Chapter 12
Katherine
The moment Kath crosses the threshold, the air shifts—thick with danger, anticipation, something raw. Her skin prickles,
her pulse flares. This isn’t just another session. This is something else.
Benjamin sits before her like a predator at rest. His legs are spread wide, commanding the space, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with tension. His tie hangs loose, a calculated display of casual power that doesn't match the rigid set of his shoulders or the sharp focus in his eyes.
She forces herself to breathe evenly, to keep Blondie's mask firmly in place. Each step she takes is deliberate, her hips swaying just enough to draw his gaze. She owns this space.
She makes the rules here.
The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken challenge. Kath doesn't break it. Won't give him that opening.
His voice, when it comes, cuts through the air like steel.
"You don't do repeats."
Kath tilts her head, letting Blondie's smirk play across her lips. Her heart pounds against her ribs, but she keeps her voice steady, letting the pause linger just long enough to assert control.
"That's right."
Her breath catches as he shifts, bracing his elbows on his knees with predatory focus.
That stance—elbows braced, gaze locked—was a weapon.
She'd seen him reduce witnesses to rubble from that very position.
Though her insides clench with visceral recognition, she holds herself statue-still, letting Blondie's calculated detachment settle over her features.
"That's an odd business strategy." His voice carries that same smooth arrogance she's heard countless times in the office, but here it feels more dangerous, more intimate.
She lifts a brow, channeling Blondie's practiced indifference. But beneath the surface, alarm bells are ringing. This isn't the same man from their last encounter. This is Benjamin Sinclair in predator mode.
His lips twitch—not with warmth, but with something that makes her skin prickle. "How do you plan to make money if you keep turning away clients?"
The question hits too close to home. Her fingers twitch before she can stop them. Her weight shifts, instinct screaming retreat. She catches herself, but not fast enough—she sees the flash of satisfaction in his eyes, the slight narrowing of his gaze that tells her he caught every micro-expression.
Kath forces herself to exhale slowly. "I do well enough."
His smile is a loaded gun—calm, steady, waiting to fire.
"Oh, I'm sure you do." He tilts his head, studying her with the same intensity he uses to dissect witnesses. "But let's be honest, sweetheart—"
His voice drops lower, and she feels each word like a blade against her skin.
"That was bullshit."
A shiver licks down her spine, involuntary, but Katherine holds herself with practiced nonchalance.
"Is this an interrogation, Mr. S?" She lets Blondie's voice flow smooth and unconcerned, even as her breath shudders, betraying her.
Sinclair’s smile sharpens—slow, deliberate, the kind he wears before gutting an argument in cold blood.
"I don't need to interrogate you." His voice drops lower, each word precise and measured. "You're about to tell me everything I want to know."
Kath feels her pulse spike, but she keeps her face neutral, channeling every ounce of control she's learned both in and out of the courtroom. She shifts her weight, letting out a slow breath through her nose, refusing to let him see how his words affect her.
He leans back, his fingers tapping against his knee with deliberate patience. "You don't do repeats." His tone remains smooth, relentless. "You turned me down. Ian confirmed it."
The pause stretches between them, his gaze never wavering from her face.
"And then you came back."
The ache in her gut coils tighter with every second, a silent warning.
Her body thrums with the primal urge to flee, to throw up the practiced walls and clever deflections that have served her so well.
But she holds her ground, spine rigid, drawing on the steel-spined discipline that's made her reputation in front of judges and juries.
Like prey caught in a predator's gaze, she knows that one wrong move now could shatter the fragile veneer of control she desperately clutches.
She shrugs, keeping her movements deliberately casual even as her pulse races. "Maybe I changed my mind."
The way his lips curve makes her skin prickle. It's not a smile. Cold. Calculated. Certain.
"Maybe." His voice stays low, wrapping around her like silk. "But not because of money."
Her chin tensed before she can stop it. She sees the satisfaction flicker in his eyes at catching her tell, and hatred burns in her chest—not for him, but for how easily he's pulling her apart.
His tone turns almost lazy, but she recognizes the cruel edge beneath it. "So what was it?"
She forces Blondie's smirk onto her face, though it takes more effort than it should. "Maybe I just missed your generosity."
