Page 12 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

“I can protect myself. What I need is honesty.”

I don't wait for his response. Just turn and walk down the hallway, following the path to the guest bedroom I've used twice in the past two weeks when work ran too late to justify the drive home.

I close the door behind me, leaning against it for a moment, eyes closed, breathing through the tangle of emotions.

Anger at Jakob's evasion. Frustration at the half-truths. Confusion about Megan's role in all this. And beneath it all, something more dangerous—a pull toward the man in the kitchen, the one whose presence has been slowly dismantling my defenses over two weeks of close proximity.

I push away from the door, dropping my phone on the nightstand and sinking onto the edge of the bed. The sheets are crisp, expensive, smelling faintly of lavender. I run my hand over them, remembering how Jakob always insisted on the highest thread count, the best quality, even for guest rooms.

A quiet knock at the door makes me look up.

"Yes?"

The door opens slightly, Jakob's tall frame silhouetted in the gap. "I thought you might need these."

He holds out a neatly folded stack of clothes—a T-shirt, sweatpants, and a new toothbrush still in its packaging. This is the third set he's provided, identical to the others, as if he's been preparing for these nights all along.

"Thank you." I take them, our fingers brushing again in the exchange. This time, neither of us pulls away quite as quickly.

He nods once, eyes moving past me to the room, as if checking that everything is in order. "If you need anything else, I'll be in my office for a while longer."

"I'm fine." I set the clothes beside me on the bed. "Goodnight, Jakob."

"Goodnight, Chanel." He lingers for a moment, then pulls the door closed.

I sit motionless, listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway. When silence returns, I change quickly—the borrowed T-shirt falling to mid-thigh, the sweatpants rolled several times at the waist to keep them from sliding off.

The clothes smell like laundry detergent, nothing more. No lingering scent of him. No emotional landmines. Just clean cotton and practical necessity.

I brush my teeth, wash my face, go through the motions of preparing for sleep in this space that's become almost familiar. Then I slide between the sheets, turning off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness broken only by the city lights filtering through the blinds.

Sleep should come easily after such a long day. Instead, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, mind racing through the day's revelations—the security breach, the half-truths Jakob offered about Megan.

Something doesn't fit. Some piece of the puzzle remains elusive, just beyond my grasp.

I turn onto my side, punching the pillow into a more comfortable shape. The bed is perfect—firm but yielding, expensive but not ostentatious. Like everything in Jakob's world, it walks the precise line between luxury and function.

I close my eyes, willing sleep to come. But instead of darkness, memories surface.

Jakob in the kitchen tonight, water running over his hands, shoulders tense with secrets he won't share.

Jakob at the table yesterday, fingers brushing mine as he passed a file, neither of us acknowledging the contact.

Jakob last week, voice low as he took a call in the hallway, tension radiating from his body when he returned.

And deeper, older memories—Jakob holding me after nightmares, his arms solid and warm around my body. Jakob teaching me to read financial statements, patient despite my frustration. Jakob creating safety in a world that always felt insecure.

I open my eyes, pushing the memories away. This is dangerous territory. These are thoughts I can't afford—feelings I've locked away for good reason.

But alone and unable to sleep, I allow myself one concession: I miss how he used to make me feel safe.

Not just physically, though that was part of it. But the bone-deep security of being with someone who saw all of me—the ambition, the fear, the damage, the strength—and chose me anyway. Who made space for all my contradictions. Who never asked me to be less than I was.

Until he did.

Until he decided I was better off without him.

I turn again, restless with thoughts I can't quiet. The moonlight through the blinds casts jail-bar shadows across the bed, across my body. Fitting, somehow.

Down the hall, I hear a door open and close. Footsteps passing my room. The master suite door clicking shut.

Jakob, finally going to bed.

I wonder if he's lying awake too. If he's thinking about me, about us, about the delicate balance we've managed these past two weeks. If he regrets any of it—the secrets, the silence, the years of separation.

The thought follows me into uneasy dreams—of running through endless hallways, of doors that open to reveal more doors, of Jakob always one room ahead, just out of reach.

When morning comes, I wake to sunlight streaming through the blinds and the disorienting moment of not knowing where I am. Then reality rushes back—the penthouse, the audit, another night spent in Jakob's guest room.

I sit up, reaching for my phone to check the time. 6:17 a.m. Early, but not unusually so for me. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, listening for movement in the apartment.

Silence.

I stand, stretching muscles stiff from tension even in sleep. Then I move to the window, lifting one slat of the blinds to look out at Manhattan waking up thirty-eight floors below. The city spreads out in all directions, a testament to ambition, power, and the relentless pursuit of more.

Jakob's world. The world he tried to give me, then took away.

I let the blind fall back into place and turn toward the door. Time to face the day. Time to face him—and the truth he’s still withholding.

But as I reach for the handle, a realization stops me cold:

The longing I felt last night—for safety, for belonging, for him—didn't appear suddenly. It's been building with this shared space, soft touches, and quiet dinners.

Growing stronger with each late night, each shared glance, each moment of unchecked connection.

Because deep down, I already know: I never stopped wanting him.

I just got good at surviving without him.