Chapter 25
Benjamin
The door slammed behind him with a force that rattled the frame.
Loud. Violent. Final. Rage crackled beneath his skin, hot and directionless.
His pulse pounded like it was trying to break free from his body, and every breath felt like it scraped against bone.
She was still everywhere—on his skin, in his mouth, burned into his memory.
The walk to his car had been a blur—he couldn't remember if he'd spoken to anyone, if he'd even bothered to say goodbye to Ian.
All he knew was that he needed to get away.
He stripped as he paced through his penthouse—shirt off, belt undone—movements rough, frantic. He couldn't stand the feel of fabric against his skin, not when she was still on him.
Her scent. Her sweat. Her fucking moans.
Ben stopped cold. Midstep. Chest rising. Eyes wide.
No. No, no, no. Not her. Not Winters.
"Fuck!"
Ben’s fists tightened involuntarily, his nails biting into the palm of his hand.
Every detail fell into place with excruciating precision—the way she’d spoken, her body language, the flicker of fear in her eyes that she couldn’t fully hide.
The bruise on her elbow. The reactions. And then, that damn phrase.
Sinfully good.
"You're fucking kidding me," he muttered under his breath, a low growl of disbelief and anger that vibrated through the still air.
He stalked toward the kitchen, each step precise and controlled despite the rage coursing through him. The marble counter was cool beneath his palms as he grabbed a glass, filled it with whiskey, and downed it in one burning swallow. He didn't taste it. Couldn't taste anything but her.
The bruise. The line. The fucking timing.
She played me. The whole time.
He braced his hands on the counter, chest heaving, teeth gritted so hard he swore something might crack. A muscle jumped violently in his jaw, pain lancing up the side of his face. His reflection stared back at him from the polished surface—eyes dark, wild, a man on the edge of fracturing.
"She let me fuck her—and still smiled like nothing was real."
The worst part?
She didn't even flinch. She smiled.
And he fell for it. Every. Fucking. Time.
You trusted her. You let her in. You gave her control.
His fist slammed into the counter. Once. Loud. Glass cracked beneath the impact. He didn't care.
He turned and walked out—each step clipped, controlled, the kind of control that came right before it shattered. The bathroom door swung open before him.
Ben leaned forward over the sink. Arms braced, muscles taut like a live wire ready to snap. His chest rose and fell in short, ragged bursts—as if he’d just fought for his life and lost.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Not blinking. Not breathing.
She played you. You kissed her. Craved her. Came undone for her—while she stood there pretending not to know your name.
The truth carved through him, slow and precise. Not an explosion. A dissection.
Blondie’s voice—dry, taunting. That smirk. That defiant gleam in her eyes whenever he pushed her. The flick of her fingers when she was making a point.
The way her breath hitched when he cut her off mid-sentence. It wasn’t new. He’d drawn that same sound from her before—under dim lights, on his lap, when her body broke apart on his hand.
“It’s her.” His voice cracked through the silence, low and raw. “It’s been her the whole time.”
His palms curled tighter against the porcelain edge. Cold sweat slicked his skin. His fingers flexed and scraped—seeking pain, any anchor to reality.
It wasn’t just sex. It was exposure. Humiliation.
She’d been watching. Watching him want her. Watching him lose sleep, lose control, while she played innocent. Played professional. Played him.
And like a goddamn fool, he’d let her in.
Not just his bed. Not just his body.
He’d given her the only part of himself he never let anyone touch. Control.
"It's her. It's been her all along."
His knuckles went white against the edge of the sink.
The same questions wouldn’t stop—short, vicious, circling like sharks.
Was it a game? Was she mocking me? Did she laugh the second I turned my back?
He’d given her too much. Let her too deep. Now every second of their time together looped like a filmstrip set on fire—scorched, warped, wrong.
She lied to his face.
By day, she buried the night.
By night, she wore the day like a mask.
Two lives, seamless—stitched so clean they bled.
And every stitch? Cut him open.
He dragged a hand down his face, trying to erase the memory. But it wouldn't fade. Instead, it sharpened, crystalized into something even more devastating.
The mask disappeared. The blonde wig vanished.
And suddenly, all he could see was Katherine fucking Winters.
Not Blondie. Not a stranger in stilettos. Her.
It was her gasping under his hands, arms twisted behind her back, wrists bound tight as she writhed and begged for more. Her back arched like she couldn’t get enough of him, her throat bared like a fucking offering.
Her. Climbing onto his lap like she owned him. Grinding down on his cock, slick and shameless, chasing her own orgasm like it was war. Her tits bouncing, her head thrown back, moaning his name like it was the only goddamn word she knew.
