Page 47 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

He kept it.

My fingers tremble as I pull back the plastic. The fabric slips free with a whisper that sounds too much like memory, catching light like liquid shadow. A note falls, heavy cardstock bearing his precise handwriting.

For authenticity. – J

Authenticity. As if this dress isn't a grenade in my careful reconstruction. As if the memories woven into its threads—his hands, his mouth, the way his breath caught when the zipper gave way—aren't already detonating behind my ribs.

I should refuse. Send it back with a cold note about boundaries and professionalism. But time is against me, and the strategic part of my brain—the part that's kept me alive since he walked away—recognizes the message this sends.

Jakob Giannetti's estranged wife wearing the dress he once claimed as his favorite. A visual claim that’s stronger than any verbal declaration.

I step into the shower, turning it to scalding. Water pounds against my skin, but it can't wash away the ghost sensations already awakening—his fingertips tracing my spine where the dress dips low, his mouth at my shoulder, his hands gathering silk as it pools at my feet.

God help me, I hope I remember how to breathe when he looks at me.

Forty minutes later, I face my reflection. The dress fits like it was made yesterday—skimming curves, falling in a perfect black column to the floor.

My hair swept up the way he likes, exposing the vulnerable curve of my neck, the slope of shoulders he once mapped with his mouth.

Diamond studs—another gift, another memory—catch light at my ears.

I look like a woman still in love. A woman who never signed divorce papers. A woman who didn't teach herself to function with a vital organ missing.

A perfect illusion.

The knock comes softer than expected. I know it's him before he speaks.

"Chanel?" His voice carries through the door, controlled in a way that tells me he's already in character. "The car is waiting."

"Just a minute." I check my lipstick one final time, gather my clutch. Armor up.

When I open the door, oxygen abandons my lungs.

Jakob fills the frame in his tuxedo, the perfect tailoring emphasizing shoulders I once dug my nails into during moments of unbearable pleasure. His eyes sweep over me with hunger in their depths, before he masks it behind barely contained neutrality.

"You look..." He pauses, searching for the right word, the acceptable word, the word that won't crack the fragile performance we're about to give.

"Like I did four years ago?" I supply, aiming for lightness, but hearing the brittle edge in my voice.

"Beautiful. Always beautiful."

My skin prickles with unwanted heat.

"Shall we?" He offers his arm—gentleman to the core, ruthless tactician beneath.

I place my hand on his forearm, feeling muscle flex beneath fine wool. "Let's get this over with."

The contact burns even through layers of fabric. My fingertips remember the texture of his skin, the map of veins on his forearms, how they stood out when he braced himself above me.

I jerk my gaze away, focusing on the elevator doors ahead. Not on how easily we still fall into step. Not on how my body curves toward his without an invitation.

The car is too small, too private, each breath shared between us charged with everything we're not saying.

We sit on opposite sides of the back seat, but the distance does nothing to diffuse the current between us. His cologne fills the enclosed space—the same scent that still clings to Jaden's clothes after his weekends with his father.

The scent that sometimes ambushes me in dreams, leaves me wet and needy.

I rehearse responses for the inevitable questions.