Page 12 of The Rules

A strangled sound threatens to escape her throat before she bites it back. He is insufferable. Absolutely, unapologetically insufferable. He stands, buttoning his jacket, already moving on. Like none of it ever happened.

???

The same conference room is empty now, bathed in the amber glow of the recessed evening lights. Outside the glass wall, the city has begun its slow descent into night—windows glowing like scattered embers, traffic moving in tired pulses far below.

But the tension lingers, woven into the polished surface of the table, hanging in the still air.

Kath remains, fingers curled against the leather of a chair, teeth ground together. The echo of Benjamin’s voice still rings in her ears, each word a sharp jab.

"That was a disaster."

Katherine's teeth ground together, the muscles throbbing from the strain of holding back her frustration.Asshole.

The word reverberates in her mind, a silent scream against the controlled environment. Her fingers dig deeper into the leather, the only outward sign of her internal turmoil.

The door opens behind her. Footsteps—measured, unhurried. She doesn’t have to turn to know who it is. Of course, it’s him.

“Brooding, Winters?"

Kath keeps her gaze on the table, fingers tightening slightly. “Trying to figure out if I should be insulted or furious."

Benjamin exhales, the sound slow, almost amused.

“If you have to decide, you’re not ready for this job."

That makes her look at him. Sharp. Challenging.

“You knew I could handle it." Her voice is steady. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have put me in that room."

Hesteps closer, the clink of his glass against the table's polished surface breaking the tense silence. His presence looms, a mix of power and restraint. "Handling it isn't enough."

She crosses her arms, a subtle barrier, her gaze unwavering. "So what is?"

He leans back against the table, tilting his head slightly, considering. Then, quietly—almost too quietly for her to hear—he murmurs, "Owning the room. Owning them."

A flicker of understanding sparks in Kath’s mind.

He leans back against the table, tilting his head slightly.

“You made them listen, Winters. Next time, make them regret underestimating you."

A beat of silence. Something shifts.

She exhales, some of the tension uncoiling from her shoulders—but only slightly. “So it wasn’t a complete catastrophe?"

Sinclair smirks, picking up his glass. “You survived."

He takes a slow sip. “That’s more than most."

And just like that, he’s gone.

The ride home should have helped her shake off the day—twenty silent minutes in the back of a cab, city lights smeared against the windows, her head tipped back, eyes closed.

She’d tried to let it all roll off her shoulders. The case. Sinclair. The exhaustion coiled low in her spine.

But her thoughts hadn’t quieted.

Not really.