Page 11 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

SIX

CLOSE QUARTERS

CHANEL

Two weeks.

That's how long we've been working like this—late nights at the penthouse with security protocols increasing daily.

Two weeks of stolen glances and maintained professionalism, and the growing awareness that something is shifting between us, whether we want it to or not.

Tonight marks the eleventh evening I've stayed past eight, surrounded by audit files, Singapore disclosures and the deepening mystery of who's targeting my credentials.

Eleven nights of fighting both external threats and internal ones—the ones that come alive when Jakob's eyes linger on my face a beat too long.

"You should eat something." His voice breaks the silence that's settled between us for the past hour.

I look up from my laptop, blinking away numbers and projections. "What time is it?"

"After nine." He closes his laptop with a decisive click. "You've been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes."

I want to deny it. But I stretch, shoulders aching from tension I can't quite dispel.

"Just thinking through some inconsistencies."

"It can wait." He stands, rolling his sleeves higher on his forearms—a gesture I've seen a dozen times in the past two weeks, but still makes something in my chest twist. "Food first."

Two weeks ago, I would’ve argued. Now, I just nod once, too familiar with his stubbornness to waste energy fighting.

I follow him to the kitchen, a space I've navigated nightly as our work sessions have stretched longer. He fills the space, opening the refrigerator and pulling out containers.

"I had dinner delivered earlier," he explains, not looking at me. "Italian. From that place on Sullivan."

Emilio's. My favorite. The place we used to order from on Sundays when neither of us wanted to cook. The place where the owner knew our names and always sent extra tiramisu because I once mentioned it was the best I'd ever had.

This is the third time he's ordered from there since I started working at the penthouse. The third time, he's remembered without asking.

"Thank you." I keep my voice neutral, giving nothing away. "Can I help?"

"No." He transfers pasta to plates, movements precise. "Wine?"

I should say no—to keep the boundaries clear. To remember why I'm here.

"Yes," I say instead. "Please."

He nods once, reaching for a bottle of red already open on the counter. He pours two glasses, handing one to me, and our fingers brush briefly during the exchange.

The contact shouldn’t affect me. Shouldn’t send a current of awareness up my arm. Shouldn’t remind me of the thousand casual touches we once shared without thought.

But it does.

I take a sip of wine to hide my reaction, letting the rich flavor coat my tongue. It's excellent. But I’m not surprised. Jakob never settled for less than exceptional—in wine, business, or women.

"Let's eat in the living room," he suggests, picking up both plates. "More comfortable than the dining table."

I follow him to the sunken living area, taking my usual seat on one end of the leather sofa while he sets our plates on the coffee table. He sits at the opposite end—close enough for conversation, far enough to maintain the careful bubble of space between us.

"Did Jaden get to his friend's house okay?" he asks, picking up his fork.

"Yes." I can't help the small smile that forms at the thought of our son. "Tyler's mom picked him up after karate. He was practically vibrating with excitement about the sleepover."

"He mentioned it yesterday when I called." Jakob's expression softens the way it always does when he talks about Jaden. "Something about a new video game they've been waiting to play."

"Meteor Strike." I roll my eyes fondly. "Apparently, it's ' epic ' and 'totally sick,' and several other adjectives I'm too old to properly appreciate."

Jakob laughs—a low, warm sound I've heard more frequently these past two weeks. "He said almost the exact same thing to me. Right down to the 'totally sick' part."

"At least he's consistent." I twirl pasta around my fork, comforted by the familiar rhythm of co-parenting conversation. This is safe territory—Jaden, schedules, the small details of our son's life we both cherish.

We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being the clink of forks against plates and the distant hum of the city thirty-eight floors below.

It should feel strange, this peaceful moment amid a professional crisis.

Instead, it feels like slipping into well-worn shoes—unexpected comfort where I anticipated pain.

"I've been meaning to ask," Jakob says, setting his wine glass down. "His parent-teacher conference is next Thursday. Should we coordinate, or...?"

The question hangs between us—a reminder of how carefully we've managed these interactions since the divorce. Always separate meetings. Always divided responsibilities. Always clear boundaries.

