Page 4 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

"I know." I meet his stare directly. "I'll handle it."

"The way you handled Megan?" His voice drops lower. "Because that succeeded brilliantly."

Megan . The name alone chills my blood. Four years, and still her shadow darkens everything I've constructed. Everything I've lost.

"This is different." I turn back to the window, needing distance. "Chanel doesn't know."

"But she will," Tyson says quietly. "If she's examining those files, she'll uncover the breadcrumbs. You know she will."

I close my eyes briefly, envisioning it with perfect clarity—Chanel discovering the truth. Seeing the choices I made. Understanding why I severed us both and walked away.

"Let me manage that concern." I maintain a neutral tone, controlled. "Focus on ensuring the current documentation is impeccable. No surprises."

Tyson exhales, the sound weighted with four years of accumulated worry. "And Jaden? Have you considered what this means for him?"

My son. The one pure creation Chanel and I produced together. The one undeniable proof that once, we were something magnificent.

"Jaden is fine," I state, with more confidence than I possess. "Chanel and I have always maintained civility for his sake."

"Civil isn't synonymous with honest." Tyson rises, adjusting his suit. "Eventually, you'll need to tell her the truth, Jake. All of it."

I offer no response. Can't. Because we both know he's right, and we both know I won't do it. Not if any alternative exists.

"Be careful," he says, moving toward the door. "You haven't been yourself since she left. Neither of us wants to witness what happens if you shatter all over again."

He leaves me with that uncomfortable truth, closing the door silently behind him.

I observe Chanel through the security feed.

Not from some impulse to monitor her. Not from distrust. But because I need to track her location in the building. Need to calculate the odds of encountering her in the elevator. The hallway. The executive restroom.

She moves through my offices like a phantom—or perhaps I'm the ghost, haunting the periphery of her existence through glass screens and digital distance.

Her team has commandeered the east conference room. I watch her indicate something on a screen, gesture to a colleague, tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear in that absent manner when deep in thought.

I retrieve my phone. Text my assistant: Ms. Warren's team will need access to the Singapore files. Clearance levels 1-3 only. I'll handle 4-5 personally.

A response arrives: Confirmed.

I set the phone down. Deactivate the monitor. Return to the acquisition papers on my desk.

Three minutes later, the intercom activates. "Mr. Giannetti, Ms. Warren is inquiring about the Singapore clearance levels. She's on her way up."

I pause before responding. Simply breathe through the constriction in my chest. "Send her in when she arrives."

I adjust my tie. Check my reflection in the darkened monitor—composed, unreadable, the man everyone expects me to be. The man I've spent a lifetime becoming. The man who doesn't wake, reaching for a woman who no longer belongs beside him.

A soft knock. My assistant opens the door. "Ms. Warren is here."

Chanel enters as though she owns the space—spine straight, chin elevated, gaze coolly assessing. Nothing resembling the woman who once padded around our penthouse in my shirts, hair wild, smile unguarded.

This Chanel is venom and armor. And it’s my fault.

"Mr. Giannetti." She halts at a calculated distance from my desk. Not close enough to suggest familiarity. Not far enough to imply intimidation. "There appears to be an issue accessing the Singapore files."

"Is there?" I remain seated, motioning toward the chair across from me. "Please."

She hesitates, then sits—perched on the edge, portfolio balanced on her knees. "My team requires full access. Levels one through five."

"Levels four and five contain proprietary trading algorithms." I maintain a neutral tone. "I'll guide you through those personally."

"That won't be necessary." Her mouth tightens at the corners. "We can manage proprietary information."

"I'm certain you can." I lean back slightly, palms flat on the desk. "But those are the terms. Accept them or decline."

She studies me, gaze narrowing. Searching for the underlying motive. The hidden agenda. The truth I'm withholding.

I don't blink. Don't shift. Don't offer anything beyond the careful mask I've perfected.

"Fine." She rises in one fluid movement. "When?"

"Tomorrow. Eight p.m." I stand as well, mirroring her motion instinctively. "My office."

"Six." She counters without hesitation. "I have Jaden tomorrow night."

The mention of our son lands like a physical blow. A reminder of what transcends this sterile negotiation.

"Six, then." I nod once. "I'll have the files prepared."

She turns to leave, each step measured, controlled. I watch her cross my office—the woman who once knew every secret I possessed. The woman I excised from my life with surgical precision. But she’s back.

At the door, she pauses. Doesn't look back.

"For what it's worth," she says, voice quiet but clear, "I would have respected your confidentiality. I always did."

The words find their target—a clean strike through defenses I believed impenetrable. She always could identify the exact pressure point.

Before I can respond, she's gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click that resonates in the sudden silence.

I sink back into my chair, exhaling. My father's voice emerges from memory: Silence is survival, boy. The moment you speak, you surrender power.

I believed him once. Now, surrounded by the empire I've constructed on her absence, the truth presses against my ribs like a living entity: silence never constituted strength at all.

Only fear.

Pure and simple.

My place is a penthouse in Tribeca—private, secure, strategically located.

I considered selling it after the divorce. But I couldn’t walk away—even though it isn’t warm. It isn’t lived-in.

Nothing like the brownstone Chanel bought after the divorce.

This place reminds me of what I lost. And what I won’t have again.

I loosen my tie as I enter, dropping my keys on the console table. The sound echoes in the emptiness. Four nights weekly, this place resembles a mausoleum. The other three—when Jaden stays with me—it feels like penance.

