Page 2 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

He nods, stepping aside to let me pass. "I'll see you next week, then."

I'm nearly to the door when he adds, "No one here knows."

I pause, one hand on the doorframe. "Knows what?"

"About us. That we were married." His gaze holds mine, steady and certain. "I've never mentioned it."

Relief mingled with something darker, more complicated, twists through me. "Neither have I. I use Warren professionally."

He nods, understanding. Our shared secret. Our mutual protection.

I continue to the door, keeping my stride measured, unhurried. When I reach the threshold, something reckless compels me to pause. Some buried impulse I thought I'd extinguished years ago.

"Jakob."

He glances up, surprise flickering across his features at the sound of his first name.

"Whatever you're hiding in those pre-2018 documents?" I meet his stare directly, letting him see the strategist who helped build his empire before he let it burn. "I will find it."

Something transforms in his expression. Good. He should be cautious.

"I wouldn't expect anything less." His voice lowers, almost intimate. Then he adds, "You always were the most dangerous person in any room."

I offer no response. Simply turn and walk away, my steps matching the mantra pulsing in my mind: Don't look back. Don't look back. Don't ever look back.

Home is a quaint pre-war brownstone in Park Slope with high ceilings and original hardwood floors.

A place I purchased to create a home for me and my child after the divorce. And it's nothing like the penthouse I shared with Jakob.

This place has character. History. Warmth.

But it doesn't have him.

I drop my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door—the one Jaden created in second grade, lopsided but perfect. Kick off my heels. Allow my shoulders to relax for the first time since dawn.

"In here!" Latanya calls from the kitchen.

I follow her voice, the aroma of something spicy guiding me. Latanya stands at my stove, stirring a pot of what appears to be her grandmother's jambalaya. Her curls piled high, casual in a way I've never mastered.

"You didn't have to cook," I say, though gratitude flows through me. Today, of all days, I need something familiar. Something that predates Jakob.

"Please." She dismisses me with a wave of her wooden spoon. "Like I was going to let you feed my godson microwave pasta again."

"That was one time." A smile breaks through despite everything as I sink onto a bar stool at the kitchen island.

"One time too many." She slides a glass of red wine toward me. "You look like you need this."

I accept without protest. "That obvious?"

"Only to me." She studies my expression with the attentiveness born from fifteen years of friendship. "Long day?"

"You could say that." I take one sip, then another. Don't mention Jakob. Don't give him that power.

But Latanya reads me too well. She leans forward, elbows on the counter. "Spill."

"It's nothing." I shake my head. "Just a new client. High stakes."

"Mmm." Skepticism radiates from her. "And does this high-stakes client have a name?"

Before I can answer, thunderous footsteps cascade down the stairs, and Jaden bursts into the kitchen, with his gangly limbs and unrestrained energy.

"Mom!" He collides with me in an embrace that nearly topples me from the stool. "Aunt Tanya's making jambalaya!"

"I see that." I smooth his curls back from his forehead, inhaling his essence—playground dirt and the coconut shampoo I use on his hair. "Did you finish your homework?"

"Almost." He wriggles free, already reaching for the freshly baked cornbread cooling on the counter. "I just have reading left."

"After dinner, then." I exchange a glance with Latanya, who nods.

"Go wash your hands, J," she instructs. "Food's almost ready."

He dashes off, and Latanya turns back to me, eyebrow arched. "So. The client?"

I exhale, lowering my voice. "It's Jakob."

Her hand freezes on the spoon. "Jakob as in?—"

"My ex-husband. Yes." I drain half the wine in one swallow. "Apparently, Novare Global Strategies is my new audit client, and no one thought to mention that the CEO was joining us.”

"Shit." She whispers it, eyes widening. "Do they know? Your bosses?"

"No." I shake my head. "I've always been Chanel Warren professionally. No one makes the connection."

"What did you do?"

"My job." I attempt nonchalance and miss spectacularly. "What else could I do?"

She examines me intently, her eyes pausing a beat too long on my face, as if searching for invisible fingerprints he might have left. Then she reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand.

"Are you okay?"

No. Not remotely.

"I'm fine." I manufacture a smile that threatens to fracture my composure. "It was just unexpected. But we're both adults. We can handle a few weeks of professional interaction."

"Right." Disbelief radiates from her.

I see it in her expression, the concern and protectiveness that’s made her my fiercest defender since Jakob's departure.

Her fingers tighten. "And if it becomes too much, you'll tell someone? Ask to be reassigned?"

The suggestion stiffens my spine. "Absolutely not. I've worked too hard for this account. I'm not letting him take another thing from me."

"That's my girl."

Dinner unfolds in a blend of routine. Jambalaya spicier than I would prepare, cornbread perfectly sweet, and Jaden's non-stop chatter about his day. I listen and laugh appropriately, but part of me remains in that conference room, ensnared in Jakob's aura.

After dinner, after Jaden's bath and bedtime story, after Latanya hugs me goodbye with a promise to check in tomorrow, I linger in the doorway of my son's room and watch him sleep.

In the soft glow of his space-themed night light, his resemblance to his father is unmistakable. The curve of his jaw, the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the slight furrow between his brows.

He's wrapped in the blue blanket with tiny elephants marching around the border—the one Jakob bought when he was born. The one I've repeatedly told Jaden belongs in his room, not mine.

I should relocate it. Should banish it to the linen closet, where I wouldn't encounter it.

Instead, I gently tuck it around him, my fingertips betraying me by lingering on the soft fabric that somehow still carries a ghost of the cologne Jakob once wore.

I close Jaden's door silently and move down the hallway to my bedroom. The one space in this house that's exclusively mine.

Except it isn't tonight.

Because on my nightstand lies Jaden's science fair outline with pages of careful notes in my son's meticulous handwriting. Ideas for a volcano he's been designing for weeks, with sketches annotated in two distinct styles. Mine. And Jakob's.

I lift the papers, recognizing Jakob's sharp, slanted penmanship, so similar to what Jaden's is becoming. Notes about chemical reactions and scale models. Encouragement in the margins: Great idea, buddy. This will work perfectly.

My grip tightens on the pages, creasing them before I catch myself. I smooth them flat again and replace them carefully.

Then I sink onto the edge of the bed, exhaustion collapsing into my bones. The precise control I've maintained dissolves at last.

My fingers vibrate against the sheets, tiny seismic warnings spreading upward until I press my palms flat against my thighs to quiet them. Four years of public distance, and he dismantles it with one glance across mahogany.

It was never meant to unfold like this. We were supposed to be different. The couple who endured. The love that refused to break.

Instead, we became statistics. A cautionary tale. Two people who couldn't articulate what mattered until the opportunity vanished.

I close my eyes, allowing myself to remember the moment our gazes connected across that conference table. The shock. The recognition. The dangerous current that still flows between us despite everything.

This audit won’t be clean.

And neither is what still lingers from the past.