Page 102 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

Sooner than expected. The first domino has fallen, and Megan is already in motion—not fleeing, but advancing. Coming directly to the source rather than scrambling for escape. It's what makes her dangerous. What always has.

"She's coming here," I tell Tyson, sliding the phone into my pocket. "Have security bring her up. No interference."

"You sure that's wise?"

"It's necessary." I straighten my cuffs, adjust my tie. Armor for the battle ahead. "She needs to understand this isn't a negotiation."

Tyson rises, coffee untouched. "Want me to stay?"

"No. This conversation requires privacy."

He moves to the door, pauses with his hand on the knob. "Jakob."

I look up, meet his gaze—the closest thing to friendship I've allowed myself since Chanel.

"Whatever happens next," he says, voice lowered, "remember why you started this."

Not for revenge. Not for control. For protection. For truth. For the chance to face Chanel without shadows between us.

"I remember."

The door closes behind him, and I'm alone again with the evidence of calculated destruction. With the knowledge that in thirty minutes, Megan Ardano will walk through that door and face the consequences of a war she started four years ago.

I don't pace. Don't rehearse arguments or prepare defenses. Simply stand at the window, watching the city from a height that turns people into abstractions. From up here, individual lives blur into patterns. From up here, the choices that break hearts look like strategy.

But I'm not up here anymore. Not really. I'm down in the wreckage of what Megan and I destroyed. In the rubble of a marriage I walked away from to protect. In the truth I should have offered Chanel years ago.

My intercom buzzes. "Ms. Ardano is here, sir."

"Send her in."

The door opens without a knock. Megan enters like she still belongs here—chin lifted, shoulders back, eyes sharp with calculation. But beneath the polished exterior, I see what others would miss: the slight dishevelment of her usually perfect hair, the tension around her mouth, the way her knuckles whiten around the strap of her bag.

She's afraid.

"You couldn't even wait until market open?" she says, voice steady despite what must be roiling beneath. "Classless, Jakob. Even for you."

I don't respond immediately. Just study her—this woman who was once my partner, then my mistake, now my reckoning. She wears power like armor, but I've seen the joints where it can be pierced.

"The Whitman Group was a miscalculation," I say finally, voice even. "You should have diversified your investor base."

"This isn't about Whitman." She steps closer, anger sharpening her movements. "This is about you. Freezing my accounts? Contacting my family? Those are personal attacks."

"Yes," I agree, unmoved by the accusation. "They are."

My calm unsettles her more than anger would. She expected rage, righteous fury, the performative dominance of men who need to assert control. Instead, she finds precision. Certainty. The quiet lethality of a decision already made.

"You can't do this." Her voice hardens—a command, not a plea. "I'll fight back. You know I will."

"With what resources?" I move to my desk, unlock a drawer, and extract a slim file. "Your corporate accounts are frozen. Your personal funds inaccessible. Your investors are fleeing. Your family has disavowed you. And in approximately—" I check my watch "—twelve minutes, the SEC will receive evidence of financial irregularities that will occupy the next decade of your life."

I place the file on the desk between us, not offering it, simply making its existence known. Megan's eyes fix on it, recognition dawning.

"That's impossible. Those records were destroyed."

"Nothing is ever truly destroyed, Megan. You taught me that." I rest my fingertips on the file, a casual gesture weightedwith threat. "Everything leaves traces. Digital fingerprints. Paper trails. Human witnesses."

The color drains from her face as understanding takes hold. This isn't a warning shot. This is systematic execution.