Page 14 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

She stands with her weight shifted slightly to the right—the way she always does when she's anxious but refusing to show it.

Her perfume has changed, something sharper now, with less jasmine than she used to wear.

But it still hits me like a memory of skin against sheets.

My body still angles toward hers without permission.

"We should align our statements," I say as we reach the lobby.

"Simple truth," she responds, not looking at me. "We're working late due to the audit timeline. Nothing more."

"And our history?"

Now she does look at me, eyes sharp. "Irrelevant. Ancient. Over."

Her words carve into me like they're meant to—surgical, precise, finding the exact nerve she knows is still raw. For four years, I've told myself the same thing. Irrelevant. Ancient. Over. A mantra that's never quite taken hold.

"Agreed," I say, the lie burning my tongue.

Nothing personal. Just business. But I've never made it a practice to lie to myself—except when it comes to her.

I follow her through the revolving doors to the waiting car. My hand hovers near the small of her back out of habit, not quite touching. Never quite touching.

The RSV conference room feels like a tribunal. Eight partners arranged on one side of a long table. Two empty chairs on the other. The power imbalance couldn't be more deliberate if they'd installed spotlights.

Chanel walks in first—spine straight, chin lifted. I follow, buttoning my jacket—a gesture that gives my hands something to do besides clenching into fists I might use.

"Ms. Warren, Mr. Giannetti." Phillip stands as we enter, professional courtesy masking discomfort. "Thank you for joining us on short notice."

"Of course." Chanel takes one of the empty chairs, setting her portfolio on the table. "I understand there are concerns."

I sit beside her, angling my body slightly forward—a subtle shift in position that places me between her and the board. Not shielding her completely, but creating a buffer. She notices—a quick glance, a fractional easing of tension in her shoulders before she catches herself and straightens again.

"Yes. Concerns." Phillip looks uncomfortable but determined—more so than our last encounter. "In light of recent... developments, questions have been raised about the objectivity of the audit process."

"We've had this discussion. So, what developments specifically?" Chanel's voice is cool, professional. Giving nothing away.

Phillip slides a tablet across the table. The photo stares up at us—grainy but unmistakable.

"This image was published early this morning. It shows you and Mr. Giannetti entering his residence together. After hours."

"For work," Chanel responds immediately. "The audit timeline?—"

"And these." He slides more photos in our direction. "They came via email."

I glance down, seeing the pictures for the first time. It's us together—not from years ago, but from earlier this week.

Picking up Jaden from karate three days ago, stopping for ice cream after. Chanel laughing at something our son said, her guard momentarily lowered. And I'm looking at her like she hung the sun and the moon, and the stars shine only for her.

Something cold slithers down my spine. Someone is following us now. Watching. Documenting. This isn't just digging up the past—it's stalking our present.

In one photo, Chanel wipes ice cream from Jaden's chin. In another, my hand hovers near the small of her back as we cross the street.

Normal, innocent moments between co-parents made sinister through a telephoto lens.

The realization hits like a blow—whoever is doing this isn't just after our professional reputations. They're dragging our son into it.

Bastardizing family moments into evidence.

"Ms. Warren." Wilton Hayes, the managing partner, cuts her off, something hardening in his expression. "The issue isn't just the photos. It's the context."

"Which is?"

"You didn't disclose your previous relationship with Mr. Giannetti when you accepted this assignment. And now this."

The room goes silent. I watch Chanel's face, see the careful composure slip for just a fraction of a second before she rebuilds it.

"My previous relationship is irrelevant to my professional capacity." Her voice doesn't waver.

"You were married to the CEO of our largest audit client." Another partner leans forward—Cameron Hayes, chair of the RSV Ethics Committee, known for his bloodless efficiency. "You share a child with him. That's not relevant?"

My jaw tightens. The mention of Jaden crosses a line. Chanel must feel the same—her hand flattens against the table.

"My personal life has no bearing on my professional judgment," she says, each word measured. "My track record for four years proves that."

"Until today." Wilton pushes a thick folder toward her—far thicker than I expected. "After our previous... discussion with Mr. Giannetti, we conducted our own investigation."

I feel something cold slide through my veins. They've been watching her. Despite my warning.

