Page 9 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

Her team has commandeered the east conference room. I watch her indicate something on a screen, gesture to a colleague, tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear in that absent manner when deep in thought.

I retrieve my phone. Text my assistant:Ms. Warren's team will need access to the Singapore files. Clearance levels 1-3 only. I'll handle 4-5 personally.

A response arrives:Confirmed.

I set the phone down. Deactivate the monitor. Return to the acquisition papers on my desk.

Three minutes later, the intercom activates. "Mr. Giannetti, Ms. Warren is inquiring about the Singapore clearance levels. She's on her way up."

I pause before responding. Simply breathe through the constriction in my chest. "Send her in when she arrives."

I adjust my tie. Check my reflection in the darkened monitor—composed, unreadable, the man everyone expects me to be. The man I've spent a lifetime becoming. The man who doesn't wake, reaching for a woman who no longer belongs beside him.

A soft knock. My assistant opens the door. "Ms. Warren is here."

Chanel enters as though she owns the space—spine straight, chin elevated, gaze coolly assessing. Nothing resembling the woman who once padded around our penthouse in my shirts, hair wild, smile unguarded.

This Chanel is venom and armor. And it’s my fault.

"Mr. Giannetti." She halts at a calculated distance from my desk. Not close enough to suggest familiarity. Not far enough toimply intimidation. "There appears to be an issue accessing the Singapore files."

"Is there?" I remain seated, motioning toward the chair across from me. "Please."

She hesitates, then sits—perched on the edge, portfolio balanced on her knees. "My team requires full access. Levels one through five."

"Levels four and five contain proprietary trading algorithms." I maintain a neutral tone. "I'll guide you through those personally."

"That won't be necessary." Her mouth tightens at the corners. "We can manage proprietary information."

"I'm certain you can." I lean back slightly, palms flat on the desk. "But those are the terms. Accept them or decline."

She studies me, gaze narrowing. Searching for the underlying motive. The hidden agenda. The truth I'm withholding.

I don't blink. Don't shift. Don't offer anything beyond the careful mask I've perfected.

"Fine." She rises in one fluid movement. "When?"

"Tomorrow. Eight p.m." I stand as well, mirroring her motion instinctively. "My office."

"Six." She counters without hesitation. "I have Jaden tomorrow night."

The mention of our son lands like a physical blow. A reminder of what transcends this sterile negotiation.

"Six, then." I nod once. "I'll have the files prepared."

She turns to leave, each step measured, controlled. I watch her cross my office—the woman who once knew every secret I possessed. The woman I excised from my life with surgical precision. But she’s back.

At the door, she pauses. Doesn't look back.

"For what it's worth," she says, voice quiet but clear, "I would have respected your confidentiality. I always did."

The words find their target—a clean strike through defenses I believed impenetrable. She always could identify the exact pressure point.

Before I can respond, she's gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click that resonates in the sudden silence.

I sink back into my chair, exhaling. My father's voice emerges from memory:Silence is survival, boy. The moment you speak, you surrender power.

I believed him once. Now, surrounded by the empire I've constructed on her absence, the truth presses against my ribs like a living entity: silence never constituted strength at all.