Page 34 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

She nods once, processing. Her finger taps against her thigh—a rare tell that breaks through her composure. "RSV called an emergency compliance meeting in one hour."

I absorb this, calculating angles. "To question your objectivity."

"To remove me from the audit." Her voice doesn't waver. "They're building the case as we speak."

"I've already spoken with Phillip. Made our position clear."

"Our position?" Her eyebrow raises a fraction. "I wasn't aware we had a joint position."

"Novare's position," I clarify, though we both know it's not just that. "The audit continues under your leadership or we terminate the engagement."

Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe. Or recognition. She didn't expect me to draw a line this firm.

"That's not your call to make."

"It's exactly my call." I stand, needing to shift the power dynamic. "And I've made it."

She studies me, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?"

It's not a question I'm prepared to answer honestly. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"Because you're the most qualified person for this audit," I say instead. "Because you've already identified issues no one else would have caught. Because changing leadership now would set the timeline back weeks."

All true. None of it is the full truth.

She doesn't believe me—I can see it in the slight tension around her mouth, the way she shifts her weight almost imperceptibly.

Chanel always could read my half-truths.

"I should go." She picks up her bag. "The meeting?—"

"I'm coming with you."

Her head snaps up. "No."

"Yes." I reach for my jacket. "This involves Novare directly now. I have the right to representation."

"You'll make it worse."

"I'll make it clear where we stand."

She doesn't argue further, which tells me everything about her state of mind. The Chanel I married would have fought me on principle. This Chanel—the one standing in my office with her walls up and her eyes wary—is conserving energy for the battle ahead.

In the elevator, we stand on opposite sides of the car, but the space feels microscopic. Six feet of distance that might as well be nothing. I can hear her breathing. Can count her heartbeats by the pulse at her throat.

She stands with her weight shifted slightly to the right—the way she always does when she's anxious but refusing to show it. Her perfume has changed, something sharper now, with less jasmine than she used to wear. But it still hits me like a memory of skin against sheets. My body still angles toward hers without permission.

"We should align our statements," I say as we reach the lobby.

"Simple truth," she responds, not looking at me. "We're working late due to the audit timeline. Nothing more."

"And our history?"

Now she does look at me, eyes sharp. "Irrelevant. Ancient. Over."

Her words carve into me like they're meant to—surgical, precise, finding the exact nerve she knows is still raw. For four years, I've told myself the same thing. Irrelevant. Ancient. Over. A mantra that's never quite taken hold.

"Agreed," I say, the lie burning my tongue.