Chapter 53
Benjamin
Tension gripped the room like static before a lightning strike—silent, charged, inevitable.
No one moved.
No one breathed too deep.
A choice hovered in the air. It wasn’t going to be easy.
Ben leaned against the bar, glass in hand, shoulders drawn tight.
The weight of what they were considering pressed against his chest like stone.
Across from him, Julian lounged in the chair like a man about to offer something no one sane should accept.
Shadows clung to him like loyal friends, softening the edges of his smirk until it blurred into something almost... elegant in its menace.
Ben didn’t know what he was about to say.
But he could feel it.
Coiled in the air.
Dark. Measured. Inevitable.
“So, we’re agreed,” Julian said finally, tipping his head toward the untouched drink on the table.
“Our friend doesn’t scare easy. Even fear has its ceiling, apparently.”
Ben exhaled hard through his nose, fingers pressing against his temple.
The pounding in his skull hadn’t let up all day.
Every thought slammed into the same wall—
Every legal path, every clean option—gone.
"Then we find another way."
Didn’t look at Julian when he said it.
Didn't have to.
Already knew that grin would be there—too wide, too pleased.
"That's exactly what I'm saying," Julian purred. "We make a way."
Ben didn't like the way he said that.
He never did.
Kath leaned forward on the couch, eyes dark, body coiled. She felt it too—where this was headed. The ground shifting beneath them.
"You mean we force him to talk?" she asked, voice steady.
Ben froze.
Because for a second, he let himself believe she wouldn’t go there.
Julian laughed, soft and slow, like he was savoring a rare wine. "Oh, darling. That's so... expected." He tilted his head, and his smile twisted into something almost bored. "We all saw it back at the pub—threats won’t work on him. Not really.
He’s more afraid of Crawford than anything we can throw at him. That tells us everything, doesn’t it?"
He swirled the drink in his hand, his rings catching the light. A showman. A devil with an open bar tab.
"No, we don't need his actual words," Julian said.
"We just need the right kind of evidence to surface.
Something... inconvenient. Something that speaks loudly—" he gestured with two fingers, slow and theatrical, "—even if no one actually said it. You know, one of those memories that conveniently appears in the form of a document, or a recording. Something Crawford wouldn’t want in circulation. "
Ben's grip on the glass went white-knuckle.
He didn’t speak because he was shocked.
He didn’t speak because he'd already decided.
But hearing it out loud—hearing the ugliness dressed up like strategy—made something inside him twist.
"You mean fabricate evidence." The words spat out, rough, laced with fury he didn’t even try to bury.
Julian didn’t flinch. He shifted, draping one arm lazily along the back of the couch like he owned the room, ankle resting atop the opposite knee in a picture of practiced arrogance.
He let his upper body tilt forward just slightly, the kind of movement that suggested interest—mocking, indulgent—as if he were humoring a particularly slow student.
"I mean," he said, casual to the point of cruelty, "ensure the truth finds its way to the surface. Call it creative justice. Call it balancing the scales. Call it whatever you need to sleep through the night."
Ben stared into the amber burn of his glass, the last ice melting into the mix.
And that was the thing—he knew he could sleep. If he let himself. If he chose to stop caring. That terrified him more than anything.
The silence closed in, heavy and breathless.
Then—
"I'm in."
Kath’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade.
Ben’s head snapped toward her.
Her voice was calm. Her posture steady. But her hands—
Her hands were fists.
"No," he said, sharper than he meant to. "You’re not."
Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
Ben set the glass down—too gently. Like if he moved any faster, something would break.
"You don’t touch this," he said. "If we go down this road—if we plant this—we do it clean. You stay out of it."
Julian arched a brow, intrigued.
Kath stared at Ben like he’d just slapped her.
"You don’t get to make that call."
"I'm making it," Ben said, his expression tightened . "I’m not dragging you down with me."
Her laugh wasn’t amused. It was sharp. Bitter.
"You think you're protecting me?" she asked. "By cutting me out? After everything?"
"Yes," he said. "Exactly that."
Her voice lowered, dangerous now. "God, you're such a coward."
He flinched.
Julian made a sound, low and pleased, the kind of noise a man makes when he's not just witnessing chaos—he's savoring it. There was a flicker of excitement in his eyes, sharp and unmistakable.
"You think I haven’t already crossed that line? That I’m just some innocent you can keep behind glass while you do the dirty work?" She leaned forward. "Newsflash, Ben—I crossed it the second I started working at Crimson. And you said it yourself—I'm not clean. Not anymore."
