Page 3 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

TWO

WHAT WE DON’T SAY

JAKOB

I register the exact moment Chanel Warren enters my boardroom.

Not because I'm searching for her. Not because I've memorized the subtle essence of jasmine that trails her like a phantom.

But because the air transforms.

The way it always did when she claimed a space.

I maintain my focus on the VP of Acquisitions, nodding at inconsequential quarterly projections while every molecule in my body orients toward her with magnetic precision.

I've constructed empires on self-restraint. Cultivated a reputation for being untouchable. I can endure this collision without revealing the wound beneath.

"Ms. Warren," Douglas says. "We're just getting started."

Warren.

The name she reclaimed after I severed us with ink and signature. The name that erases our connection in the minds of everyone around this table.

I continue writing notes, give Douglas a calculated nod, and then—only then—do I permit myself to acknowledge her presence.

She sits across the table, dark eyes fixed on her portfolio, hair swept into an elegant bun that exposes the curve of her neck. I remember that skin against my mouth. Remember how she'd arch when I'd press my lips to that exact hollow beneath her ear.

I swallow hard. Reset. Refocus.

"Let's begin," I announce, tone unwavering, gaze sweeping the room without lingering on her. "We have significant ground to cover."

She doesn't look at me either.

Marina launches into her presentation on audit protocols and preliminary findings. I listen with partial attention, the remainder of my mind calculating the probability that Chanel's assignment to this account was coincidental.

The statistical likelihood hovers near zero.

Someone orchestrated this collision—someone ignorant of our history. Someone who couldn't comprehend what they've initiated.

I force my concentration back to the meeting, to the White Glove Pivot that will cement Novare's global position. This deal transcends personal history. It must.

"—particularly concerned with the Singapore disclosures," Marina continues. "The documentation shows?—"

"The Singapore position is clean." I interrupt, reclaiming command of the room. "The question isn't what's in the filing. It's what's missing."

Then it happens. Chanel's attention shifts to me directly for the first time. The impact is visceral—a silent explosion behind my ribs. Four years of public distance obliterated in a single exchange.

For three seconds—I count them—neither of us breaks the connection. Her expression remains cool, professional, revealing nothing to anyone who doesn't recognize her tell: the subtle tightening at the corner of her jaw, the almost imperceptible narrowing of her gaze. She's as destabilized as I am.

Good. I'm not drowning alone.

"What exactly is missing, Mr. Giannetti?"

The formality of my surname from her lips inflicts a subtle violence. A reminder of what we've become to each other in public: strangers with history.

I shift position, recalibrating.

"Context." The word is loaded and too honest. "The Singapore disclosures need context. Historical pattern analysis. Year-over-year comparison tracking."

She's already navigating to a section in her files, her response seamless. "The pattern analysis was completed last quarter. If you're referring to the Q3 discrepancies?—"

"I'm referring to the methodology." I address her exclusively now, everyone else in the room fading to background. "Your team is using standard regression analysis when what we need is?—"

"Multi-variable trend forecasting?" She completes my thought with precision that awakens something dormant in my chest. "I've already drafted the supplemental. It's being finalized today."

My mouth nearly betrays me with a smile. Impossible not to appreciate this—the Chanel I remember—three steps ahead, unflinching, brilliant. The woman who once identified an eight-figure error in our Moscow portfolio by recognizing a pattern everyone else overlooked.

"Perfect," I respond, the word suspended between us like a shared memory.

For a dangerous heartbeat, we're synchronized again—how we used to operate when we'd complete each other's thoughts, anticipate each other's intentions. When our minds moved in tandem, sharper together than apart.

I feel pressure on my forearm—Tyson, seated beside me, applying just enough contact to pull me back from the precipice I'm approaching. A silent warning. I don't acknowledge it, but I break the connection with Chanel.

The meeting continues. I document. Question. Maintain the illusion of a CEO fully engaged with audit protocols rather than a man resisting the gravitational pull of the woman across the table.

Until she says, "We'll need access to the full compliance history. All subsidiary documentation, acquisition papers, historical?—"

"No." The refusal emerges sharper than intended.

She looks up, one eyebrow arching in silent challenge. "Excuse me?"

