Page 12 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

I read it twice, coffee halfway to my lips, then set the mug down. Server delays happen. System maintenance, security patches, nothing unusual. Except this is the third one this week, and always when my team needs access to the Novare files.

By 9:30, we’re still locked out. Marina paces the conference room with the phone pressed to her ear. Four of my analysts stare at error messages. The clock ticks. The White Glove audit timeline narrows.

“This is deliberate,” Marina says when she hangs up. Her voice low—only for me. “Someone’s slowing us down.”

I don’t respond. Don’t confirm. Don’t deny. Just keep my face neutral as I scroll through my phone, looking for the IT director’s number.

Before I can find it, a new email lands:

System restored. Security audit complete. Please note: access irregularities from Terminal 8.

Terminal 8. My terminal.

My heart beats once, hard, against my ribs.

I look up, scanning the conference room. Ten faces bent over laptops, fingers tapping, minds focused. Nobody is watching me. Nobody is waiting for my reaction. But somewhere in this building, someone is moving pieces against me.

“We’re back online,” I announce, voice steady. “Let’s make up for lost time.”

The team shifts into high gear, the morning’s frustration channeling into productivity. I move among them, reviewing findings, asking questions, pushing where needed. On the surface: competent leadership. Beneath: hypervigilance. I catch sideways glances from junior staff. Whispered conversations that stop when I approach.

It starts with server delays. Then access irregularities. Next comes the doubt.

At 2:15, Marina touches my elbow. “Phillip wants to see you.” Her eyes tell me what her voice doesn’t:Something’s wrong.

Phillip Gardner, senior partner. The man who championed me for this audit. The man whose reputation is tied to mine.

His office is decorated in a way that screams old money that doesn’t need to prove itself. He doesn’t stand when I enter, just gestures to the chair across from him.

“Chanel.” He removes his glasses, setting them carefully on the desk. “How’s the Novare audit progressing?”

“We’ve had some technical delays, but we’re on schedule.” I sit straight, hands folded in my lap. “The preliminary findings are promising.”

“Good, good.” He nods, fingers tapping against his desk. “And your… relationship with the client?”

There it is. The real question is beneath the surface.

“Professional.” I keep my voice neutral. “Novare management has been cooperative.”

“All of management?” He puts his glasses back on, looking at me over the rims. “Including the CEO?”

My pulse speeds up, but I don’t let it reach my face. “Mr. Giannetti has been appropriately involved.”

“Appropriately.” He repeats the word like he’s tasting it. “Interesting choice of words.”

I say nothing. Wait for him to show his hand.

“There are concerns, Chanel.” He slides a folder across the desk. “About objectivity.”

I don’t reach for it. “Whose concerns?”

“The partners.” He sits back. “There have been suggestions that your handling of the Novare audit might be… compromised.”

“Compromised.” My voice is ice. “On what basis?”

“The access irregularities from your terminal, for one.” He gestures to the folder. “Three instances in the past week. All during non-business hours.”

“I haven’t accessed any files outside of business hours.” I finally take the folder, opening it to find system logs. My credentials. Late-night access to restricted Novare files I’ve never seen.