Page 42 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

EIGHTEEN

THE LAST MOVE

JAKOB

I don't sleep. Haven't for days.

The city glitters beneath my window like a circuit board—lines of light connecting destinations, decisions, destinies. Seventy stories above the streets, I watch Manhattan wake while I remain motionless, suspended between action and aftermath.

Tyson enters without knocking, two cups of black coffee in hand. He sets one before me without comment, studies my face—the shadows beneath my eyes, the stillness that has calcified around me since the decision was made.

"You're sure," he says. Not a question.

"Yes."

The single syllable hangs between us—everything I am, distilled to its essence. A word that sounds like finality.

I turn from the window, back to the war room we've constructed in my office. Three monitors display cascading data, each screen cataloging Megan's systematic dismantling. Financial positions. Network connections. Personal vulnerabilities. The anatomy of an empire soon to collapse.

"Whitman Group confirmed withdrawal," Tyson says, taking his seat across from me. "They'll announce at opening bell."

"Time?"

"Ninety minutes."

I nod once, fingers tracing the edge of a file—physical evidence of digital sins. Everything Megan thought was buried, exhumed with surgical precision. Not for vengeance. For insurance.

"Collins has the rest?"

"Ready when you are." Tyson's voice carries a note of caution. "The SEC alert is drafted. All we need is your authorization."

My hand stills on the file. For four years, I've held this card—the power to unmake what Megan built from the ruins of what we created together. Held it, studied it, kept it holstered. A weapon undrawn remains a threat, not a consequence.

Today, I pull the trigger.

"Send it."

Tyson taps his phone once. A text disappears into the digital ether. Somewhere, in an office across the city, Collins unleashes what we've architected—not chaos, but calculated collapse. The dismantling of Megan Ardano through methods she taught me to perfect.

"The personal accounts?"

"Frozen as of 3 A.M. Her signature removed from the family trust at 4:22. Private asset liquidation began at 5:15." Tyson's precision mirrors my own—the comfort of numbers in a moment defined by emotion. "She'll discover it when she wakes."

"And her network?"

"Contacted. Every one." He slides a tablet toward me, names highlighted in red, yellow, green. Status indicators. Pressure points. "The cousin in Miami was particularly responsive. Apparently, blood isn't thicker than the promise of destruction."

I scroll through the list, noting the precision of the execution. Her parents' names glow bright red—the most decisive severance.

"Her father?"

"He understood the stakes immediately." Tyson's voice drops lower, satisfaction threading through professional detachment. "One call about what would happen to the Ardano Medical Foundation's board appointments if they remained connected to her. He issued a statement within the hour."

I nod once. Victor Ardano—a man who spent fifty years building a reputation he couldn't bear to watch burn in a day. The statement would be carefully worded: public concern, family disappointment, temporary separation while ‘matters are resolved.’

Permanent exile disguised as temporary distance.

"Her mother?"

"Harder to reach. Collins made it clear we'd dismantle their social standing brick by brick." A slight pause. "She called twice after. Refused to leave a message."

Eleanor Ardano always preserved plausible deniability—voiceless calls that could be claimed as attempts at reconciliation if needed. A woman who valued position above blood.

Like mother, like daughter.

I study the list—people who attached themselves to Megan's orbit, fed from her success, sheltered in her shadow.

People now running from the flames I've ignited around her.

Some guilty, others merely inconvenient obstacles.

I don't hesitate over the names of the innocent.

Don't flinch from the collateral damage. Not today. Not with what's at stake.

My eyes catch on a separate section of names: the RSV leadership team.

"You included Rowe Stratton & Vale." Not a question. A confirmation of strategy I already approved.

"Senior partners received personalized assessments this morning." Tyson's voice drops to a confidential register. "Each file included projections of what happens to their client base if they move against Chanel Warren in any form. The message was... unambiguous."

I nod once, satisfaction settling like a cold weight in my chest. Whether Chanel comes back to me or not is her choice. Whether she keeps her career intact is non-negotiable.

"No retaliation. No professional consequences. Her reputation remains pristine." I trace the screen with my index finger, circling the name of Phillip Gardner. "Make sure they understand this isn't a one-time warning."

