Page 19 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

"Admirable." Cameron’s eyes flick to Jakob's hand, still resting at the small of my back. "And convenient, given the current... situation."

I feel Jakob tense beside me—the subtle shift in his posture that signals controlled anger. Before he can respond, I place my hand on his arm—a gesture that looks like affection but serves as restraint.

My fingers curl into the fine wool of his jacket, feeling the coiled strength beneath.

"There's nothing convenient about family, Cameron." I keep my voice light, though the words carry weight I didn't intend. "Some things are worth fighting for."

Jakob's eyes cut to mine, surprise flickering in their depths. I didn't follow the script there. Didn't stick to vague platitudes about reconciliation and privacy. Said something that sounded dangerously close to truth.

Cameron studies us, assessing. "Well. The partners will be interested to hear about this... development."

"I'm sure they will." Jakob's voice has cooled several degrees. "Though I'd hope personal matters wouldn't influence professional decisions."

"Of course not." Cameron's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Enjoy your evening."

He moves away, and I exhale slowly. "That was subtle.”

Jakob chuckles. “Yeah, right.”

I should step away. Should reestablish distance. Should raise the walls to protect my heart. Because this isn’t a fairy tale— this is fake —and it will serve me well to remember that.

Instead, I let him hold me there, my body betraying my mind, curving toward his palm like a cat seeking contact.

"Dance with me," he says.

"What?"

"Dance with me." His eyes hold mine, something almost vulnerable in their depths that makes my chest ache. "Make them believe."

The string quartet has started playing—something slow and achingly beautiful. Couples move toward the dance floor.

I should refuse. But I hear myself saying, "Alright.”

He places our champagne flutes on a passing tray, surrendering to inevitability.

His hand slides down my arm to capture my fingers. The contact sends heat spiraling up to my shoulder, across my chest, down to my stomach.

He leads me to the edge of the dance floor, then turns, drawing me into the circle of his arms. One hand at my waist. The other holding mine. Proper. Respectful. Just close enough to be convincing.

But as the music swells, his hold shifts. His hand slides lower on my back, fingertips grazing the exposed skin where the dress dips.

My body responds instantly—nerves firing, skin heating, breath catching in my throat. The warmth of him seeps through silk.

I'm pulled closer, the space between us narrowing until I can feel the hard plane of his chest against mine. The subtle pressure of his thigh as we turn.

We move together as if we never stopped—his lead subtle but confident, my body following without thought. Like breathing. Like existing. Like something we never had to learn because it was coded into our cells.

"They're watching," he murmurs, lips close enough to my ear that I feel his breath stir loose strands of hair.

"Who?" My voice emerges breathless, betraying me.

"Everyone." His thumb traces my spine, sending liquid heat pooling at the base.

"Good," I say, forcing steadiness into my voice. "That's the point, isn't it?"

His eyes find mine, something shifting in their depths—a crack in the careful mask he's worn all night. "Is it?"

The question hangs between us, heavy with meanings I can't afford to parse. Instead, I let him guide me through another turn—my dress a whisper of silk against his legs, his hand a brand of heat against my skin.

The music builds, and so does the tension. His hold tightens fractionally. My fingers curl against his shoulder, feeling the strength beneath. Our bodies draw closer, an inevitability neither of us seems able to resist.

When the song ends, we don't immediately part. Just stand there, barely breathing, caught in a moment that feels too real for comfort. His eyes drop to my mouth. My lips part instinctively. The air between us thickens with possibility.

"Champagne," I say finally, needing distance. Needing clarity. Needing to remember this is a pretense.

He nods, releasing me with a reluctance I can feel in his fingertips as they trail along my waist. "I'll get us fresh glasses."

As he moves away, I exhale shakily. This is harder than expected. Not the performance—that comes naturally. But maintaining the wall between performance and truth. Between the woman playing at reconciliation, and the woman who still remembers how it felt to be loved by Jakob Giannetti.

I make my way to the edge of the room, needing space to rebuild my defenses.

A few acquaintances nod as I pass—recognition, curiosity, perhaps a hint of judgment in some gazes.

I keep my expression neutral, my posture confident.

The mask firmly in place while beneath it, my skin still burns from his touch.