"These aren't just irregularities in the Novare audit," Wilton continues, tapping the folder. "We've found anomalies across multiple client systems. Accounts you've never worked on. Projects outside your clearance level."

Chanel opens the folder, and I catch glimpses of access logs, timestamps, security flags—a trail of digital breadcrumbs, all pointing to her.

"These aren't mine." She looks up, eyes flashing. "I didn't access these files."

"The logs say otherwise."

"The logs are wrong." Her voice rises slightly. The first crack in her composure. "Someone is using my credentials without authorization."

Wilton exchanges glances with Phillip. I recognize the look—the silent communication of men who've already made their decision and are simply going through motions.

"In light of these concerns," Phillip says, not quite meeting Chanel's eyes, "the board believes it would be best if you stepped away from the Novare audit. Temporarily, of course. While we investigate."

Chanel goes still. Utterly still, in the way I remember from our worst fights—the calm before a storm breaks.

"I see." She closes the folder with deliberate care. "You've made your decision."

"It's not personal, Chanel." Phillip’s use of her first name is a calculated intimacy. "It's about protecting the firm's reputation."

"Of course." She stands, gathering her things with precise movements. "Then I'll make this simple for you. I resign. Effective immediately."

The words hit like a physical blow. I stand without thinking, chair scraping against hardwood.

"No."

All eyes turn to me—including Chanel's, sharp with warning.

"No," I repeat, addressing the partners now. My voice drops to a register I've never used in her presence before. Something darker. Something I keep carefully leashed. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

"Novare Global Strategies will not accept Ms. Warren's resignation, nor will we continue this audit under different leadership."

I move around the table, hands in my pockets, each step deliberate. Not pacing—stalking. This is territory I know better than they do. Power. Intimidation. The language of men who don't need to raise their voices to be feared.

"Mr. Giannetti," Wilton begins, "this isn't your decision?—"

"It absolutely is." I stop behind Cameron's chair, close enough that he has to twist uncomfortably to maintain eye contact. "I thought I made myself clear during our last conversation. Perhaps I wasn't explicit enough."

I tap my fingers once on Cameron's chair back, feeling him flinch beneath my hand.

"Let me explain what happens if you remove Ms. Warren."

Another tap. The sound sharp in the silence.

"First, Novare terminates all engagement with RSV. Immediately. That's ten million in billables. Gone."

I circle the table, noting how they shift in their seats, avoiding my gaze. Men twice my age suddenly looking small.

"Second, I call Marcus Henley at Goldman. Kenji Chen at JP Morgan. The Whitman brothers. All clients I've personally brought to RSV over the years. All of whom owe me favors they can't afford to ignore."

I stop beside Wilton, close enough to speak in a voice meant only for him, though everyone strains to hear.

"Third, I have personal conversations with every CEO and CFO in my contact list."

Phillip’s throat works visibly. I straighten, addressing the room again.

"But those are just the legitimate consequences." I adjust my cufflinks, a gesture that draws all eyes to my hands. Hands that have built and dismantled empires. "We haven't touched the ones that won't make the papers."

I lean forward, palms flat on the table.

"You've been investigating Ms. Warren's digital footprint?

Interesting. I wonder what I'd find if I had my security team crawl through RSV's systems. The offshore accounts.

The questionable clients. The agreements that never quite made it to the compliance team. "

The blood drains from Wilton’s face.

"That sounds dangerously close to blackmail, Jakob."

"It's not blackmail." I smile—a cold expression that's made grown men flinch in boardrooms across Manhattan. "It's just clarity. You crossed a line when you targeted her. When you ignored my warning and decided to play detective anyway."

I let my gaze sweep the table, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. "I don't make threats twice, gentlemen. The first time is courtesy. The second time is a promise."

The room goes silent. I can hear someone's watch ticking. Someone else's shallow breathing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Chanel watching me. She's seeing a side of me I've hidden from her.

The ruthless operator who built Novare, not the controlled husband she knew. The man who exists in shadows and boardrooms, not in the light of family dinners and parent-teacher conferences.

Phillip clears his throat, breaking the silence. "Surely we can reach a compromise?—"