Page 2 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

I refuse to flinch. Four years of training myself not to react to this man.

Instead, I pick up my pen and direct my attention to my notes. "What exactly is missing, Mr. Giannetti?"

The room stills.

It's the first time I've said his name in days. It feels foreign on my tongue, formal and clinical, when I once whispered it against his neck like scripture.

He shifts in his chair. "Context." He savors the syllables. "The Singapore disclosures need context. Historical pattern analysis. Year-over-year comparison tracking."

I flip to the relevant section, scanning figures committed to memory. "The pattern analysis was completed last quarter. If you're referring to the Q3 discrepancies?—"

"I'm referring to the methodology." He addresses me directly now, everyone else fading to background noise. "Your team is using standard regression analysis when what we need is?—"

"Multi-variable trend forecasting?" I finish. "I've already drafted the supplemental. It's being finalized today."

A pause stretches between us. The corner of his mouth tightens—the expression he wears when outmaneuvered, yet secretly pleased.

"Perfect," he says, the word sliding between us like a private code.

The dangerous synchronicity resurfaces, the electric alignment that made us unstoppable until we shattered.

I wonder if anyone at the table senses it. This current humming between us. This phantom of something too profound to forget. Even when I should.

Marina gives me a curious glance. I realize I'm staring and redirect my attention to my notes.

The meeting progresses. Marina outlines the audit timeline, Q3 deliverables, and compliance protocols. I contribute where necessary, my tone crisp and detached. Throughout, Jakob watches me. Not overtly. Not in a way anyone else would detect. But I know the calculation in his scrutiny.

"We'll need access to the full compliance history," I say during a discussion about risk factors. "All subsidiary documentation, acquisition papers, historical?—"

"No."

I lift my gaze to his. "Excuse me?"

"The historical documentation prior to 2018 is irrelevant to the current audit scope." His tone remains pleasant but unyielding—the one that signals a boundary drawn in concrete. "The White Glove certification requires complete transparency."

"And you'll have it." He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. "For all current operations."

Something doesn't align. Jakob doesn't withhold without purpose. He doesn't create barriers unless something dangerous waits on the other side.

I mark a single question in my portfolio. Whatever he conceals, I'll uncover it. I always do.

The meeting concludes forty-five minutes later. Schedules confirmed, next steps clarified, professional masks firmly secured. I organize my materials methodically, papers sliding into folders with deliberate precision—occupying my hands to prevent them from trembling.

"Ms. Warren." His voice, nearer than anticipated. I glance up to find Jakob standing beside my chair, hands relaxed in his pockets. "Could I have a word?"

Marina sends me a questioning look. I nod slightly—I'm fine—and she heads for the door with the others, leaving us alone in the suddenly confining conference room.

I remain seated. Standing would place him too close. And would force me to acknowledge our height difference, to tilt my head back to meet his stare. Better to make him approach.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Giannetti?"

He doesn't sit. Gazes down at me, expression unreadable in the way I once despised. The way that left me deciphering a language no one taught me.

"You didn't know I would be here."

Not a question, so I offer no answer. Hold his stare steadily, one eyebrow slightly raised.

He exhales, dragging fingers through his hair—the single tell he's never conquered. "This doesn't have to be difficult, Chanel."