Chapter 22 #2
Not yet.
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The office was busy. Late afternoon light stretched long across the floor, casting sharp angles that matched the mood.
The day had dragged—tense meetings, clipped words, unspoken things thick in the air.
Then came the footsteps.
Click-click-click. Fast. Precise. Furious.
He didn’t need to look up.
Winters was coming.
No knock.
The door flew open.
She stormed in, eyes blazing, phone already in hand.
It hit his desk with a sharp thud, the screen glaring up at him.
Subject: "Reassignment Confirmation"
Effective immediately... Winters removed from Ridley case... Assigned to Sinclair.
"Alright, Sinclair," she said, voice like a lit fuse.
"What the hell is your problem?"
Ben didn't look up. Not immediately. He let it simmer. Let her stand there and boil.
The seconds stretched between them, thick with tension.
Her anger radiated across his desk in palpable waves, but Benjamin kept his eyes fixed on her phone. He felt her fury building with each passing moment—felt the way she shifted her weight, heard the slight catch in her breath as she waited for him to acknowledge her.
Good. Let her wait.
Then, finally—he leaned back. Calm. Detached. Deadly.
"Define 'problem,'" he said, voice cool as ice.
Kath scoffed, stepping closer. Her restraint was cracking. "You've been insufferable for days. Just say whatever it is you want to say."
Ben watched her. His gaze flicked—just briefly—to her fists. He saw how close she was to losing it.
Then he looked at the phone. The email. And spoke like he was bored.
"I made a judgment call."
Kath let out a sharp, mirthless laugh.
"A judgment call? That's cute. I must've missed the part where you get to make judgment calls about my career."
Ben didn’t move. But something in his face shifted—the stillness sharpened, like steel locking into place beneath skin.
His gaze sliced into hers, winter-cold and precision-edged. "I'm your superior, Winters. You're on my team. That places you under my authority."
He let silence stretch between them—calculated, just long enough to let the truth settle into her bones:
“And if that’s still unclear to you, maybe take a second and read the name etched on the goddamn glass outside this office—because it’s not Winters & Associates.”
Silence.
Hot. Thick. Explosive.
And that was the match. She leaned in—both hands on his desk, her breath hot between them.
"That's not what this is about, and we both fucking know it."
Ben's pulse spiked.
Because she wasn't wrong. And she wasn't backing down.
He pushed away from his desk, moving around it in one slow, deliberate motion.
"Not here," he said, voice low and final.
She straightened, still fuming. Ready to throw another line. Another accusation.
But Ben was already walking. Not waiting. Not asking.
He expected her to follow.
Kath hesitated. One breath. One heartbeat. Then—
She followed.
Because whatever he was about to say?
She needed to hear it.
He led her through the corridors of Sinclair & Associates, past the questioning glances of junior associates and the curious eyes of the paralegals. He didn't look back. Didn't need to.
He could feel her following—the controlled fury in each step, the heat of her glare burning into his back.
The storage room was at the end of the east wing.
Rarely used. Private. Perfect.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside, waiting for her to follow before closing it behind them. The soft click of the latch echoed in the confined space.
Benjamin turned the lock. The sound of metal sliding into place felt final.
When he turned, Katherine was already positioned for battle—arms crossed tightly over her chest, chin tilted up in defiance, eyes burning with challenge. The dim lighting cast shadows across her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her features.
"What, you didn't want to embarrass me in public?" she scoffed, her voice dripping with contempt.
Benjamin took his time responding. His eyes moved over her in a slow, deliberate assessment—taking in every detail from her perfectly pressed blazer to the rigid set of her shoulders.
Not appreciative. Clinical. Cutting.
"I didn't want to embarrass myself in public," he replied, voice dry and sharp as a blade.
Katherine's eyes flashed dangerously. The barb had landed exactly as intended.
"Wouldn't want Mr. Sinclair looking unprofessional," she mocked, leaning back against a filing cabinet, feigning casualness that her tense posture betrayed.
Benjamin exhaled through his nose. Almost a laugh.
The ghost of amusement touched his lips for half a second before dying away.
Because now? Now he was done pretending this was about anything else.
