Page 43 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

Not for revenge. Not for control. For protection. For truth. For the chance to face Chanel without shadows between us.

"I remember."

The door closes behind him, and I'm alone again with the evidence of calculated destruction. With the knowledge that in thirty minutes, Megan Ardano will walk through that door and face the consequences of a war she started four years ago.

I don't pace. Don't rehearse arguments or prepare defenses. Simply stand at the window, watching the city from a height that turns people into abstractions. From up here, individual lives blur into patterns. From up here, the choices that break hearts look like strategy.

But I'm not up here anymore. Not really. I'm down in the wreckage of what Megan and I destroyed. In the rubble of a marriage I walked away from to protect. In the truth I should have offered Chanel years ago.

My intercom buzzes. "Ms. Ardano is here, sir."

"Send her in."

The door opens without a knock. Megan enters like she still belongs here—chin lifted, shoulders back, eyes sharp with calculation.

But beneath the polished exterior, I see what others would miss: the slight dishevelment of her usually perfect hair, the tension around her mouth, the way her knuckles whiten around the strap of her bag.

She's afraid.

"You couldn't even wait until market open?" she says, voice steady despite what must be roiling beneath. "Classless, Jakob. Even for you."

I don't respond immediately. Just study her—this woman who was once my partner, then my mistake, now my reckoning. She wears power like armor, but I've seen the joints where it can be pierced.

"The Whitman Group was a miscalculation," I say finally, voice even. "You should have diversified your investor base."

"This isn't about Whitman." She steps closer, anger sharpening her movements. "This is about you. Freezing my accounts? Contacting my family? Those are personal attacks."

"Yes," I agree, unmoved by the accusation. "They are."

My calm unsettles her more than anger would. She expected rage, righteous fury, the performative dominance of men who need to assert control. Instead, she finds precision. Certainty. The quiet lethality of a decision already made.

"You can't do this." Her voice hardens—a command, not a plea. "I'll fight back. You know I will."

"With what resources?" I move to my desk, unlock a drawer, and extract a slim file.

"Your corporate accounts are frozen. Your personal funds inaccessible.

Your investors are fleeing. Your family has disavowed you.

And in approximately—" I check my watch "—twelve minutes, the SEC will receive evidence of financial irregularities that will occupy the next decade of your life. "

I place the file on the desk between us, not offering it, simply making its existence known. Megan's eyes fix on it, recognition dawning.

"That's impossible. Those records were destroyed."

"Nothing is ever truly destroyed, Megan. You taught me that." I rest my fingertips on the file, a casual gesture weighted with threat. "Everything leaves traces. Digital fingerprints. Paper trails. Human witnesses."

The color drains from her face as understanding takes hold. This isn't a warning shot. This is systematic execution.

"What do you want?" Her voice drops, stripped of pretense. "There must be something. Some arrangement we can make."

"I want you gone."

The words land between us, simple and absolute. Not a negotiation. Not an opening gambit. The endgame, laid bare.

"From Novare? Fine. I'll sign whatever you need. Full renunciation of?—"

"From the country," I clarify, cutting through her desperate bargaining. "Twenty-four hours. New identity. New life. No contact. No return."

She laughs—a brittle, disbelieving sound. "You can't be serious."

"The file contains enough evidence to trigger investigations into tax evasion, securities fraud, and corporate espionage." I step away from the desk, giving her space to absorb the reality of her position. "Your choice is simple: disappear voluntarily, or I ensure the system swallows you whole."

"This is because of her." Megan's voice curdles with contempt. "Your precious Chanel. The woman who couldn't handle what building this company required."

I feel something shift inside me—not anger, but a deeper, colder certainty. "Don't say her name."

"She made you weak, Jakob. Always did. Made you think there was something better than power.

Something more important than winning." Megan steps closer, desperation bleeding into calculation.

"We built this together. Everything you have, we created.

You'd throw that all away for a woman who left you? "

"No." I meet her gaze directly, letting her see what I've kept hidden for years. "I'm not throwing anything away. I'm reclaiming what matters."

"And what about the others?" Desperation creeps into her voice. "My family? My team? They had nothing to do with this."

"They're collateral damage in a war you started." I walk back to the window, turning my back to her—the ultimate dismissal. "But once you're gone, they'll be left alone."

Silence stretches between us, taut with unspoken history. With promises broken and trust betrayed. With the knowledge that we were never friends—only temporary allies in the pursuit of power.

"You know I'll never stop," she says finally, voice lowered. "Wherever I go. Whatever name I take. I'll find a way back. To this. To you."

I turn to face her, unmoved by the threat. "If you try, I will make you disappear."

Five words. No inflection. No rage. Just quiet certainty that lands like a death sentence.

Megan stares at me, searching for weakness, for hesitation, for the man she once manipulated. Finding only the one she created instead—ruthless, unflinching, willing to burn what he built to protect what he loves.

"Twenty-four hours," I remind her, voice soft as a blade against skin. "Then everything in that file goes public."

She stands frozen for a moment longer, pride warring with survival. Then something breaks in her posture—the slight drop of shoulders, the tightening of her jaw. Acceptance, not surrender.

"You'll regret this," she says, but the words carry no weight. Empty threat from a disarmed opponent.

"No." I meet her gaze one final time. "I only regret not doing it sooner."

She leaves without another word, the door closing quietly behind her. No slam. No final barb. Just the whisper of defeat.

I stand motionless, watching the space she occupied, feeling nothing but quiet certainty. The knowledge that some threats can only be neutralized through complete excision. That some cancers require radical treatment to prevent spread.

My phone vibrates. A text from Chanel: We need to talk. The Met. Egyptian Wing. Noon tomorrow.

Her message hits with the precision of a blade—direct, clean, purposeful. The place where I once tried too hard to impress her. Where I memorized exhibit details just to watch her smile at my effort. Where she first looked at me like I might be more than my name or my wealth.

Neutral ground. Her choice, not mine.

I don't respond immediately. Instead, I move to the bar cart in the corner of my office, pour a finger of scotch. Not to drink—just to hold. To feel the weight of crystal in my palm. To remind myself that some containers are designed to hold dangerous things without breaking.

I set the untouched glass down, straighten my tie, and send a simple response.

I'll be there.

Because that's what this has always been about. Waiting for the right moment to tell the truth. Waiting for the courage to be seen fully. Waiting for Chanel to decide if the man I am—not the one I pretended to be—is someone she could love again.

Four years ago, I walked away to protect her from Megan's poison. From the darkness I carried inside me. From the ruthlessness required to build empires and destroy enemies.

Today, I've eliminated the external threat. But the internal one remains—the fear that the real me, the complete me, might be too much. Too dark. Too broken. Too dangerous.

The fear that honesty might cost me the only thing I've ever truly wanted.

I check my watch. Ten thirty-seven. I have time to prepare for tomorrow's meeting—to gather the evidence Chanel deserves to see. The complete truth about why I left, what I've done to protect her, who I really am beneath the facade.

At my desk, I collect the divorce papers I've carried for four years—unsigned, unresolved, a physical reminder of what I lost and what I'm fighting to reclaim. I slide them into my pocket alongside the ring.

Tomorrow, Chanel will see all of me—the tenderness and the violence, the protection and the possession, the man who would burn down the world to keep her safe and the man who memorizes the exact cadence of her breathing when she sleeps.

Tomorrow, I offer her a choice made with clear eyes and full information.

Tomorrow, I find out if what broke once might still be saved.

Not by pretending to be better than I am.

But by becoming real enough to be worthy of her truth in return.