Chapter 35
Benjamin
He watched her with narrowed eyes, tracking the subtle shift in her posture as she continued flipping through the documents.
Defiance poured off her like heat from a flame, undimmed by his earlier dismissal.
The silence between them pulsed—sharp, unresolved, a standoff waiting for one of them to break.
He knew Winters well enough by now. Her silence wasn't capitulation—it was tactical retreat. She was simply regrouping, waiting for the right moment to strike again.
And right on cue—
"We should still go after former employees. That angle's not dead," she said without looking up, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.
Ben glanced up. He let his gaze linger on her, taking in the stubborn set of her chin, the intensity in her eyes as she scanned the documents. Part of him admired her persistence. A larger part was irritated by it.
"Planning on kicking down doors in your stilettos, Winters?" he asked, arching a brow, his tone dry and dangerous.
She didn’t rise to his taunt. Not with words.
Instead, she tapped a finger against one of the pages—firm, deliberate. Confident.
“Him,” she said, indicating a name near the top of the document. “I could reach out. His contact info’s still public.”
Benjamin stilled. Across the table, his gaze sharpened, then drifted to the document she’d slid toward him. He said nothing. Just moved.
He circled the conference table, slow, methodical—more a calculation than a motion. When he reached her side, he leaned down to read the name she had marked. A mid-level executive. Quiet departure. But the date—it didn’t sit right. A thread left dangling.
Ben’s eyes stayed on the paper, his mouth tightening around a thought he hadn’t voiced aloud in years.
Sterling & Co. Again.
He remembered the name. The timing. The gut-level instinct that had flared even then. And he remembered the man.
One of Crawford’s. Not directly. But close enough to raise suspicion. And now, years later, that ghost had circled back—delivered to his desk by the last woman he should’ve let get this close.
His eyes lifted. Met hers.
There it was.
Recognition. And something else. Not fear. Not challenge.
Surprise.
She hadn’t expected him to entertain it. Much less agree.
“If we go after it,” he said, his voice steady and edged with resolve, “we do it together.”
The word landed like an echo in her chest. Together.
She blinked, lips parting before she caught herself. Just a flicker—but he caught it. Logged it.
She’d come bracing for resistance. For another shut door.
Not this.
Not a door opening.
Ben stayed close, half-leaned beside her. Still watching.
Still calculating. Part of him wondered if they could get something from this man. If there was leverage worth the risk.
A face-to-face? Maybe. If she was going to chase ghosts, he needed to be there to make sure they didn’t become monsters.
"And before you get any ideas—rule two still stands."
His tone cracked through the quiet like a gavel.
"I—" Kath started, tension gathering between her brows.
"You don’t do anything alone," he said. Sharper now. Absolute. "No more disappearing acts. No more reckless decisions."
The silence returned. Not empty—loaded.
“Understood.”
Her voice was soft. But the fire in her eyes hadn’t moved an inch.
He saw it.
And it twisted something in him—tight, sharp, and far too familiar.
She said yes. But she wasn’t done fighting.
And neither was he.
◆◆◆
Later, he watched her from across the desk, as she shifted in her seat and reached down—her heels hitting the floor with a soft thunk. She flexed her ankles, then curled one leg beneath her, long fingers digging briefly into her shoulder like she was working out a knot.
She exhaled slowly, reached for her phone, glanced at the screen, then flipped it face down without reacting. Not a single alert had come in, but he could see it in her face—the tension she wasn’t bothering to hide anymore.
She leaned back and rolled her neck, like someone trying to shake off a weight they didn’t remember picking up.
Ben watched her do all of it without saying a word.
She wasn’t reading the file in front of her. She wasn’t even pretending to.
"What happened with Josh?" he asked, tone casual, but the air between them shifted instantly—sharper, heavier.
Her fingers froze mid-stretch across the page.
"Nothing that matters," Kath said, too fast, her voice tight. She didn’t look at him.
It mattered. The fact that she fired it off so quickly mattered.
