But her body remembers—remembers the weight of him beneath her, the rigid control in his muscles when she'd rolled her hips against him.
Sinclair speaks—low, smooth. His voice drips like warm honey down her spine—slow, sticky, infuriating. Her thighs clench before she can stop them.
Kath's body betrays her with visceral clarity—every sensation from that night flooding back unbidden. That sharp inhale he'd taken when she'd pressed closer echoes in her mind, making her pulse skip.
The pen creaks in her white-knuckled grip as more fragments assault her—the thick, hard length of him pressed against her core through the thin barrier of fabric, radiating heat that had scorched straight through to her bones. Her body had throbbed for him—wild, involuntary, humiliatingly honest.
"Fuck. Stop." Her lips form the words, but her body doesn’t listen.
Her thighs clench, breath shuddering—traitorous, reckless.
A molten need coils deeper, pulsing through her core with merciless intensity, each throb a cruel reminder of desires she can't afford to indulge.
She forces her attention back to the case file, desperate to focus on anything but the way she'd nearly shattered in his lap that night.
Movement catches her eye. Sinclair turns, and their gazes lock.
For one endless moment, the bustling office fades away completely. Logically, she knows he can't possibly read the thoughts racing through her mind—but his stare is deliberate, calculated, weighted with something that makes her stomach clench.
Gregory speaks beside him, but his eyes stay fixed on her for several heavy heartbeats. The look is a challenge—silent, deliberate. Waiting to see if she’ll break first. And for a split second, she almost does. Her pulse spikes, her breath stutters—but she forces steel into her spine.
Fucking bastard.
Kath sucks in a sharp breath and drops her eyes back to the papers scattered across her desk. No. This has to end. He doesn't know her secret, and he never will. She won't allow herself to feel this way again.
◆◆◆
Gregory Ranford’s space is all dark wood, brandy, and leather—like every powerful man in this firm is required to have the same decorator.
But it’s not the decor that makes her skin crawl.
It’s the man sitting across from him.
Samuel Crawford.
Effortless control.
The kind of power that doesn’t need to be loud to be terrifying.
She lingers outside the glass, gaze slipping through the slit in the blinds. Not eavesdropping. Just—tracking the game before she steps onto the board.
Inside, Ranford leans back in his chair, too relaxed. His voice is light, conversational.
“I hear your son is doing well in his studies."
Crawford inclines his head, movements slow, measured.
“As he should." A pause. “He understands what is expected of him."
Kath grips the folder in her hands just a little tighter.
Then—a knock at the door. Before Ranford can respond, it swings open.
And Benjamin enters. The shift is immediate.
His expression is neutral, but his movements aren’t.
There’s a tightness in his jaw, a sharpness in his gaze—one she recognizes.
He doesn’t like surprises. And this? This is a fucking surprise.
"I wasn’t aware we had company." His voice is smooth, but there’s a razor edge beneath it.
“Mr. Sinclair," Crawford acknowledges slowly and deliberately with no hostility or warmth—just acknowledgment. Kath isn’t sure what exactly passes between them. But whatever it is—it’s heavy. Then—a flicker of movement. Crawford’s head tilts, just slightly, just enough.
His gaze lands on her. Holds. Decides.
The shift is instant. His gaze settles on her through the glass, unreadable but weighted, like he’s already drawing conclusions. Then, he moves.
The door swings open with quiet finality. Kath straightens instinctively. Not a flinch. Not a shift. But a readiness. Because if Crawford is coming to her, it’s not by chance.
"Miss Winters," he says. His voice is too calm.
Too deliberate.
Kath lifts her chin slightly. "Mr. Crawford."
A simple exchange. But the room feels colder. The silence stretches. And then…
"Curiosity," Crawford murmurs, "is useful. Until it cuts too deep."
Her stomach knots. The warning lands somewhere below her ribs, cold and sharp. The words settle—deceptively simple, but heavy with implication. A challenge. A reminder. A threat.
Kath exhales slowly. And then—she tilts her head. Lets the silence drag between them just long enough to make it clear—she's not afraid. "Good thing I know how to handle a blade."
