Page 1 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

ONE

SCAR TISSUE

CHANEL

I don’t make mistakes anymore. Not the kind that leave scars.

Not in client meetings, not during audit preparations, and definitely not with men who've already proven they can break me.

So when I step into the thirty-second-floor conference room at Novare Global Strategies with my leather portfolio, and three hours of sleep hidden behind concealer, I'm ready. Armed with numbers that don't lie and a trained, professional smile.

What I'm not ready for is him.

Jakob Giannetti sits at the head of the table, the Manhattan skyline framing him like a kingdom he's claimed. He's in profile when I enter, listening to the VP of Acquisitions.

His suit, a charcoal Tom Ford, is probably from that tailor on Madison he prefers. His hair is longer than it was during our marriage. Still that impossible shade between gold and brown that catches light at strange angles.

My lungs seize.

Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just a subtle hitch where oxygen should flow, while my mind calculates impossible equations: Why is he here? Who arranged this?

Who thought this was acceptable?

And beneath it all, the treacherous whisper: He still looks like mine.

Time stops as I stare at my ex-husband.

Jakob commands the space without trying—a skill he's always possessed. His shoulders stretch the seams of his suit jacket, not from bulk but from the kind of strength that comes from discipline. The charcoal fabric drapes perfectly across his frame, custom-tailored to a body I once knew by heart.

His jaw clenched slightly as he listens. The years have carved new lines at the corners of his eyes, a subtle map of stress and decisions I wasn't part of. His hands rest on the table, long fingers splayed. Those hands . They used to trace patterns on my skin at night.

My body betrays me with a rush of heat. A physical memory that has no business surviving since the ink dried on our divorce papers.

My throat tightens as his scent reaches me—cedar and clean linen, with that faint trace of vetiver I used to steal from his side of the vanity.

My skin remembers. My blood remembers. And I hate that I notice.

Hate that it still matters.

"Ms. Warren." The client liaison, Douglas Stuart, gestures toward an empty chair. "We're just getting started."

Warren . My maiden name. The name on my business cards, my office door, my reputation. The name none of my colleagues connect to Jakob Giannetti. They have no idea that the man commanding the room once commanded my heart. That for six years, I answered to a different name entirely.

I nod, muscle memory taking over as I survey the conference room.

Three members of the Novare Global Strategies team on the left.

Four from my firm, Rowe Stratton & Vale, on the right.

And Jakob—who had Jaden yesterday for their regular Wednesday dinner—presiding over them all like a financial deity.

He hasn't noticed me yet.

I slide into the empty chair beside my supervisor, Marina, opening my portfolio with steady fingers that betray nothing of the hurricane behind my ribs. She leans close, murmuring, "White Glove audit pre-brief. Standard procedure. I've got point."

I nod again, grateful for the script. Follow protocol. Review numbers. Present findings. Don't look at Jakob. Don't remember how his voice vibrates against your skin at 3 a.m. Don't think about how he traces the curve of your shoulder while you pretend to sleep.

"—particularly concerned with the Singapore disclosures," Marina continues. "The documentation shows?—"

"The Singapore position is clean." Jakob's voice slices through the room. "The question isn't what's in the filing. It's what's missing."

My attention snaps toward him before I can control the impulse.

His gaze—ice blue ringed with darker color—collides with mine. Recognition ignites, followed by something electric and indefinable that charges the molecules between us.

I refuse to flinch. Four years of training myself not to react to this man.

Instead, I pick up my pen and direct my attention to my notes. "What exactly is missing, Mr. Giannetti?"

The room stills.

It's the first time I've said his name in days. It feels foreign on my tongue, formal and clinical, when I once whispered it against his neck like scripture.

He shifts in his chair. "Context." He savors the syllables. "The Singapore disclosures need context. Historical pattern analysis. Year-over-year comparison tracking."

I flip to the relevant section, scanning figures committed to memory. "The pattern analysis was completed last quarter. If you're referring to the Q3 discrepancies?—"

"I'm referring to the methodology." He addresses me directly now, everyone else fading to background noise. "Your team is using standard regression analysis when what we need is?—"

"Multi-variable trend forecasting?" I finish. "I've already drafted the supplemental. It's being finalized today."