"The historical documentation prior to 2018 is irrelevant to the current audit scope." I maintain a reasonable tone—the inflection I employ when establishing boundaries that won't be breached.

"With all due respect, Mr. Giannetti, my team determines what's relevant to the audit scope." Her composure remains intact, calculated. But I see heat rising in her gaze. "The White Glove certification requires complete transparency."

"And you'll have it." I lean forward slightly, elbows on the table, ignoring Tyson's cautionary touch. "For all current operations."

She doesn't retreat. Doesn't falter. Just holds my gaze with steady intensity that once dismantled me. That still could, if I permitted it.

But those pre-2018 files contain things I can't allow her to discover. Things buried on purpose. Things that would force conversations we're unprepared to have—might never be prepared to have.

So I maintain the boundary. Watch her make a small notation in her portfolio. A question mark, undoubtedly. Chanel never could resist an enigma.

The remainder of the meeting unfolds with structured formality. Schedules confirmed. Next steps outlined. Every movement choreographed to preserve maximum distance despite sharing the same atmosphere.

When it concludes, I stand first, buttoning my jacket to keep my hands occupied.

Tyson watches through narrowed eyes in the way it does when he's reading between lines invisible to others. He arrived late, claiming the seat to my right. I registered the exact moment he recognized Chanel. The subtle straightening of his posture, the quick glance in my direction.

I exit without acknowledging him, lengthening my stride. My office is a fortress—thirty-eighth floor, corner suite, windows overlooking Manhattan like I possess it. In many ways, I do.

The door hasn't fully closed when Tyson follows, silent as a shadow. I don't bother sitting. Simply move to the window, staring out at the city while counting backward from ten—an old technique my grandfather taught me for moments when the world presses too close.

"Well, fuck me sideways." His voice is low, controlled, but I hear the undercurrent of disbelief. "Of all the audit firms in all the world..."

"Don't." I keep my back to him. "Not now."

He advances further into the room, his reflection materializing beside mine in the window. Tyson Smith, the only man I trust without reservation, the sole witness to the complete destruction of what Chanel and I were.

What we demolished.

"When were you planning to mention that your ex-wife is leading the most crucial audit of your career?" He's not angry. Worse—he's concerned.

"When it became relevant." I turn to face him, leaning against the window. "No one at RSV knows about our history. She uses Warren professionally."

"And you didn't think to warn me before I walked into that room?" Now there's an edge to his tone. "Christ, Jake. I nearly called her by her married name."

“That would've been an interesting moment." A ghost of a smile touches my mouth, though nothing about this situation amuses me. "Probably would've shattered the delicate atmosphere we've cultivated."

"Delicate?" Tyson barks a laugh. "You two generated enough voltage to power Manhattan. I had to physically restrain you."

"You touched my arm. Hardly restraint." I move to my desk, organizing papers that require no organization. "It doesn't matter. We're professionals. We'll manage."

"Like you managed last time?" He drops into one of the leather chairs opposite me. "Because I distinctly recall picking you up off the floor."

The memory strikes like a physical blow. The night after the divorce was finalized.

The only instance in my adult life I've consumed enough alcohol to lose consciousness. The only time I've allowed anyone, even Tyson, to witness me completely undone.

"That was different." My voice tightens. "I wasn't prepared then."

"And you are now?" He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Look me in the eye and tell me seeing her again doesn't rip you open."

I meet his stare steadily, unflinching. "It doesn't rip me open."

"Bullshit." But there's no heat behind it, only a profound sadness that cuts deeper than any anger. "You forget I know you, brother. Better than anyone. I watched you gravitate toward her like she's your personal sun. Four years, and nothing's changed."

He's right. Tyson witnessed the beginning—when Chanel and I connected in that graduate seminar.

When we fell hard and fast, two people who recognized something essential in each other.

When we married against every expectation, the Black scholarship girl from Dallas, and the legacy heir with too many secrets.

He was there at the end, too—when I made the decision that cost me everything that mattered.

"It doesn't matter what I feel." I straighten my tie, an unnecessary gesture that occupies my hands. "The White Glove Pivot is too important."

"And the pre-2018 documents? The ones you refuse to share?" Tyson's gaze narrows. "You know she won't stop until she has them.”