A flicker of something at the corner of Crawford's mouth. Amusement. Or maybe nothing at all. He doesn't respond immediately. Just nods once. As if noting something to himself.
◆◆◆
By the time she makes it back to Crimson, the day is a weight on her shoulders.
The city hasn’t slowed—but Katherine has.
She steps into Ian’s office, arms crossed, her weight shifting just enough to feign indifference.
Just another conversation, another night.
Except it isn’t. Not when her stomach is already knotting itself into something she refuses to name.
Ian looks up, already smirking—that slow, knowing curve of his lips. The kind that doesn’t just say he knows something she doesn’t, but worse—something she’s not ready to admit.
"Blondie," he greets, voice easy, amused. "You've got a very persistent admirer."
Kath arches a brow, waiting. Unbothered.
Ian leans forward, tapping his fingers against the desk.
A rhythm. A thought. A setup.
"Mr. S. came back." He tilts his head, studying her reaction. "Again."
Then, too casual—too calculated:
"And this time? He didn’t just ask. He put down triple your rate."
Kath doesn't react.
She rolls a shrug over her shoulders, keeping her voice flat. "And?"
Ian watches her, closely. Then his tone shifts, softer and gentler. "And I told him I'd talk to you." He tilts his head, curious but not pressing. "He's respectful. Pays ridiculously well." A pause, then a smirk. "And let's be honest—you keep him on his toes."
Her laugh is light. Casual. Too casual. "You say that like I should be flattered."
But Ian doesn't let it slide. His smirk fades, replaced by something quieter. Something knowing. "I'm saying you should consider it."
Silence falls between them, the kind that weighs heavy.
Ian leans back in his chair, exhaling through his nose like he's already figured her out. "You know, I don't push my girls into anything."
"But I also know people, Blondie."
Kath's stomach twists. Her pulse kicks against her ribs, unsteady. She knows when Ian drops his voice like this, she's about to hear something she won't like.
"And I've been doing this long enough," he continues, slow and careful, "to know when someone's trying to convince themselves of something that isn't true."
Kath swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. A single second stretched too long, the weight of Ian's words settling over her like a thick fog.
She wasn't convincing herself of anything.
Right?
Exhaling slowly, she forced a smirk and tossed her hair over one shoulder, the picture of casual indifference. Smooth. Easy. Unshaken.
"I'm not interested," she said, but the words came too quickly—too practiced. Her tone was light, almost dismissive. Too light.
Ian didn’t argue. Didn’t push. He simply watched her, gaze steady—measuring something. Reading past the deflection like it was printed in bold.
Then—he did something new. He leaned back, slow. Tilted his head. And set the trap.
"You have until tomorrow night to decide."
The words echoed long after he stopped speaking. Final. Inescapable. And terrifyingly real.
Kath froze, her breath catching just slightly in her throat. "...What?"
Ian shrugged, utterly unbothered. "If you don't want him,
I need to let him know." A pause. Calm. Practical. "I run a business, Blondie. Can't leave my best-paying clients in limbo."
Fuck. Fuck.
A deadline. Which meant this had just become real.
Kath kept her posture relaxed, her face a carefully composed mask of indifference. She nodded stiffly. "Fine."
Her hand touched the doorknob. Stopped. Exhaled.
"...I'll think about it," she muttered. A lie she hoped would become true by morning. Because if it didn’t— everything she’d built would start to crack.
She walks out into the hallway, heels striking softly against the worn wood. The air is thick—too still, too heavy. Her breath feels wrong in her chest, like it’s caught between choices she hasn't made yet.
At the end of the hall, she stops. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t move.
One hand grazes the wall, fingertips brushing the paint, like grounding herself with something real might help sort the rest.
But it doesn’t.
The quiet stretches long.
She closes her eyes. Just for a second. Just to hear what silence sounds like when everything inside her is screaming.
And then she starts walking again. Slowly.
One step after the other—like the floor might vanish if she moves too fast.