Page 18 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

NINE

GHOSTS IN SILK

CHANEL

The dress waits like a death sentence.

Hanging on the closet door, barely concealed by protective plastic, it mocks my fragile stability.

Black silk. Floor-length. Backless. Not just any dress—the dress. The one he bought for our last anniversary. The one that witnessed our final public performance as husband and wife before everything collapsed.

The one he peeled from my body afterward, his voice rough against my neck: Black silk against your skin is my undoing.

He kept it.

My fingers tremble as I pull back the plastic. The fabric slips free with a whisper that sounds too much like memory, catching light like liquid shadow. A note falls, heavy cardstock bearing his precise handwriting.

For authenticity. – J

Authenticity. As if this dress isn't a grenade in my careful reconstruction. As if the memories woven into its threads—his hands, his mouth, the way his breath caught when the zipper gave way—aren't already detonating behind my ribs.

I should refuse. Send it back with a cold note about boundaries and professionalism. But time is against me, and the strategic part of my brain—the part that's kept me alive since he walked away—recognizes the message this sends.

Jakob Giannetti's estranged wife wearing the dress he once claimed as his favorite. A visual claim that’s stronger than any verbal declaration.

I step into the shower, turning it to scalding. Water pounds against my skin, but it can't wash away the ghost sensations already awakening—his fingertips tracing my spine where the dress dips low, his mouth at my shoulder, his hands gathering silk as it pools at my feet.

God help me , I hope I remember how to breathe when he looks at me.

Forty minutes later, I face my reflection. The dress fits like it was made yesterday—skimming curves, falling in a perfect black column to the floor.

My hair swept up the way he likes, exposing the vulnerable curve of my neck, the slope of shoulders he once mapped with his mouth.

Diamond studs—another gift, another memory—catch light at my ears.

I look like a woman still in love. A woman who never signed divorce papers. A woman who didn't teach herself to function with a vital organ missing.

A perfect illusion.

The knock comes softer than expected. I know it's him before he speaks.

"Chanel?" His voice carries through the door, controlled in a way that tells me he's already in character. "The car is waiting."

"Just a minute." I check my lipstick one final time, gather my clutch. Armor up.

When I open the door, oxygen abandons my lungs.

Jakob fills the frame in his tuxedo, the perfect tailoring emphasizing shoulders I once dug my nails into during moments of unbearable pleasure. His eyes sweep over me with hunger in their depths, before he masks it behind barely contained neutrality.

"You look..." He pauses, searching for the right word, the acceptable word, the word that won't crack the fragile performance we're about to give.

"Like I did four years ago?" I supply, aiming for lightness, but hearing the brittle edge in my voice.

"Beautiful. Always beautiful."

My skin prickles with unwanted heat.

"Shall we?" He offers his arm—gentleman to the core, ruthless tactician beneath.

I place my hand on his forearm, feeling muscle flex beneath fine wool. "Let's get this over with."

The contact burns even through layers of fabric. My fingertips remember the texture of his skin, the map of veins on his forearms, how they stood out when he braced himself above me.

I jerk my gaze away, focusing on the elevator doors ahead. Not on how easily we still fall into step. Not on how my body curves toward his without an invitation.

The car is too small, too private, each breath shared between us charged with everything we're not saying.

We sit on opposite sides of the back seat, but the distance does nothing to diffuse the current between us. His cologne fills the enclosed space—the same scent that still clings to Jaden's clothes after his weekends with his father.

The scent that sometimes ambushes me in dreams, leaves me wet and needy.

I rehearse responses for the inevitable questions.

Yes, we've been working toward reconciliation. Yes, for Jaden's sake. No, we didn't want public scrutiny. Yes, we're taking it slowly.

A script for a life I don’t lead. A relationship that doesn’t exist. A hope I buried.

And I can’t forget—this is all pretend.

When we arrive at the Kensington Hotel's grand ballroom—all gilt and crystal and old money pretending at philanthropy—my hands are steady again. This part I know. The performance. The masks. The careful navigation of power disguised as social pleasantry.

What I don't know is how to stand beside Jakob and pretend we're healing what shattered between us. How to let him touch me without remembering everything his hands once promised. How to breathe his air without wanting to fill my lungs with him until I drown.