The quiet laugh he lets out holds no warmth. His next words fall flat, unimpressed. "Try again."
Kath rolls her eyes, the picture of indifference. Her voice stays light, teasing—never mind the panic curling in her gut. "What answer would satisfy you, Mr. S?"
He tilts his head, and she feels stripped bare under his scrutiny. Then his voice drops, soft but dangerous, each word a carefully placed trap.
"The truth."
Her throat tightens as Benjamin's words hit their mark. The familiar sensation of being cornered in her own game crawls up her spine.
Her fingers twitch at her sides as she fights to maintain Blondie's carefully crafted persona. But his presence fills the room like smoke, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. His eyes never leave her face, studying every expression with the same ruthless attention he gives to depositions.
"Did you run because of me?"
The question slices through her defenses. A single beat—too long, too revealing. She knows he caught it. The way his posture shifts forward, the way his gaze sharpens, cataloging every tell she fails to suppress.
When his voice drops lower, each word feels like a blade against her skin. "Did you leave because of how it felt last time?"
Heat floods her cheeks, but she forces her breathing to remain steady. She rolls her hip in what she hopes looks like casual dismissal, channeling every ounce of Blondie's confidence.
"Please. I don’t run, sweetheart."
The smile that spreads across his face makes her stomach clench. It's pure predator. His "No?" comes out soft, almost gentle, but she knows better. The pause that follows feels like a noose tightening.
When he speaks again, his voice has dropped to nearly a whisper, but each word lands like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"Then let's call it what it was."
Each syllable he utters sends tremors through Katherine's composure, her pulse thundering against the confines of her throat. "You liked it."
She holds herself statue-still, summoning years of practiced courtroom poise. Beneath her practiced calm, terror coils—and something darker, hungrier, that she refuses to name.
Benjamin's words curl through the air, each one a blade.
"You liked how it felt when you were on my lap. When you almost—"
The unfinished sentence lodges somewhere between her lungs and her pride. Her traitorous breath catches, a slight hitch that echoes in the charged space between them, damning as a signed confession.
He leans in, presence pressing against her skin, heavy as a palm at her throat. The satisfaction in his voice is dark, smug when he murmurs, "Is that why you ran? "Because you were one roll of your hips away from losing it—and I felt every second of it."
The words hit their mark with devastating precision. Kath keeps her face neutral, but she can't stop the heat that creeps up her neck, staining her skin with the truth she's trying so desperately to deny.
She sees the precise moment he catches it—the micro-shift of his lips, satisfaction curling at the corners.
His gaze darkens, knowing. Possessive.
“There you are,” he murmurs, voice like a velvet snare.
She opens her mouth, the denial already forming—sharp, panicked, defensive—
But he silences it with a sound.
“Tss.”
Not loud. Not angry. Just final. A quiet command that slices through her breath and halts everything.
He leans in, voice dropping to a hush—low and dark, with just enough velvet to make obedience feel like a gift.
“Don’t say it.”
Her breath stutters, chest tight. The truth coils behind her ribs like a loaded gun, but he doesn't need to pull the trigger—he already knows.
His certainty presses in, thick and inescapable, sealing the space around her like a locked door.
Then comes the final blow. Soft. Certain.
“My little liar.”
And it’s not an accusation. It’s a crown.
Her body betrays her with every heartbeat. Heat creeps up her throat, pulse hammering beneath her skin. She knows she should leave, knows every second she stays is another crack in her carefully constructed walls. But her feet remain rooted, caught in the gravity of his presence.
She doesn’t run. She should. Her mind tells her to walk away before the line blurs too far to redraw.
But her body moves first.
Deliberate. Unhurried. Certain.
If he sees this as surrender, fine. Let him.
Because the truth is—this is her decision. Not powerlessness. Not performance. Just choice.
And maybe it’s reckless. Maybe it’s stupid. But a part of her—deep, buried, undeniable—wants to see him lose that perfect control. Wants to see if he trembles the way she did.
She slides to her knees between his legs, her palms resting against his thighs like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The carpet bites into her skin. She doesn’t care.
His breath catches—sharp, silent.
That sound, that reaction, ripples through her like heat.
And for a moment, she’s not Blondie. Not Katherine.
Just a woman, choosing this man. Choosing the tension.
The fire.