Chapter 31
Benjamin
The office was still, soaked in late-night silence and the cold gleam of fluorescent fatigue. The world outside had gone quiet, but inside Ben Sinclair's head? It was a battlefield.
The only light came from the desk lamp, casting harsh lines across the papers like a spotlight on guilt.
He stared at the file—her file—spread open before him.
Niel Winters. Embezzlement. A case he'd buried in his memory years ago, filed away with all the other disappointments from his early career. A case he'd witnessed firsthand, watched as evidence disappeared, as justice bent to power's will.
Fingers traced the edge of the document, feeling the weight of what this meant.
Ben exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.
Kath Winters had played him. Oh, she'd played him hard. Twisted him in knots, pushed his buttons, got under his skin like no one ever had. But this?
This wasn't manipulation. This wasn't part of the act.
This was real.
His fingers started to drum against the desk. Not with boredom, but with barely-contained pressure. The kind that builds behind your ribs when you know you fucked up years ago.
Ben's teeth clenched as memories crashed over him.
The courtroom. The evidence that didn't add up. The way Crawford had looked at him—that smirk of absolute certainty that nothing would touch him. Not the law. Not the truth. Nothing.
He saw Crawford's face again. Heard the gavel. Smelled the courtroom—sterile, suffocating. And remembered exactly when he learned that justice doesn't always win.
It rarely wins.
He rubbed his temples, his whole face drawn tight, every muscle tensed with the decision that was already forming.
The right choice was clear, but that didn't make it easy.
That didn't make it clean.
He didn't want to do this. He hated what it meant. But there was no escaping it now.
He shoved the chair back, grabbed his jacket without hesitation.
There was a meeting waiting.
◆◆◆
The moment he stepped into the club felt it—the shift, the weight, the suffocating air of a place that used to be an escape and now felt like a battlefield.
Everything looked the same. The air was thick with expensive perfume and cigar smoke. The music hummed low, sensual, calculated.
But nothing felt the same.
He shouldn't fucking be here.
His teeth clenched, tension corded down his neck as he scanned the room. The bartender recognized him and gave a slight nod.
And then, his gaze locked onto the hallway leading to the private rooms.
She's back there.
He never felt this kind of tension before. This was different from the games they played, the teasing, the control. This wasn't Mr. S. and Blondie anymore.
This was Benjamin Sinclair and Katherine Winters.
And he was about to burn whatever was left of that distinction to the ground.
Ian caught his eye from behind the bar, his expression unreadable. He wiped his hands on a towel, deliberate and slow, before approaching.
"Mr. S," he said, voice neutral but eyes sharp. "Wasn't sure you'd actually show."
Ben didn't bother with pleasantries. "She's here."
It wasn't a question.
Ian studied him for a beat too long. "She is."
Ben's fingers flexed at his sides, a subtle betrayal of the control he was fighting to maintain. He'd rehearsed this moment, planned what he would say, how he would act. But standing here now, with the weight of everything between them, his carefully constructed script felt hollow.
"Private room?" Ben asked, voice clipped.
Ian's mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Already arranged."
Of course it was. Ian had always been three steps ahead of everyone else in this place.
Ben nodded once, sharp and final. He moved toward the hallway, each step measured, deliberate. The path was familiar.
But tonight, it felt foreign.
Loaded with something he couldn’t name.
He stopped in front of door number four.
Paused.
Drew a slow, steady breath.
Then stepped inside.
The door clicked shut behind him. The dim, intimate lighting cast deep shadows across the room, painting everything in shades of crimson and black. The air hung thick with perfume and secrets.
Blondie was already there, leaning against the chaise lounge, mask in place, every curve of her body outlined by the tight costume that clung to her skin. Every inch of her the untouchable fantasy she was built to be—a beautiful lie crafted for men with too much money.
But when she saw him—she froze. Her chest stilled mid-breath, the slight parting of her lips betraying recognition before she could mask it.
Ben let the silence stretch, drinking in the way her posture shifted, the subtle tension that crept into her shoulders, the way her fingers twitched against the velvet upholstery like she wanted to run but wouldn't. Her pulse fluttered visibly at the hollow of her throat.
He catalogued each reaction, each tell, filing them away with cold precision.
Then, finally—she smirked. It was small. Practiced.
The same expression she likely gave to every man who paid for her time.
"I didn't expect to see you here again," she said, voice cool and detached, a perfect performance of indifference.
Ben tilted his head, taking a slow step forward.
The floorboards creaked beneath his Italian leather shoes. "Didn't you?"
A flicker of something flashed in her eyes. Annoyance? Hesitation? Fear? Her pupils dilated slightly, her breath catching before she controlled it.
She straightened, slipping seamlessly back into her role, the same way she'd done a hundred times before. Her shoulders rolled back, chin lifting, hips canting just enough to draw his eye. Her mask was flawless, the sequins catching light as she moved.
Except Ben already knew what was underneath it. Knew the face she wore in daylight. Knew the voice that argued case law instead of whispering promises.
He took another step closer. Close enough to catch the scent of her—expensive perfume layered over something more familiar from the office. Close enough to see the slight tremble in her hands before she hid them behind her back.
"We need to talk. About your father," he said, cutting to the point. No games. No pretense.
The smirk vanished. Her face went blank, then pale beneath the stage makeup.
Katherine didn't move. Didn't breathe. The pulse at her throat jumped, rapid and uneven. A bead of sweat traced the curve of her collarbone, disappearing beneath the sequined bodice.
But Ben could see it now—the barely concealed panic beneath her perfectly painted lips. The way her thighs pressed from the instinct to flee. The slight tremor in her jaw as she clenched her teeth.
And there it was. Not Blondie. Not the act. Just Katherine—caught mid-step, eyes wide, mask slipping. Real.