Tonight, he's here. I hear him before I see him, the excited chatter of an eight-year-old in full storytelling mode.

"And then Ms. Easton said my story was the best in the whole class, and she's gonna put it on the board tomorrow, and everyone's gonna read it?—"

I follow his voice to the kitchen, where Mrs. Abernathy—the nanny I hired after the divorce—prepares dinner. Jaden sits at the island, still in his school uniform, hands animated as he speaks.

He spots me, and his entire face illuminates. "Dad!"

No matter how brutal the day, no matter what demons I carry, that smile penetrates every defense. I drop my briefcase and open my arms just in time to catch him as he launches himself at me.

"Hey, buddy." I lift him, marveling at how he grows between visits. Soon he'll be too big for this. Too mature to embrace his father with such uninhibited joy. The thought constricts my chest. "Sounds like you had a good day."

"The best day," he confirms, wriggling free. "Ms. Easton says I'm a natural storyteller."

Like his mother . I tousle his hair, ignoring the twist in my gut at the comparison. "She's right."

Mrs. Abernathy smiles from the stove. "Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, Mr. Giannetti."

"Thank you." I loosen my tie further. "Jaden and I will be in my office. We have a volcano to perfect, don't we, bud?"

Jaden's expression widens. "You remembered!"

As if I could forget . He's been sending me design ideas for weeks, each more elaborate than the last. The science fair remains two weeks away, but in Jaden's world, preparation is everything. Another trait inherited from his mother.

We head to my home office, where I've cleared space for his project. The framework of a volcano sits on a plastic tarp, half-painted and surrounded by bottles of food coloring and baking soda.

"Mom helped me with the base yesterday," Jaden explains, pulling on the lab coat I purchased—child-sized but otherwise identical to those worn by actual scientists. "But I wanted to wait for you to do the explosion part."

"Strategic decision." I remove my suit jacket, rolling up my sleeves. "Explosions definitely require two-person coordination."

For the next thirty minutes, we combine vinegar and baking soda, testing different color combinations to achieve what Jaden deems ‘realistic but also cool’ lava. He chatters continuously about school, about his friends, about the book he's reading with Chanel before bedtime each night.

I listen, questioning at appropriate moments, absorbing these fragments of his life that I miss during our separation.

The guilt accompanies me constantly—that I’m absent for countless moments, countless milestones.

That I’ve made choices that fractured our family into scheduled visits and divided holidays.

But watching him now—eyes bright with excitement, hands gesturing wildly as he explains the difference between shield volcanoes and stratovolcanoes—I know I'd make those identical choices again. If it meant protecting him. Keeping him untouched by the darkness that threatened to consume us all.

"Dad?" Jaden's voice pulls me back to the present. "Is it supposed to be this goopy?"

I examine the mixture he's stirring. "Actually, no. Let's add more vinegar."

He grins, reaching for the bottle. "More boom!"

"Controlled boom," I correct, guiding his hand. "Scientists are precise, remember?"

Dinner unfolds in ordinary rhythm—roast chicken, broccoli, potatoes.

Mrs. Abernathy's cooking is excellent, though nothing like Chanel's Sunday dinners with their intricate spices and generations of family recipes. I eat mechanically, focused more on Jaden's ongoing narrative than the food itself.

After dinner, after bath time and two bedtime stories, Jaden finally settles into the room I designed specifically for him—walls covered in space-themed wallpaper, ceiling painted with constellations that glow in darkness.

I sit on the edge of his bed, watching his eyelids grow heavy. "All set, buddy?"

He nods, then hesitates. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Is Mom mad at you again?"

The question blindsides me. I maintain a neutral expression, despite my accelerating pulse. "What makes you ask that?"

He shrugs, small fingers playing with the edge of his blanket—the elephant one I purchased when he was born. "She got really quiet when I told her about our volcano. Like she does when she's trying not to be mad."

Chris t. Eight years old and already interpreting emotional undercurrents like an expert. Another inheritance from his mother.

"Your mom's not angry," I say carefully. "We just have some adult matters to resolve."

"Work stuff?" His eyes widen, trusting.

"Something like that." I brush his hair back from his forehead, marveling at how perfectly his features blend Chanel's elegance with my sharper angles. "Nothing for you to worry about, okay?"

"Okay." He yawns, nestling deeper into his pillow. "Love you, Dad."

"Love you too, buddy." I press my lips to his forehead. "Sleep well."

I remain until his breathing evens out, until I'm certain he's drifted into dreams untainted by adult complexities. Then I withdraw, closing his door silently behind me.

In the stillness of my living room, with the city glittering beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, I pour two fingers of scotch and carry it to the terrace. The night air cools my skin, distant traffic creating white noise that fails to drown out the echo of Jaden's question.

Is Mom mad at you again?

I take a long swallow of scotch, welcoming the burn down my throat. The truth exceeds his comprehension. Exceeds even Chanel's understanding, who still believes I left because I wanted freedom. Because someone else existed. Because I stopped loving her.

I wounded Chanel deliberately. A clean break. Deep enough to scar. Letting her hate me was safer than letting her see the truth. It was safer for her—and easier for me.

Over the years, we’ve seen each other and played civil for Jaden.

But this is different.

This is her inside my world again. And I just permitted her to methodically dig into everything I intentionally buried. Everything I walked away to protect.

I drain the scotch, the burn sharp enough to distract. For a moment. But it doesn’t dull the truth that still lives under my skin:

I never stopped loving her.

Not for a single day.