He watched her, a cold calculation settling into his features. He could feel the tension between them pulling taut, a wire ready to snap. The confined space of the storage room only amplified the electricity crackling in the air.
"That's exactly what I want to talk about. Your professionalism," he said, voice clipped and cold.
The air went still, sharp. Like the moment before glass shatters.
Katherine's eyes narrowed, her body going rigid.
"Excuse me?"
Ben stepped forward. Controlled. Merciless. His movements precise as he closed the distance between them, not enough to crowd her, but enough to establish dominance in the small space.
"Your focus is slipping. You're letting distractions affect your work," he stated, each word delivered with maximum precision.
Katherine exploded before she could stop it. He saw the accusation hit somewhere deep, watched as her composure fractured right in front of him.
"That's bullshit and you know it," she fired back, color rising in her cheeks.
Ben just shrugged. Calm. Casual. Cruel. The dismissive gesture calculated to cut deeper than any words could. "Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe you're just naturally undisciplined."
And that? That landed hard.
He watched as Katherine burned. As she snapped. Her eyes flashed with a fury that transformed her entire face, her hands uncrossing to ball into fists at her sides.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she demanded, furious and breathless. "I work harder than anyone here."
Benjamin tilted his head, a slow, deliberate smirk spreading across his face. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes—a predator who'd just spotted weakness.
"Do you?" he asked, voice mockingly soft.
The question hung in the air between them, deceptively simple yet loaded with accusation. He watched her reaction with razor-sharp focus, cataloging every minute change in her expression.
Katherine was panting now. Flushed. Shaking. Her chest rising too fast with each breath, lips parted, fists clenched at her sides. The controlled professional facade had cracked wide open, revealing something raw and volatile beneath.
He felt a surge of dark satisfaction at the sight. This was what he wanted—to strip away her composure, to see the truth beneath all her careful pretense. She looked wrecked. Beautiful in her fury. Desperate in a way that made him wonder if she was about to slap or kiss him.
Ben could hear his own pulse. It pounded against his temples, thick and relentless, drowning out everything except the sight before him.
Katherine stood there—furious, flushed, and utterly fucked up.
Her chest rose and fell with each rapid breath, her composure completely shattered.
The flush that had started on her cheeks now crawled down her neck, disappearing beneath her blouse like an invitation his body desperately wanted to accept.
And her mouth—God, her mouth—soft and parted, waiting for something she might not even realize she was asking for.
He was one second away from closing that distance.
One heartbeat from grabbing her wrists, from shoving her against the door, from kissing her until she broke for him again. The way she had that night. The way Blondie had.
His fingers twitched at his side, imagining how she would respond. Would she gasp against his lips? Or would she claw at him, fighting even as she surrendered?
Then reality slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. The risk. The professional line. The consequences that would follow.
What if he was wrong? What if she wasn't Blondie at all? What if she was just Winters—just another lawyer who happened to have a similar build, similar mannerisms?
The doubt paralyzed him.
His hand tightened at his side, knuckles going white.
His teeth clenched so hard he could feel the muscle jump beneath his skin. He forced himself to exhale slowly, to take a deliberate step back.
And the worst part? Katherine was still looking at him. Waiting. Her eyes dark and challenging, like she knew exactly what he was thinking and was daring him to act on it.
He stepped back further, putting necessary distance between them. His expression shifted, transforming into something sharp, detached, defensive.
"Glad we cleared that up, Winters," he said, voice low and cool.
And then? He walked the fuck away.
He didn't look back as he unlocked the door and stepped out, leaving her there—furious, breathless.
Benjamin told himself he'd made the right call.
The professional call. The safe call.
Then why is he dissatisfied?
He kept walking. Past the empty corridor. Past the glances he didn’t acknowledge.
Didn’t stop until he reached his office again. He closed the door, but didn’t turn on the lights.
Just stood there.
Still breathing too fast.
He ran a hand down his face, then across the back of his neck.
He didn’t have time to spiral over one woman—no matter how sharp her tongue or how tight her grip on his thoughts.
So he straightened his cuffs, squared his shoulders, and did what he always did best.
Compartmentalized.
Buried it deep.
And got back to work.