Page 13 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

SEVEN

PUBLIC LIES, PRIVATE TRUTHS

JAKOB

I'm already awake when the alert comes.

Lying in the dark, staring at shadows on my ceiling, counting the hours Chanel's spent in the penthouse she left four years ago.

She's at home tonight, though. And it’s probably for the best.

The phone vibrates against the nightstand at 4:17 a.m. Not a sound—just a silent pulse against wood, insistent as a second heartbeat. I reach for it without looking, the gesture worn smooth by years of midnight crises.

PRIORITY ALERT: MEDIA EXPOSURE

Sleep wasn't coming anyway. I sit up, sheets falling to my waist, and swipe through to the attachment. It loads pixel by slow pixel, a blurry image crawling into focus.

Two figures entering my building. Her hand on my arm, the contact so light it shouldn't register, but it's the first time she's touched me voluntarily since the audit began. My body curved toward hers like a planet finding orbit. The timestamp: yesterday evening, 9:42 p.m.

Chanel and me. Arriving at the penthouse. Together.

Fuck.

I zoom in, studying angles, lighting, distance. Professional assessment layered over the cold knot forming in my chest. It's grainy—taken from across the street with a telephoto lens. Amateur but effective. The kind of shot that suggests intimacy without proving it.

The photo itself isn't damning. Two professionals working late. But context makes it poison—her, the audit lead examining my company. Me, the subject of her scrutiny.

Together. After hours. Alone.

I dial Collins, my head of security. He answers on the first ring.

"Sir." His voice carries no trace of sleep. He exists as I do—half-conscious, always waiting for the world to burn.

"Source?"

"Working on it. First appeared on FinanceWhispers at 3:48 a.m. Two reposts already."

FinanceWhispers . A niche blog dedicated to Wall Street gossip, just respectable enough to be dangerous. Someone timed this—late enough that we'd be asleep, early enough to circulate before markets open.

"Take it down."

“I’m already negotiating. But..." He hesitates.

"But?"

"The photo's coming from inside your security network. Someone with system access."

My jaw locks, teeth grinding against a surge of rage that tastes metallic. "Internal breach?"

“It appears that way."

"Find them." I end the call, muscles coiling with the kind of tension that once drove me to put my fist through drywall.

This isn't just an embarrassment. This is calculated damage. A deliberate strike not just at Novare, but at her. At Chanel. Again.

I stand, pulling on sweatpants, mind shifting into the cold tactical place I've cultivated since childhood. Identify the threat. Assess the damage. Contain the spread. Protect the vulnerable points.

Chanel. The audit. Novare. In that order.

I've never lied to myself about my priorities. Not even now.

My fingers fly across the laptop keys, accessing the penthouse security system. Every entry, every exit, every camera feed for the past week. The logs show nothing unusual—no unauthorized access, no system glitches. Just the expected traffic: staff, security, and Chanel.

Chanel, staying later each night. Chanel, accepting dinner. Chanel, slowly letting down her guard in ways so subtle no one else would notice.

The slight softening around her eyes when she thinks I'm not looking. The way she's stopped sitting like she might need to run at any moment. The casual grace with which she moves through spaces that were once ours, now just mine.

I pull up her access logs next—tracking her system usage, her digital footprint across Novare's network. I know her pattern now, as methodical and precise as everything about her. But there—three anomalies in the past 24 hours. Access points that don't match her behavioral signature.

Someone's still using her credentials. Still building the case against her. And now, adding a public component.

A message appears on my screen. Tyson : Photo's spreading. Morning calls?

I type back: My office. 7 a.m.

I check the time: 4:43. Less than three hours until the storm hits in full force. I should wait—give her these last moments of peace before everything changes.

But this can't wait. Not something this targeted. Not when it's her career at risk.

I call her with a heads-up, and damage control starts at 6:15 a.m.

Board members with too much money and too little patience.

Partners with questions they're afraid to ask directly.

Investors whose concerns sound like threats.

I take them in succession, voice steady, response calculated: Yes, we're aware of the photo.

No, there's no impropriety. Yes, the audit continues uncompromised. No, there's no cause for concern.

Tyson sits across from me, tracking media coverage in real-time.