I step from the car, his hand at my elbow. Red carpet stretches before us, flashbulbs pop like distant gunfire. His body shifts, angling toward mine—protective, possessive, the picture of a husband cherishing his wife.

Heat radiates from him, seeping through my barriers.

"Ready?" I ask, the word barely audible.

"As I'll ever be," he responds, voice dropping to a register that once made me press my thighs together in anticipation.

We pause at the top of the grand staircase, composing ourselves before descending into the crowd below. The ballroom sprawls beneath us, Manhattan's elite circling each other like predators in designer labels.

"Remember," Jakob murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, sending unwanted electricity down my spine. "We're just two people trying again. For our son."

"I know the script," I whisper back.

"It's not a script if part of it is true." His eyes hold mine, stripping away pretense with surgical precision.

Before I can respond—before I can ask which part he thinks is true—he guides me forward. We begin our descent, and I feel eyes turning toward us.

Recognition. Surprise. Speculation.

Whispers that carry despite the music: Jakob Giannetti and his ex-wife. Together again. After everything.

His hand comes to rest at the small of my back, just above where the dress dips low. His palm sears my bare skin, fingertips pressing slightly —possessively— into the curve of my spine.

My skin awakens beneath his touch like a dormant forest blooming after fire.

We pause to greet our hosts—Charles and Katherine Meyer, old money wrapped in progressive veneer. Eleanor's eyes widen slightly at the sight of us together, though she recovers with practiced grace.

"Jakob, darling." She air-kisses his cheeks. "And Chanel! What a wonderful surprise. It's been too long."

"Too long indeed," I agree, sliding into social autopilot while my body riots against his proximity. "The foundation's work is more important than ever."

"Sweet of you to say." Her gaze flicks between us, curiosity barely contained behind her Botox smile. "And how is young Jaden?"

"Growing too fast," Jakob answers smoothly. “Third grade now."

"Time flies." Charles claps Jakob on the shoulder. "Good to see you two together again. Always thought you were meant to work it out."

Jakob's hand presses firmer against my back, the subtle increase in pressure speaking volumes. "Some things just take time."

The words vibrate through me, stirring up sediment better left settled. They sound so sincere, so authentic, that for a heartbeat even I almost believe them.

Almost.

We move on, navigating the crowd with practiced ease. Jakob keeps me close, his body angled toward mine in a way that signals intimacy without being overt. A united front. A couple finding their way back to each other.

His thumb traces small circles against my spine—a gesture so familiar my body responds before my mind can intervene.

Heat pools low in my stomach. My breath shortens. My skin tightens, remembering how those same circles would start innocently at dinner parties, growing more deliberate until we were making excuses to leave early.

“Cameron Lewis at two o'clock," Jakob murmurs, his voice dropping to that private register we used to share. "He's been watching since we arrived."

I nod slightly, acknowledging the information without looking. "What's the play?"

"Let him come to us."

His thumb continues its maddening pattern against my skin, the contact sending small shockwaves through nerve endings.

I swallow, trying to compose myself. This isn't just about the performance. It’s about how I’ll keep my job after this charade is over.

Every interaction calculated. Every encounter an opportunity to reinforce our narrative. To protect my position. To secure the audit.

I should be grateful for Jakob's thoroughness. For his attention to detail. For the way he's leveraging his influence to shield me from professional fallout.

Instead, I'm drowning in his proximity.

The familiar scent of his cologne fills my lungs with each breath. The ease with which we move together, anticipating each other's shifts and turns, feels like muscle memory I never managed to erase.

"Champagne?" A waiter pauses beside us, tray extended.

Jakob takes two flutes, handing one to me. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and electricity arcs between us.

His eyes lock with mine over the rim of his glass, and I know he feels it too.

Our chemistry never fully died, it just went dormant, waiting for a single touch to reawaken.

"Chanel Warren." A voice breaks the moment. "What a pleasant surprise."

I turn to find Cameron approaching, smile polished to corporate perfection, eyes sharp with calculation. “Cameron. Lovely to see you."

"And you, Jakob." They shake hands, the ritual of men assessing each other's grip. "Didn't expect to see you both here. Together."

"Trying to keep a low profile," Jakob says smoothly. "For Jaden's sake."