Page 22 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

I walk and scan the home I haven’t seen since I moved out. The space feels both familiar and foreign—the same panoramic windows overlooking Manhattan, the same minimalist furniture, the same stark palette of white, black, and steel. But the art is different. The books are arranged differently. The air smells of an unfamiliar cologne.

This isn’t our home anymore. It’s his territory now.

“The dining table is set up for us to work,” he says, closing the door behind us.

I follow him through the open-concept space, maintaining a distance between us. The presence of my laptop bag groundsme, the strap clenched in my fist like a lifeline I didn’t know I needed.

The dining table—twelve feet of polished black glass that we used exactly twice during our marriage—is now a command center. Laptops open. Documents spread. Coffee mugs at strategic intervals.

“You’ve been busy,” I observe, setting my bag down on one of the empty chairs.

“Preparing.” He gestures to the seat at the head of the table. “That one’s yours.”

The positioning is deliberate. Not beside him. Not across from him. But at the head. A small redistribution of power that throws me slightly off balance.

I sit, keeping my coat on. A statement that I won’t be staying long.

Jakob doesn’t comment on it. Just takes the seat to my right, angling his body toward me. “Coffee?”

“No.” I open my laptop, and the password screens flash before the home screen appears. “Let’s just get started.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods once. “The Singapore files first, then.”

We work with sterile efficiency for the next hour. He walks me through the proprietary data—trading algorithms, client portfolios, and internal risk assessments.

I take notes. Ask questions. Push where necessary. Challenge when appropriate.

Our voices stay professional. Our eyes on the screens more than each other.

If anyone were watching, they’d see two colleagues working late. Nothing more.

But beneath the surface, tension hums like a live wire.

I feel his gaze when I’m not looking. Feel the careful space he maintains between us. Feel the weight of history pressingagainst my resolve to remain indifferent—as if there wasn’t a time, he was my everything.

“This risk profile,” I say, pointing to a chart on his screen. “The exposure levels seem inconsistent with the hedging strategy.”

“They are.” He leans closer—not enough to touch, but enough that I catch the scent of him. “That’s the point. Look at the correlation matrix.”

I force my focus to the numbers, not his proximity. “You’re deliberately maintaining vulnerability in these sectors?”

“Strategic vulnerability.” He taps the screen. “We’re inviting oversight where we can control the narrative.”

“While obscuring the real risk areas.” I sit back, something clicking into place. “This entire audit… It’s a controlled burn.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “The best defense is a strategic offense.”

“You’re sacrificing certain positions to protect others.” I scan the data with new understanding. “Which begs the question: what exactly are you protecting, Jakob?”

His name slips out before I can catch it. The first time I’ve said it aloud without calculation.

He goes still for a fraction of a second—so brief I would’ve missed it if I weren’t watching for it.

“The White Glove Pivot depends on perceived transparency.” He doesn’t answer my real question. “We’re providing exactly that.”

“Perceived transparency isn’t actual transparency.”

“In this business, perception is reality.” He turns his screen toward me, pulling up another file. “Which brings us to the more pressing issue.”