Katherine.
The woman who argued with a scalpel tongue. Who looked him dead in the eye and called him Mr. Sinclair with all the venom of a woman holding a dagger behind her back.
She was the one who rode him like she wanted to break him. That tight little cunt gripping him as she worked herself down on his cock—shameless, determined, soaking them both—and he’d let her. Let her tear through every wall he'd built.
Every gasp, every fuck me harder, every cracked whimper—that was her voice.
The same voice that whispered she needed him when she was scared.
The same voice that had held her own across the table in strategic meetings—matched him argument for argument, pressure for pressure.
Not the only one, but the first in a long time.
She’d knelt between his legs, eyes locked with his, mouth stretched around his cock like she wanted to devour him.
He could still hear the wet, obscene sounds of her sucking him off like it was her goddamn mission.
And the whole time?
She knew.
She let him come inside her, knew exactly who he was—what he was to her—and never said a fucking word.
The truth hit like a sledgehammer to the gut.
For a second—a brief, fleeting second—Ben considered the possibility that maybe she didn't know. That maybe this was just as much of a shock to her as it was to him.
But the memory crashed into him with merciless clarity.
The second dance. The one where he’d waited without the mask. The moment she saw his face—really saw him.
She’d gone still. Not startled. Not confused. Just… still. Like a wire pulled tight.
And then—she’d shifted. Recovered. Slipped the mask back on like it had never cracked. But something had changed.
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. Her touch wasn’t curious anymore—it was calculated.
And after that night?
She doesn't want came back to him.
The realization twisted inside him like a knife. She had known exactly who he was.
"You fucking knew," he whispered, the words barely audible, dark and gutted.
The betrayal was complete, absolute. He had let her in.
He had believed her. He had trusted her with his body, his secrets, his fucking name.
And she didn't even flinch when she lied to me.
She had walked into his office with that cool, professional mask. Arguing cases. Taking his criticism. Acting like she hadn't been naked in his arms just hours before. Like she hadn't tasted him on her tongue. Like she hadn't whispered his name while he was buried inside her.
The depth of her deception was staggering. Every meeting. Every argument. Every time she'd looked him in the eye and pretended she was nothing more than his subordinate.
All while knowing exactly who he was. All while letting him chase after a ghost that wore her face.
Ben sat on the edge of the bed, water dripping from his hair, a towel slung low around his hips. He’d scrubbed every inch of his skin raw in the shower, trying to erase the scent of her from his body, the memory of her from his mind.
But it clung.
He didn’t even realize he was moving. One second he was breathing. The next—he was grabbing the lamp off the side table and hurling it across the room.
It crashed into the bookshelf. Wood splintered. A photo frame shattered. Papers scattered like shrapnel.
The silence after was unbearable. It wasn’t stillness—it was a void. A gaping, suffocating absence of noise that made the blood in his ears roar louder. There was no air. No center.
Just the unraveling echo of a man realizing he’d been broken in a way he didn’t even know was possible.
"Fuck," Ben growled, his breath ragged.
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing, his movements erratic.
His shoulders locked—but his hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
He looked down at them like they belonged to someone else.
Then slowly, deliberately, he pressed one against his thigh, trying to still it.
Anchor it. Anything to quiet the chaos ripping through him. But the thoughts wouldn’t stop.
Wouldn’t even slow down.
That smirk in the conference room.
Her voice when she whispered "make me forget."
The way she fucking gasped his name—
You thought she was surrendering. She was distracting you.
The shame burned, but the rage scorched over it.
She used you like a fucking game piece.
Ben stared at the wreckage across his living room, chest heaving. The lamp lay in pieces, but the destruction did nothing to quell the storm inside him.
This wasn't a mistake. This wasn't heat-of-the-moment.
She planned this.
She played me. She infiltrated both sides of my life—work and whatever the hell was left of my personal life—and kept the lie going. For months.
Every touch. Every smirk. Every whisper of "Mr. S." The way she'd lean over his desk, challenge him in meetings, then slide into his lap hours later wearing nothing but silk and lies.
What the fuck did she want?
Information? Power? A weakness to exploit? Had she been documenting his vulnerabilities, waiting for the perfect moment to strike? Was this about a case? About the firm?
I need to do something. Say something. Confront her.
Ben paced, hands on his hips, chest rising and falling too fast. But not like this. Not while he was still burning with fury and frustration and something too raw to name. I need control. I need a plan. And most of all? I need to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do about her.