Ben sat back, studying her. The smooth mask she wore had slipped before—he knew what cracks to look for now. The way she didn’t blink. The way she held her breath for just a second too long.
She was hiding something.
And whatever it was? She knew it would get under his skin.
Katherine could feel his eyes on her before he spoke.
That stillness he wore like armor—it was back. But not indifferent. Focused. Calculated. She didn’t look up from the page in front of her, but her body betrayed her—one leg crossing over the other, arms tightening just a fraction.
"I take it the date went well," Ben said casually, the words quiet, calm.
Her pen stilled on the margin.
"Josh is none of your concern," she muttered, keeping her tone neutral.
"Mmh. Cute." He stood, moving slowly from behind the desk. She didn’t need to look to know he was coming closer. She felt it. Felt him. The shift in the air. The warning before the storm.
"Did he kiss you?" The question wasn’t loud, but it landed with the weight of a gavel.
She didn’t answer.
"You let him, didn’t you?" he murmured, and this time there was something dangerous under the velvet. "He leaned in, and you didn’t pull away."
She swallowed hard.
"Was it good?" he asked, mock curiosity lacing every syllable. "Did it make you forget what it felt like when I had you moaning in my mouth?"
"Ben—" Her voice cracked.
"Just tell me," he said, moving closer. "Did he get to touch you?"
A beat of silence. Then another.
"Did he get what I did?" he whispered, every word a hot brand. "Did he get your thighs? Your throat?"
She stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor—but she didn’t move away. Just turned. Met his gaze head-on.
Her chin high. Her eyes blazing.
“That’s none of your damn business.”
Ben tilted his head. "Wrong."
She clenched her hands into fists.
"What does it matter to you?" she snapped, chest rising too fast, her breathing uneven.
But he didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Because her asking meant everything.
Ben stepped into her space.
"You think I don’t see it?" he said low. "That I don’t know when you’re lying? When you’re pretending something didn’t get under your skin?”
Watched her stiffen.
Just a flicker. Barely more than a breath. But he caught it—the shift in her posture, the flash of panic she tried to bury behind silence. He almost smirked. Almost. That reaction? That meant something. And Ben Sinclair had never been good at letting things go when they meant something.
“Rule Four, Winters. I ask. You answer.”
Ben watched the hit land—subtle, but there. The way her spine straightened, the way her breath stalled in her chest.
He recognized the silence that followed. Not defiance.
Not submission. Just the quiet crack of someone cornered.
He'd pressed the right spot. He always did.
“I didn’t fuck him,” she said, the words coming out hollow. Soft. Like something cracked inside her to say them. “Happy?”
Ben didn’t answer. Not right away.
He just watched her. Unblinking. And when he finally spoke, it wasn’t loud—but it landed like a knife.
“Did he try?”
Katherine blinked. “What?”
“Joshua,” Ben said again, quieter now. “Did he want you?”
The moment the words left his mouth, regret twisted low in his gut. Of course he did. How could he not? The question was pathetic—weak. And worse, he already knew the answer.
She looked away. “I didn’t ask.”
Didn’t matter.
He saw the answer.
“He kissed you.”
Silence. Too long. Ben caught it.
“Was it just once?” he asked, tone deceptively calm. “Or did you let him again?”
She swallowed, expression tightened.
“Did you kiss him back, Winters?” he pressed, a whisper now. "Or were you too busy picturing me the whole time?"
Her hands fisted at her sides, but he barely noticed. He was too focused on her face, her eyes, the crack forming just beneath the surface.
And then she broke.
“You want the truth?” she snapped, voice low and raw.
“Yes. He kissed me.”
A pause. The words almost caught—but she forced them through.
“Yes, I kissed him back.”
Ben didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But something shifted—deep, unwelcome, curling slow and sour in his gut.
She blinked, her throat tightening. "It was once," she said, quieter now. "Just one kiss."
“And the whole time I was trying not to feel it,”
she continued, voice barely holding together. “Trying not to feel, down to my bones, how much it wasn’t what I wanted.”
