Chapter 16
Benjamin
Ben's attention was scattered as he crossed the firm's lobby—emails, deadlines, meetings, all vying for his focus. His gaze snagged on Katherine—arrogant, composed, infuriating.
Something shifted—small, barely there. It was nothing at first. Just a flicker of movement as she adjusted her bag, causing her blouse sleeve to pull slightly, just enough for him to almost see it.
A shadow beneath the fabric. A mark. Maybe.
Something faint beneath the semi-sheer material of her blouse—right near her elbow.
It was probably nothing. Probably.
But then, Blondie crashed into his thoughts uninvited.
He remembered the soft skin beneath his fingertips. Remembered the bruise. And for a second—a half-second—his brain offered the impossible: Could it be…?
The moment passed as quickly as it came. The bruise was too obscured. The memory too surreal. The connection too ridiculous. He blinked it away.
Katherine stepped into the elevator, unaware of his scrutiny. Ben watched her go, not suspicious, not certain. Just… unsettled.
He breathed out, shutting down the idea as it dissolved as quickly as it had come. Implausible. Impossible. He told himself it was nothing. A coincidence. A glitch in his overworked mind. No. Don't be ridiculous.
But the thought didn't vanish. Not really. It lingered. Waiting.
Even then, Ben stared at the stack of documents and case files spread across his desk, but his focus was elsewhere. Deadlines loomed, his inbox overflowed, and he had zero time for distractions—yet one refused to leave his thoughts.
The flicker of skin beneath Katherine's sleeve replayed in his mind, that almost-bruise echoing a memory he couldn't shake. He told himself it didn't matter, that he was being paranoid, overworked, his brain connecting dots that didn't exist.
He'd known Katherine for months. She was a nightmare in heels, not some masked vixen in silk and lace.
Blondie is a fantasy. Kath is real—loud, difficult. Definitely not her.
But his memory wouldn't play fair. He remembered the exact spot on Blondie's elbow, the way her breath hitched when he touched it, the way her voice cracked when she said his name.
The idea kept circling back, soft but persistent, a hum beneath the noise, a whisper threading itself into every idle second of silence.
If he's wrong, he ruins everything. If he's right—he's already in too deep.
He stared at his screen, words blurring, focus slipping.
He didn't realize how long he'd been just... sitting there, dragging a hand over his face, trying and failing to shake off the thoughts. His logical brain insisted it was nothing. But the rest of him whispered, If I ask and I’m wrong… if I don’t ask and I’m right…
He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the window.
The city pulsed beyond the glass, distant and indifferent.
For a second—just a second—he let himself be still.
The sound of someone laughing in the hallway filtered through the door. His gaze snagged on the blinking cursor at the edge of an unfinished email.
He reached for his coffee—lukewarm now—and took a sip without tasting it.
Normalcy. Routine. A desk. A screen. A chair.
None of it helped.
The question was still there. And it was louder in the silence.
At the meeting she rolling her arm, she tries to ease the stiffness—only now realizing how much she’s revealing.
But Ben saw it. And that bruise? He hadn't forgotten.
He closed the distance between them, not too close—just enough.
"Everything okay?" he asked, his voice casual, unreadable.
Katherine reacted, her brows knitting together, not alarmed but wary. Her control clicked in instantly.
"What?" she replied, her tone guarded but controlled.
Ben gestured nonchalantly, playing the part perfectly, his body loose.
"You keep stretching. Get injured?" The words were casual—but his gaze wasn’t.
Her response was everything. And it came fast. Too fast.
A flicker of hesitation, awareness, before she smoothed her face like nothing happened.
"I bumped into something," She said, her tone too casual, too easy.
Ben didn't move, didn't blink. His voice dipped—just a touch. Just enough to press.
"Must have been a hell of a bump."
The pause was damning. She held it. Then tried to deflect—shoulders rolling, lips curving into a sharp smirk.
“Aw. Didn’t know you cared, Sinclair.” Her tone mocked, but her eyes didn’t quite follow. A crack in her armor—not big, but real.
Ben gave her his best poker face, a smirk right back—casual, dismissive. A front.
"I don't," he said—low, taunting.
Ben reached his office and dropped hard into reality.
The second the door clicked shut behind him, the mask slipped.
He collapsed into his chair, elbows on the desk, fingers pressing against his temples like he could force the thought out of his head by sheer will.
This doesn't make sense. It can't. It shouldn't. Katherine is impossible. Blondie is fantasy. They don't overlap. They shouldn't overlap.
But the evidence stacked itself. The shift in her body language. The way she looked at him—like she knew. Like she was already calculating her countermove before he even made his play.
He exhaled, sharp and frustrated. His fingers tapped out an anxious, impatient rhythm against his desk.
His mind betrayed him—again. Blondie under his hands.
Her breathless moans. That name on her lips. Ben.
Could it be her?
His body recoiled at the possibility. His brain, treacherous thing, whispered maybe.
Every fiber of his being struggled against the connection forming in his mind.
Blondie belonged to a realm of silk sheets and midnight confessions—a fantasy carved from desire.
Katherine existed in fluorescent lights and boardroom tension—all sharp edges, infuriating viewpoints, and the inescapable gravity of sharing the same professional space.
And yet—he knew himself too well. The moment he started to suspect, he had to know. He doesn't let go. He doesn't look away. Truth is his drug—and this mystery? It's the itch he can't stop scratching.
Resolve sharpened like a blade. Until he proves otherwise,
he won't stop.