"They understand." Tyson's eyes meet mine, recognition passing between us. "Collins sent Gardner the names of his offshore accounts in the Caymans. Said you were 'holding them in trust' for now."

A threat that doesn't need to be spoken. A line drawn around Chanel that no one will dare cross.

I stand, moving toward the window again.

Tactics flowing through my mind like cold, clear water.

Every avenue closed. Every escape route severed.

Every potential ally threatened or neutralized.

Megan has nowhere to go but here—forced to face me directly, to witness the consequences of targeting what's mine.

Even if Chanel is no longer mine to claim.

The thought hits like a physical blow—sharp pain beneath my ribs, breath caught mid-inhale.

My hand flattens against the glass, steadying myself against the wave of raw, primitive loss that follows.

For a moment, the carefully constructed architecture of control falters, revealing the man beneath—the one who would rather burn everything to ash than live in a world where she chooses to walk away again.

I close my eyes. Force air into resistant lungs. Let the pain wash through me without resistance.

She might choose freedom from me. From us. From the darkness I've finally stopped pretending doesn't exist.

I open my eyes, vision sharpening with renewed clarity. If that's her choice, I'll honor it. But I'll still ensure she's protected—from Megan, from RSV, from anyone who might mistake her independence for vulnerability.

No matter what happens at the Met today, Chanel Warren will never again pay the price for loving me.

"The brother?" I ask, turning back to Tyson, voice steady despite the tremor still echoing through my chest.

"Still holding out. Family estate complicates things."

"Focus there next." I slide the tablet back. "He breaks, she loses her last safe harbor."

Tyson nods, makes a note. Doesn't question the strategy or the coldness behind it.

He's known me twenty years—watched me build empires, dismantle threats, navigate waters where weaker men drown.

But he's never seen this version of me. The one who no longer cares how he's perceived.

The one who has weighed cost against necessity and chosen truth over image.

The one who loves Chanel more than his own carefully constructed facade.

"What about Novare?" he asks. "The systems are still dark."

"Keep them down until we finish with Megan.

" I reach up, fingers finding the slight ridge beneath my shirt collar—the thin silver chain holding the gold band I've worn against my skin since the day Chanel left.

I press it briefly against my sternum, feeling the familiar weight of the wedding ring I've never truly relinquished. "After that, we reassess."

I don't finish the thought. Don't need to. After Megan, everything either breaks or begins again. After Megan, I'll know if I have a chance at redemption or confirmation of what I've always feared—that some damage can't be undone, no matter the intention.

"And if she doesn't understand?" Tyson's question lands like a stone in still water. "If this—" he gestures to the monitors, the evidence of methodical destruction "—is too much?"

I close my fist around the ring beneath my shirt, feel its edges press through fabric into my palm. "Then at least she'll know the truth. All of it. Who I am. What I'm capable of. What I've done to protect her."

"And if that's not what she wants?"

The question should cut deeper than it does. Should make me reconsider, recalculate, retreat to safer ground. It doesn't.

"Then she deserves to make that choice with all the information." I let the ring fall back against my skin. "Not the sanitized version I've been parceling out in safe increments."

Tyson watches me with the careful assessment of a man who understands power—its uses, its costs, its consequences.

"You've never been this exposed before."

"No," I agree, turning back to the window. To the city now fully awake, unaware of the currents shifting beneath its surface. "I haven't."

My phone vibrates on the desk. Collins: She's moving. Heading to your building.

Sooner than expected. The first domino has fallen, and Megan is already in motion—not fleeing, but advancing. Coming directly to the source rather than scrambling for escape. It's what makes her dangerous. What always has.

"She's coming here," I tell Tyson, sliding the phone into my pocket. "Have security bring her up. No interference."

"You sure that's wise?"

"It's necessary." I straighten my cuffs, adjust my tie. Armor for the battle ahead. "She needs to understand this isn't a negotiation."

Tyson rises, coffee untouched. "Want me to stay?"

"No. This conversation requires privacy."

He moves to the door, pauses with his hand on the knob. "Jakob."

I look up, meet his gaze—the closest thing to friendship I've allowed myself since Chanel.

"Whatever happens next," he says, voice lowered, "remember why you started this."