Her eyes locked on his—fragile, furious. Breaking.
“Because it wasn’t…”
Her voice caught. She didn’t finish the sentence—but her hand lifted, almost involuntarily, fingertips hovering for a split second near the edge of his suit jacket.
That was the answer.
Silence detonated between them.
“I wanted it to be easier,” she said, trembling. “To matter less. But it didn’t. Because I let him kiss me and every second of it,
I was swallowing the truth—choking on it—because all I could think was that this isn't what I want. ”
A tear slipped free. Then another. But she didn’t look away.
Ben’s throat bobbed. His mouth tightened—but he didn’t speak. Not yet.
Not because he didn’t have words.
But because he didn’t trust himself to say the right ones.
Kath grabbed the file from the table—hands trembling—and shoved past him, brushing his shoulder hard as she went.
The door slammed behind her, the echo shattering the silence she left behind.
And Ben?
He still hadn’t moved.
◆◆◆
He glanced at the clock. Ten-oh-six. The office was empty—hallway lights dimmed, the distant hum of the cleaning crew barely audible. He should’ve left an hour ago. She should have too.
But she hadn’t.
Through the sliver of glass in her office door, he saw her—slumped over her desk, arms folded beneath her cheek like a makeshift pillow, hair spilled over the paperwork.
Ben stood frozen in the hallway, her words from earlier echoing in his head.
“It wasn’t what I wanted.”
The tremor in her voice. The way she couldn’t look at him when she said it. The fury. The ache. The truth.
It hadn’t left him. Not even now. Especially not now.
He stepped inside quietly. Her breathing was slow, steady. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep—he could tell by the pen still cradled between her fingers, the notes half-finished beneath her cheek. But exhaustion had claimed her. No surprise.
What stopped him wasn’t the sight of her asleep.
It was the tissues.
Scattered across the desk, crumpled, damp. Her eyes—puffy. Her lashes still wet. She hadn’t cried while fighting with him. She’d waited until after.
She’d gone quiet. Stared him down. Told him the truth like it cost her skin. And then she left.
He hadn’t followed. Hadn’t said a word.
Now here she was, curled into herself at a desk that looked more like a battlefield than a workspace. Broken in a way she hadn’t let him see while standing. Only now, small and slumped and still, did the fallout show.
He shouldn’t be here.
Not like this. Not watching her like this.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Just shrugged off his jacket and laid it across her shoulders—slow, precise. Her body stirred under the weight, not fully waking, just shifting instinctively. Then—
She turned her face into the lapel. Breathed in. And stayed there.
Ben froze.
That—whatever the fuck that was—settled beneath his skin like a burn.
He stepped back once. Then again. Put space between them because that’s what he needed to think. To breathe.
He didn’t leave, though.
Instead, he crossed to the armchair by the window and sat.
His phone buzzed in his palm—emails, alerts, reminders—but he didn’t check them right away.
He just watched the city outside. Cold lights.
Quiet movement. Nothing like the woman asleep across the room who’d practically confessed she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Ben leaned his head back against the chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling above. The room was quiet, save for the occasional whisper of the city beyond the windows. Too quiet.
He exhaled. Once. Then again.
Not tired. Not really. Just... tangled.
This thing—whatever it was—it didn’t have a name.
He wouldn’t give it one. Names meant ownership, definition. Control.
And right now, there was none of that.
Another sigh escaped him, quieter this time. Frustrated.
Like the feelings themselves were some puzzle he couldn’t solve, no matter how many angles he analyzed them from.
He didn’t know what to do with what she'd said.
Didn’t know what to do with the way it hit him.
So he stayed where he was. Shoulders tight. Gaze on the ceiling. Listening to her slow, steady breathing across the room.
And wondering, for the first time in a long time, what the hell he was even doing.
Then, finally, he closed his eyes.
Not sleep. Not peace. Just stillness.
A moment carved out of chaos—silent, strange, and soft.
She breathed. He listened. And for once, there were no rules between them. Only quiet.