Page 24 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

“What fallout?”

“If RSV had forced you off the file.” He lifts his glass, eyes on the skyline. “I was prepared to terminate the engagement. Absorb the market reaction. Delay everything.”

“That would’ve cost you billions.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I turn to face him fully. “Why risk that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares out at the city, jaw tight, weighing something unspoken.

“The audit’s integrity matters,” he says finally.

“Bullshit.” The bite in my voice surprises even me. “There are a dozen firms that could handle this audit. You didn’t threaten to burn it all down over integrity.”

His eyes meet mine, something dangerous flickering in their depths. “What do you think I did it for?”

“I don’t know.” I set my wine glass on the window ledge with a decisive click. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

“No.” He turns toward me, and I tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “You’re asking me to give you a reason you can dismiss. A reason that fits your narrative about who I am. And who we were.”

The accusation hits its mark—clean and precise. I take an involuntary step back.

“I don’t have a narrative.”

“Everyone has a narrative, Chanel.” He doesn’t follow my retreat, just watches with those too-perceptive eyes. “Especially about the things that hurt them.”

I look away first, unable to hold his gaze without revealing too much. “We should get back to work.”

He doesn’t move. “You asked why I was willing to accept the fallout. The answer is simple: I trust your work. I trust your judgment. I trust you to do the job right, regardless of our history.”

The words hang between us, testing the boundaries of this fragile veneer we’ve constructed.

“Trust,” I repeat, not sure how to respond. “After everything.”

“Some things don’t change.” He steps back, giving me space to breathe. “No matter how much we might want them to.”

Before I can respond, his phone buzzes from the table. He moves to check it, a frown crossing his face as he reads the message.

“Problem?” I ask, grateful for the interruption.

“Potentially.” He sets the phone down. “Collins found another breach attempt. Different pattern this time. More aggressive.”

“What are they after?”

“Not what. Who.” He looks up, eyes meeting mine. “You.”

The word lands like a physical blow. “Me?”

“Your credentials. Your access points. Your reputation.” He moves back to the table, pulling up new data on his laptop. “Someone is trying to build a case against you, Chanel. Make it look like you’re compromised.”

I follow him, professionalism reasserting itself through the fog of confusion. “Show me.”

He angles the screen so I can see, our shoulders nearly touching as we both lean in. Charts, logs, access patterns—all bearing my digital signature, all following paths I would never take.

“This is coordinated,” I murmur, scanning the data. “Deliberate.”

“Yes.” His voice is close to my ear. “And escalating.”