Page 27 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

"Everything." The word too honest, too revealing. "I remember everything."

She nods once, fingers moving to the buttons of her blouse. Not a seduction. A dismissal. "Thank you. I'll take it from here."

I move toward the door, respecting the boundary she's establishing. Grateful for even this much trust. This much proximity.

"Jakob." Her voice stops me, hand on the doorknob. "Stay."

I turn slowly, uncertain I've heard correctly. She stands in the center of the bathroom, vulnerability and determination warring in her expression.

"If you want," she adds, the qualifier unnecessary. As if there's a universe where I wouldn't want to be wherever she is.

"Are you sure?"

"No." Honesty edging her voice. "But I'm asking anyway."

I lean against the counter, giving her space, giving her control of what happens next.

She unties the sash with deliberate movements, the silk parting to reveal inches of skin I've relearned with hands and mouth and memory. She lets the robe slide from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, eyes never leaving mine.

"You don't have to watch," she says—a hint of challenge beneath the words.

"I want to." Simple truth. "If you'll let me."

Something softens in her expression. Permission, perhaps. Or recognition of the power she holds in this moment.

She unzips her skirt, letting it pool at her feet, stepping out of it with the same precise grace that defines her in boardrooms, in kitchens, in every space she occupies.

I remain still, restraint a physical ache as she unhooks her bra, slides lace down her legs, stands before me naked and unashamed. Not a performance. Not a seduction. Just Chanel—stripped of armor, of pretense.

She steps into the bath, sinking into steam with a sigh that vibrates low in my gut. Eyes closing as heat envelops her, as tension begins its slow release from muscles I've relearned but haven't soothed.

"You can sit," she says without opening her eyes, gesturing to the floor beside the tub.

I lower myself to the tile, back against the cool porcelain, close enough to touch her—but not doing so. Waiting. Always waiting for her to decide what happens next. What I'm allowed to be to her.

Minutes pass in companionable silence, broken only by the occasional lap of water as she shifts, as warmth works its way into tissue and bone.

"What do you want, Chanel?" The question emerges unbidden. Unplanned.

Her eyes open, finding mine through rising steam. "Right now? Or in general?"

"Both. Either." I shrug, the gesture insufficient for the weight of what I'm asking. "Everything."

She considers this, head tilting slightly against the edge of the tub. Water beads on her collarbone, tracing paths I want to follow with my tongue.

"I used to think I knew," she says finally. "Partnership at the firm. Financial security. Raising Jaden to be a good man." She pauses, something shifting in her expression. "But lately, I'm not sure."

"What's changed?"

"Me, maybe." Water laps against porcelain as she shifts. "Or maybe I'm just asking different questions."

"Such as?"

"Such as whether partnership is worth the cost. Whether I want to keep living according to someone else's schedule, someone else's priorities." Her gaze sharpens, focusing on me with sudden intensity. "Whether I want to build something of my own instead of supporting what others have built."

"You could do it," I say, conviction absolute. "Build something of your own. You've always had that vision. That drive."

"Maybe." She sinks deeper into the water, vulnerability reasserting itself. "But there's Jaden to consider. His stability. His routine."

"He'd adapt. He's resilient." Like his mother , I don't add. "And he'd be proud of you. As he should be."

Something softens in her expression—gratitude perhaps. Or recognition. "What about you, Jakob? What do you want?"

The question I've been avoiding. The one with no safe answer.

"For the company? For the audit? For—" I gesture vaguely between us, unwilling to name what exists in this undefined space.

"Let's start with the audit," she says, offering the professional as safer ground. "Why is it so important to you? Really?"

I consider deflection. Consider the half-truths I've told myself, told her, told everyone who's asked why I'm subjecting my company to this level of scrutiny.

Instead, I give her the truth. The one I've only recently admitted to myself.

"I want to build something that lasts. Something I can pass to Jaden someday, if he wants it." I pause, fingers tracing patterns on the tile. "Something better than what was left to me."

"Your father's company," she prompts, knowledge of my history evident but incomplete.

"My father's mess," I correct, old bitterness rising. "His legacy of shortcuts and compromise and deals made in backrooms with handshakes that left blood on the floor."