"Six financial blogs now. Twitter's picking it up. 'Giannetti's Midnight Audit' is trending in finance circles."

I don't respond, already on the next call—Phillip Gardner from RSV. His voice carries the careful neutrality of a man testing ice before committing his weight.

"Jakob, I'm sure you understand our position. The appearance of impropriety?—"

"Is just that. Appearance." I cut him off, patience thinning with each repetition. "Ms. Warren and I were working late. The White Glove Pivot has an aggressive timeline."

"Even so. The board is considering our options."

Translation: They're looking for a way to remove Chanel without implicating themselves in the fallout.

"Your options," I say, voice dropping to the register I reserve for threats wrapped in courtesy, "are limited to proceeding as planned. Any disruption to the audit leadership will result in immediate termination of our engagement."

Silence stretches between us. I wait, giving him space to calculate the cost. Novare is RSV's largest client this quarter. Losing us would trigger questions, market speculation, share value erosion.

"I'll convey your position to the partners.” His tone suggests he already knows the outcome.

"Please do." I end the call, setting the phone down with controlled precision.

Tyson raises an eyebrow. "Subtle."

"Effective." I check my watch—7:28. No word from Chanel since our brief pre-dawn conversation. "Any update on the source?"

He shakes his head. "Collins is still tracking it. But whoever did this covered their tracks."

The intercom buzzes. My assistant's voice—tighter than usual. "Mr. Giannetti, Ms. Warren is here."

I glance at Tyson, who stands without needing instruction. "I'll check with Collins again."

He slips out just as Chanel enters—poised, polished, and radiating the precise fury I've been expecting. She's wearing a charcoal suit, with a low ponytail and a bold lipstick.

Battle armor. And my gaze travels down to her lips before she clears her throat.

"Close the door," I say, not moving from behind my desk.

She does, each movement controlled like she's holding herself together through sheer force of will. When she turns to face me, her eyes meet mine, winter-dark and familiar—the exact shade they turned the night I told her I wanted a divorce.

"Explain."

One word. Loaded like a gun.

"Someone leaked a photo of us entering the penthouse last night." I don't sugarcoat it, don't apologize. We're past that. "It's circulating on financial blogs."

"I know." She sets her bag on a chair but remains standing. "I saw it this morning. What I want to know is how it happened."

"Internal breach. Someone with access to my security network."

"The same someone who's been using my credentials?"

"Most likely."

She nods once, processing. Her finger taps against her thigh—a rare tell that breaks through her composure. "RSV called an emergency compliance meeting in one hour."

I absorb this, calculating angles. "To question your objectivity."

"To remove me from the audit." Her voice doesn't waver. "They're building the case as we speak."

"I've already spoken with Phillip. Made our position clear."

"Our position?" Her eyebrow raises a fraction. "I wasn't aware we had a joint position."

"Novare's position," I clarify, though we both know it's not just that. "The audit continues under your leadership or we terminate the engagement."

Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe. Or recognition. She didn't expect me to draw a line this firm.

"That's not your call to make."

"It's exactly my call." I stand, needing to shift the power dynamic. "And I've made it."

She studies me, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?"

It's not a question I'm prepared to answer honestly. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

"Because you're the most qualified person for this audit," I say instead. "Because you've already identified issues no one else would have caught. Because changing leadership now would set the timeline back weeks."

All true. None of it is the full truth.

She doesn't believe me—I can see it in the slight tension around her mouth, the way she shifts her weight almost imperceptibly.

Chanel always could read my half-truths.

"I should go." She picks up her bag. "The meeting?—"

"I'm coming with you."

Her head snaps up. "No."

"Yes." I reach for my jacket. "This involves Novare directly now. I have the right to representation."

"You'll make it worse."

"I'll make it clear where we stand."

She doesn't argue further, which tells me everything about her state of mind. The Chanel I married would have fought me on principle. This Chanel—the one standing in my office with her walls up and her eyes wary—is conserving energy for the battle ahead.

In the elevator, we stand on opposite sides of the car, but the space feels microscopic. Six feet of distance that might as well be nothing. I can hear her breathing. Can count her heartbeats by the pulse at her throat.