A pause stretches between us. The corner of his mouth tightens—the expression he wears when outmaneuvered, yet secretly pleased.

"Perfect," he says, the word sliding between us like a private code.

The dangerous synchronicity resurfaces, the electric alignment that made us unstoppable until we shattered.

I wonder if anyone at the table senses it. This current humming between us. This phantom of something too profound to forget. Even when I should.

Marina gives me a curious glance. I realize I'm staring and redirect my attention to my notes.

The meeting progresses. Marina outlines the audit timeline, Q3 deliverables, and compliance protocols. I contribute where necessary, my tone crisp and detached. Throughout, Jakob watches me. Not overtly. Not in a way anyone else would detect. But I know the calculation in his scrutiny.

"We'll need access to the full compliance history," I say during a discussion about risk factors. "All subsidiary documentation, acquisition papers, historical?—"

"No."

I lift my gaze to his. "Excuse me?"

"The historical documentation prior to 2018 is irrelevant to the current audit scope." His tone remains pleasant but unyielding—the one that signals a boundary drawn in concrete. "The White Glove certification requires complete transparency."

"And you'll have it." He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. "For all current operations."

Something doesn't align. Jakob doesn't withhold without purpose. He doesn't create barriers unless something dangerous waits on the other side.

I mark a single question in my portfolio. Whatever he conceals, I'll uncover it. I always do.

The meeting concludes forty-five minutes later. Schedules confirmed, next steps clarified, professional masks firmly secured. I organize my materials methodically, papers sliding into folders with deliberate precision—occupying my hands to prevent them from trembling.

"Ms. Warren." His voice, nearer than anticipated. I glance up to find Jakob standing beside my chair, hands relaxed in his pockets. "Could I have a word?"

Marina sends me a questioning look. I nod slightly— I'm fine —and she heads for the door with the others, leaving us alone in the suddenly confining conference room.

I remain seated. Standing would place him too close. And would force me to acknowledge our height difference, to tilt my head back to meet his stare. Better to make him approach.

"What can I help you with, Mr. Giannetti?"

He doesn't sit. Gazes down at me, expression unreadable in the way I once despised. The way that left me deciphering a language no one taught me.

"You didn't know I would be here."

Not a question, so I offer no answer. Hold his stare steadily, one eyebrow slightly raised.

He exhales, dragging fingers through his hair—the single tell he's never conquered. "This doesn't have to be difficult, Chanel."

My name in his mouth feels invasive. An intimacy I didn’t authorize.

"I assure you, I can be completely professional." I close my portfolio with definitive finality. "Your presence won't affect the audit."

"I know that." He retreats a step, creating space that feels both intentional and necessary. "Your work has always been unimpeachable."

The compliment grips my heart. I ignore it.

"Then we're good." I rise, collecting my belongings. "I'll have my team coordinate with yours for document requests."

"Chanel."

I freeze, my back to him, grip tightening on my bag.

Don't turn around. Don't let him see your expression .

"I didn't request this assignment." His voice softens. Almost gentle. "If I had known you were on the audit team?—"

"It doesn't matter." I cut him off, pivoting to face him. "We're both professionals. We can handle a few weeks of meetings."

He examines me with unsettling thoroughness, attention catching on details I wish he'd overlook. The new haircut. The weight that curves my hips. The small gold earrings Jaden gave me for Mother's Day.

Something electric traces my spine when his gaze lingers. Not embarrassment. Recognition—my nerve endings recalling his touch before my mind grants permission. Traitorous muscle memory.

"How is he?" The question comes softly. "Was he still talking about that science project when you picked him up this morning?"

Jaden. The sole safe territory between us. The one point where our fractured lines still intersect.

"He's good." My voice involuntarily softens. "The volcano was all he could talk about at breakfast. He's excited to show you the final version tomorrow."

Genuine warmth transforms Jakob's expression, pride illuminating his gaze. "I can't wait to see it. He walked me through three different designs last night."

For one dangerous heartbeat, we're simply two parents sharing joy in our son's achievements. The specters of what we were shimmer between us. So tangible I could almost reach out and touch what we destroyed.

Then I remember the divorce papers. The silence afterward. The way he let me walk away without a single word of explanation.

I straighten my posture. "I should go. I have another meeting."