She watches me, silent. Waiting for what comes next. What I've never fully shared with her—or anyone.

"He wasn't just ruthless in business," I continue, words emerging with effort. "He was brutal at home. To my mother. To me. Control was everything. Appearances were everything. Nothing else mattered—not happiness, not connection, not anything that couldn't be measured in dollars, power or favors."

Water stills as she goes motionless, attention absolute. Listening not just with ears but with the empathy that always undid me. That made me both crave her presence and fear it.

"When he died, the company was worth billions on paper.

But it was built on lies, on exploited relationships, on fear rather than respect.

" I exhale slowly, steadying myself against memories that still cut.

"It took me three years to clean it up. To make it something I wasn't ashamed to attach my name to. "

I pause, weighing how much truth to give her. Deciding finally on all of it.

"But I'm not delusional, Chanel. Even after this audit, my hands aren't clean.

I've made choices that would keep you up at night.

Crossed lines when necessary. There's a part of me that's still him—that knows how to apply pressure until something breaks.

" My fingers tighten against the porcelain edge.

"I've spent years wondering if I could have both worlds—you and the company, our son and the empire I've built.

If I could keep the parts of him that made me successful without becoming everything I hated. "

"You never told me. Not all of it," she adds, understanding dawning in her eyes. "The man in the boardroom,"

I nod once, the connection made—the ruthless CEO and the damaged son, two sides of the same coin.

"I didn't want you to see that part of me. The part that came from him.” Admitting this hurts me more than any million-dollar deal, corporate takeover, or anything else—except leaving her four years ago. "I didn't want you to look at me and see what I might become."

She goes still, water motionless around her as she absorbs this. Her silence stretches long enough that I consider retreating, rebuilding walls I've just dismantled. Then her hand emerges from the water, not reaching for comfort but for connection, fingers brushing mine.

"So instead of letting me see all of you, you showed me nothing." Her voice holds no accusation, just quiet analysis. "You compartmentalized us the way you did everything else."

The precision of her assessment leaves me exposed—seen in a way I've spent a lifetime avoiding. Yet instead of wanting to withdraw, I find myself desperate to continue, to lay everything bare while she's willing to witness it.

"You deserved better than half a man. Than someone who couldn't give you all of himself." I tighten my grip on her hand, anchoring myself to her warmth. "I thought I was protecting you. Instead, I was just afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"That if you saw all of me—the darkness, the damage, the parts of him I can't excise—you'd leave." The truth stripped bare, exposed like nerve endings. "Everyone I've ever loved has disappeared, one way or another. And I couldn't bear it if you did too."

She sits up suddenly, water sluicing down her body, hand still gripping mine. "You idiot."

Not the response I expected. I blink, thrown off rhythm for the first time in this conversation.

"You pushed me away because you were afraid I'd leave?" The incredulity in her voice would be comical if it weren't edged with hurt. "You filed for divorce because you couldn't bear losing me?"

Put that way, the contradiction is inescapable. Indefensible. "I thought it would hurt less if I controlled when and how it happened."

"And did it?" The question quiet, devastating in its simplicity.

"No." The single syllable contains multitudes of regret, of nights spent staring at ceilings. Of achievements hollow without her to share them. "It nearly killed me."

She studies me for a long moment, water cooling around her, candlelight flickering across features I've memorized, dreamed of, mourned. Then she stands in a single fluid motion, water cascading from curves I've retraced with desperate hands.

"Hand me that towel."

I comply, rising to pass her the thick Egyptian cotton, careful not to touch, not to presume, not to shatter this fragile moment of truth between us.

She wraps it around herself, tucking the edge above her breasts, then steps from the tub to stand before me. Close enough that I can count individual droplets on her shoulders. Can see the pulse beating at the base of her throat.

"Jakob." My name in her mouth still sounds like prayer. Like possession. Like everything I've ever wanted and feared. "Take me to bed."

Not a request. A command. One I have no power to refuse, no desire to question.

I lift her—one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back—her body fitting against mine with the perfection of puzzle pieces reuniting.