Page 10 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

“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.”

I straighten, needing distance to think clearly. “Who has both the access and the motive?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just watches me with unreadable eyes.

“You have a theory,” I press.

“I do.” He closes the laptop, decision made. “But it’s getting late, and you need time to process what we’ve already covered.”

The dismissal, however gentle, ignites a flare of irritation. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Decide what I need. What I can handle.” I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “I’m not fragile, Jakob.”

“I never said you were.” Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a tightness at the corners of his mouth. “But even the strongest foundations need time to set.”

Before I can argue further, he stands, ending the conversation. “You should stay here tonight.”

The suggestion catches me off guard. “Excuse me?”

“It’s late. You’ve been drinking. And the security situation is escalating.” He says it all matter-of-factly, as if suggesting I borrow an umbrella for rain. “The guest room is made up.”

“I’m not staying here.” I gather my laptop and files.

“It’s the most secure option.”

“It’s inappropriate.”

“It’s practical.” He doesn’t move to stop me, just watches with that unnerving steadiness. “But the choice is yours. As always.”

The last part catches like a hook under my ribs—as if I had a choice four years ago when he walked away. As if I had a choice two weeks ago when he reappeared in my professional life. As if I have a choice now, with someone threatening my credibility and my career.

“I’ll call a car.”

“Already done.” He nods toward the door. “It’s waiting downstairs.”

Of course, it is . Jakob Giannetti is always three steps ahead. Always controlling the variables. He always makes sure to appear reasonable, yet gives me no real options at all.

I zip my bag closed, sling it over my shoulder, and move toward the door without looking back. “I’ll review the rest of the files tomorrow.”

“6 p.m.,” he confirms. “Here.”

I stop at the door, hand on the knob. “My office would be more appropriate.”

“And less secure.” His voice is closer now—he’s followed me to the door. “The breach originated inside RSV’s network. Until we identify the source, all sensitive work happens here.”

I turn to face him, ready to argue further. But the words die in my throat at his expression—not arrogance or control, but something closer to concern. Genuine concern.

“Fine.” I concede the point with poor grace. “Tomorrow. 6 p.m.”

He nods once, satisfaction ghosting across his features. “I’ll walk you down.”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“Humor me.” He opens the door, holding it for me with old-fashioned courtesy that feels both familiar and strange.

I step past him into the hallway, hyperaware of his presence behind me. The elevator ride down thirty-eight floors is silent and tense with unspoken words.

In the lobby, a black Suburban idles at the curb, the driver standing beside the open rear door. Jakob nods to him as we approach.

“Ms. Warren is headed to Park Slope,” he says, then turns to me. “Text me when you arrive.”

It’s not a request. Not quite a command. Something in between that makes my spine stiffen.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Jakob.”

“No.” His eyes hold mine, something fierce and unguarded flashing through them. “But you do need allies. Whether you want them or not.”

Before I can respond, he steps back, nodding once to the driver. I slide into the backseat, the door closing behind me with a solid thunk that feels like punctuation.

Through the tinted window, I watch Jakob standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, face composed but eyes tracking the car as it pulls away from the curb. He looks exactly as he did the day I moved out of the penthouse: controlled and untouchable.

Except for his eyes. His eyes give him away.

They always did.

The car drops me at my brownstone twenty-three minutes later. I unlock the door, reset the alarm, and drop my keys in the ceramic bowl.

The house is quiet—Jaden is with Latanya for the night, a last-minute arrangement made when I decided to meet with Jakob at his place because of the security concerns.

I move through the darkened rooms, turning on just enough lights to dispel shadows.

I pour myself a glass of water. Check my phone for messages. Then, I try to process everything I learned tonight.

Someone is targeting me. Using my credentials. Building a case against me.

And Jakob is protecting me. Not as a favor, but as a fact.

Because he trusts me.

After everything.

I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. The day’s tension catches up all at once—muscles aching, head throbbing, emotions running amok—and I’m too tired to think beyond the obvious.

He wants to protect his reputation. Safeguard the company. Completing this audit puts Novare on the global map. To him, this is just a minor hiccup.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text. Jakob: What’s your status?

I type back: I’m home. Safe.

Three dots appear, then disappear. Appear again. Disappear. Finally: Good.

I stare at the single word, trying to decode what exists beneath it. Concern? Relief? Obligation? Something else entirely?

Before I can overthink it further, I set the phone down and head for the shower. I need to wash away the day, the confusion, the lingering scent of the penthouse that clings to my clothes and hair.

Under the hot spray, I close my eyes, letting water sluice over my face, my shoulders, my back. But instead of relaxation, memories surface.

Jakob at the window, telling me he was willing to sacrifice billions to keep me on the audit.

Jakob at the table, showing me the digital trail someone is building against me.

Jakob at the door, eyes giving away what his words concealed.

And then, like something so random it scrambles them all: Jakob at the piano.

It was just a moment, caught from the corner of my eye as I packed my laptop. He paused beside the baby grand—the one I bought him as an anniversary gift. The one that he played every night to signal the end of the day.

His hand hovered over the closed lid, not quite touching. His shoulders dropped a fraction. His guard slipped, just for a heartbeat.

Something naked and unguarded crossed his face. Something that looked like grief.

Then he saw me watching, and the mask slipped back into place. But not before I glimpsed what lived beneath.

I shut off the water, and the sudden coldness Is a shock, despite the steam filling the bathroom. That moment at the piano—that brief, unguarded second—scared me more than the security breach, more than the professional threat, more than returning to the penthouse after four years away.

Because for the first time since our divorce, I don’t feel in control of the narrative. Don’t feel certain of the boundaries. Don’t feel safe behind the walls I’ve built.

For the first time in four years, I feel seen.

Really seen. And the pain I’ve endured isn’t mine alone. It’s ours. And he’s just better at disguising it.

Or maybe, he’s not