Ben’s throat worked against words he couldn’t force out.
And then she whispered it—quiet, lethal.
"You don’t get to carry this alone."
Julian exhaled, slow and satisfied. His smirk deepened, but he kept the comment to himself this time—content to watch the sparks fly.
She didn’t even look at him.
Ben did.
“You understand what this means,” he said. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “This isn’t something we walk back from.”
"No one’s walking anywhere, Ben. We’re already in the fire."
She leaned forward, slowly, deliberately. Her next words were softer—but heavier.
"If you're still trying to spot the line, you're late—we passed it a while ago." She lifted a hand with faint emphasis, her fingers tilting subtly in Julian's direction before folding back into her lap.
Julian let out a sharp, genuine laugh—too loud for the silence, too real to be dismissed. Katherine’s veiled jab about crossing the line hit its mark, and he loved it.
“Oh, come on,” he chuckled, dragging a hand through his hair with theatrical delight. “That? That was practically a compliment.”
Then he turned to her, eyes gleaming. “That’s my girl,”
he said, voice thick with something between pride and possession. “She knows exactly who she’s dealing with.”
His gaze slid to Ben, the smile never faltering. “You see, Benny?” he said, tone slick and slow—velvet-thin and oil-slick. “You’re just one step behind. Always so noble. So hesitant.”
Then—quieter. Slower.
“Just give me your soul,” Julian whispered, folding his hands in mock prayer, head dipping slightly as though before an altar. “And I’ll take care of the rest.” He smiled then—slow, reverent. “Redemption’s always available. I keep it in stock.”
Ben didn’t answer.
He stared into his drink, watching the final shard of ice melt into the amber like it was giving up. Like it knew there was no point fighting anymore.
And still—he said nothing.
Later, he stood by the window, arms braced against the frame, shoulders drawn tight—like holding himself together was a
full-body effort.
The city sprawled beneath him in a sprawl of indifferent light. From here, it looked clean. Controlled. But all he could see were the fault lines. Cracks spidering through everything they’d once believed was solid.
His reflection stared back—more shadow than man. Hollow-eyed. Complicit. Behind him, the room was silent.
Except for her.
He heard Kath’s breath before she spoke.
“Say it,” she said. Voice low. Steady. The kind of calm that only comes when there's nothing left to salvage.
Ben didn’t turn. His mouth tightened, breath catching.
“Say what?”
“You know what,” she said. “That this is wrong. That you still think we can do this clean.”
He turned then. Slowly. Like the act cost him more than it should have.
His face didn’t move, didn’t crack. But his eyes—
His eyes looked like something sacred had been burned out of them. And the ashes still clung to the edges.
“There’s always a way,” he said.
The words scraped out, ragged. Desperate. And yet… certain.
“But sometimes...” He hesitated. Swallowed. “Sometimes you don’t have the time to wait for the world to do the right thing.”
Kath stepped toward him—measured, unshaken.
She didn’t try to soothe him.
She just stood beside him, like someone willing to carry half the weight.
Ben exhaled sharply. The sound scraped out of him—half a laugh, half a snarl.
He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing a tight line between fury and futility. His pulse roared in his ears—an echo of every courtroom oath, every closing argument, every time he'd told himself justice was enough.
"We're lawyers," he muttered, bitterness bleeding into every word. "We're supposed to be the line. The shield. The fucking light in the dark."
Kath didn't flinch. She stood there, solid and unwavering, while everything inside him threatened to collapse.
"And what has the truth done for us?" she asked, quietly vicious. "What has it done for the people Crawford destroyed?"
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth hadn’t saved anyone. Not Lisa. Not the others. Because justice, when it came at all, came too late and too thin to matter. And the system he’d devoted his life to? It hadn’t just failed—it had turned its back.
Kath's voice softened.
"It's not enough," she said. "Not against men like him."
Ben's hands curled into fists at his sides. He wanted to argue. Wanted to scream that this wasn't who they were. But the words never came. Because she was right. And it gutted him.
He looked at her then—really looked. And it hit him like a punch to the ribs.
"If we do this," he said, voice low and hoarse, "I do it.
Not you."
Kath let out a small, incredulous noise—half-sigh, half scoff.
"You stay out of it. You don’t touch the file, the forgery, anything. I’ll carry it."
She stepped closer, but he kept going.