"Actually," I say, surprising myself, "we could go together. Might be more efficient."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or satisfaction. "I'd like that."

"Good." I take another sip of wine, unsettled by how easily I've disrupted our careful pattern. "I'll let Ms. Easton knows."

He nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I drop my gaze back to my plate, unwilling to examine why that smile affects me more than it should.

"Tell me about the new security measures," I say, deliberately changing the subject. "The ones you implemented yesterday."

He nods. "Digital fingerprinting. Every system access is now being verified against behavior patterns. If someone tries to use your credentials, the system will flag the inconsistency immediately."

"And you think this will stop whoever's behind the breaches?"

"No." His bluntness surprises me. "I think it will slow them down. Buy us time. Nothing more."

"Time for what?" I hold his gaze, refusing to look away.

"To find them." His voice hardens slightly. "Before they do real damage."

"You have a theory about who it is." Not a question.

He sets his fork down, considering me. "Several theories."

"Share them."

He hesitates, weighing his words. "It's someone with access to both RSV and Novare systems. Someone who knows our history. Someone who benefits from destabilizing the audit."

"That narrows it down," I say dryly. "To about a dozen people."

"Fewer." He takes a sip of his wine. "Only three people had the specific system permissions needed for this type of breach."

"And they are?"

"Tyson Smith, my head of security, and—" He hesitates, something flickering across his face too quickly to read.

"And?" I press.

"Megan Ardano."

Megan Ardano. Jakob’s co-founder. His partner. The woman whispered about in financial circles as the one who got away—professionally, and maybe personally.

We never clicked. Not because of anything said, but because she decided early on that I didn’t belong. Cold civility. Avoided eye contact. I stopped trying long before I understood why she resented me.

"Collins has been with me for eight years. He's vetted at the highest level."

"So it's Megan." I tilt my head, studying him. "Why would she target me specifically? You always kept our family life separate from your business.”

A shadow passes across his face. "It's complicated."

“Don’t worry. I can keep up.”

He stands abruptly, taking his empty plate to the kitchen. Running from the question. It's so unlike the Jakob I've come to know again these past two weeks—the man who faces every challenge head-on—that it stops me cold.

I follow him, wine glass in hand, determined not to let him evade. "Jakob."

He doesn't turn from the sink where he's rinsing dishes with unnecessary focus. "It's getting late. We should call it a night."

"No. You don't get to do that. Not when my career is on the line."

His shoulders tense, hands stilling under the running water. For a long moment, he doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just stands there, water flowing over his hands like he's forgotten it's on.

Finally, he turns off the tap. Turns to face me. "Megan blames you."

"For what?"

"For her exit from Novare." His eyes meet mine. Something guarded in their depths. "She believes if you hadn't been in the picture, things would have gone differently."

The explanation rings false—or at least, incomplete. "That doesn't make sense. We divorced four years ago. Why target me now?"

"The White Glove Pivot." He leans back against the counter, arms crossed. "It's the culmination of everything we built. Her final chance to disrupt what she couldn't control."

I study him—the slight tension in his jaw, the careful neutrality of his expression. He's hiding something. Protecting something. The realization ignites a flare of anger in my chest.

"You're not telling me everything."

"No," he admits, surprising me with the honesty. "I'm not."

"Why?"

"Because some truths cause more damage than they resolve." His voice drops lower. "Because some things are better left buried."

"Not when they're affecting my life." I step closer, anger making me bold.

"I won't let that happen." The intensity in his voice stops me. "I've already implemented countermeasures. Enhanced security protocols. Digital tripwires. If Megan makes another move, we'll know."

"That's not enough, Jakob." I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. "I need to know what I'm up against. All of it."

For a moment, I think he's going to tell me. Going to finally give me the truth I've been seeking since the day divorce papers arrived without warning.

Instead, he straightens, professional distance reasserting itself. "It's late. The guest room is made up. We can continue this in the morning."

The dismissal stings. "Fine. We'll talk tomorrow."

I turn to leave, disappointment and frustration leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

"Chanel." His voice stops me at the threshold.

I look back, not trusting myself to speak.

"I am protecting you." His eyes hold mine, with something like regret burning a hole through me. "Even if you don't believe it."