"Chanel." A voice at my elbow—feminine, familiar. I turn to find Eliza Chapman, a former acquaintance from when I first moved to New York after college. "It's been ages."

"Eliza." I smile, genuinely pleased to see a friendly face. "How are you?"

"Thriving." She gestures to her protruding belly. "Number three on the way."

"Congratulations." My smile warms further. "That's wonderful."

"And you?" Her eyes flick across the room to where Jakob stands at the bar. "Rumor has it you two are..."

"Taking things slowly," I supply, the practiced line coming easily. "For Jaden's sake."

"Smart." She nods approvingly. "Kids need stability. And God knows you two were always..." She trails off, something like envy in her eyes. "Well. Let’s just say your divorce surprised us all.

The observation lands like a blow to the sternum. The suggestion that what Jakob and I had was obvious to outside eyes. That our separation was the unexpected twist, not our union.

"It's complicated," I say finally, the understatement scraping my throat.

"The best things are." She squeezes my arm lightly. "For what it's worth, I'm glad. You both deserve happiness." Eliza winks at me. "Call me sometime, Chanel. We should catch up properly."

As she walks away, Jakob approaches, his hand remaining firmly against my spine when he reaches me—a weight that anchors me even as it threatens to unravel me.

"You're convincing them," he says quietly.

"So are you." I meet his eyes over the rim of my glass. "Maybe too convincing."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we should remember what this is."

"Of course." His expression doesn't change, but something shutters in his eyes—a door closing between us. "Just business."

"Just business," I repeat, but my heart aches at the thought.

His hand slides from my back, and I feel the absence like a physical wound. Cold where heat had been. Empty where touch had anchored me.

"The Whitmans are signaling," he says, nodding toward a couple across the room. "We should make an appearance."

I nod, grateful for the shift back to performance.

For the next hour, we circulate through the crowd with practiced ease. Jakob keeps me close—a hand at my waist, fingers brushing mine, the casual intimacies of a couple finding their way back to each other.

I play my part with precision, smiling at the right moments, laughing at inside jokes, standing just close enough to suggest comfort in his presence.

By the time we slip away, the narrative is firmly established. Jakob Giannetti and Chanel Warren, reconciling quietly. The photos explained. The professional concerns neutralized. The story controlled.

A perfect strategy. A flawless execution.

The ride back to the penthouse passes in charged silence. Jakob stares out the window, profile gilded by passing streetlights. I watch him from the corner of my eye, the careful distance between us on the leather seat feeling both necessary and unbearable.

In the elevator, we stand on opposite sides, the small space humming with something electric and dangerous. I stare at the climbing numbers, hyperaware of his presence, of his scent, of the memory of his hands on my skin all evening.

When the doors open to his floor, he gestures for me to exit first. I step out, heels sinking into plush carpet, and hear him follow. The silence stretches between us, weighted with everything we're not saying.

At the door to the guest room, I pause, fingers curling around the handle. I should say goodnight. Should step inside and close the door. Should maintain the boundaries I set so carefully.

Instead, I turn to face him.

"Thank you," I say, voice lower than intended. "For tonight."

He nods, hands in his pockets, eyes dark in the dim hallway. "It was..."

"Effective," I finish for him, a hollow smile touching my lips.

"I was going to say necessary."

We stand, neither moving, the air between us thick with memory and want and the ghost of what we once were to each other.

"Chanel." My name in his mouth sounds like hunger and regret intertwined.

Something fractures inside me—a dam breaking, a wall collapsing, four years of careful restraint shattering in an instant.

I don't think. Don't calculate. Don't remind myself of all the reasons this is a mistake.

I step forward, closing the distance between us, and press my mouth to his.

For one heartbeat, he doesn't respond, body rigid with surprise. Then his control shatters like glass.

His hands come up to frame my face, fingers threading into my hair, destroying the careful updo. His mouth opens against mine, desperate and consuming, like a man starved finally allowed to feast.

I make a sound low in my throat, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer. His tongue slides against mine, tasting of champagne and desire and everything I've missed.

He walks me backward until I hit the wall, body pinned beneath his, the heat of him burning through silk and wool and every defense I've built.

His hands move from my face to my shoulders, down my sides, around to my bare back where the dress dips low.