Page 5 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

THREE

brEACH POINT

CHANEL

Audit server delay. Temporary access restriction. Estimated resolution: two hours.

I read it twice, coffee halfway to my lips, then set the mug down. Server delays happen. System maintenance, security patches, nothing unusual. Except this is the third one this week, and always when my team needs access to the Novare files.

By 9:30, we’re still locked out. Marina paces the conference room with the phone pressed to her ear. Four of my analysts stare at error messages. The clock ticks. The White Glove audit timeline narrows.

“This is deliberate,” Marina says when she hangs up. Her voice low—only for me. “Someone’s slowing us down.”

I don’t respond. Don’t confirm. Don’t deny. Just keep my face neutral as I scroll through my phone, looking for the IT director’s number.

Before I can find it, a new email lands:

System restored. Security audit complete. Please note: access irregularities from Terminal 8.

Terminal 8. My terminal.

My heart beats once, hard, against my ribs.

I look up, scanning the conference room. Ten faces bent over laptops, fingers tapping, minds focused. Nobody is watching me. Nobody is waiting for my reaction. But somewhere in this building, someone is moving pieces against me.

“We’re back online,” I announce, voice steady. “Let’s make up for lost time.”

The team shifts into high gear, the morning’s frustration channeling into productivity.

I move among them, reviewing findings, asking questions, pushing where needed.

On the surface: competent leadership. Beneath: hypervigilance.

I catch sideways glances from junior staff.

Whispered conversations that stop when I approach.

It starts with server delays. Then access irregularities. Next comes the doubt.

At 2:15, Marina touches my elbow. “Phillip wants to see you.” Her eyes tell me what her voice doesn’t: Something’s wrong.

Phillip Gardner, senior partner. The man who championed me for this audit. The man whose reputation is tied to mine.

His office is decorated in a way that screams old money that doesn’t need to prove itself. He doesn’t stand when I enter, just gestures to the chair across from him.

“Chanel.” He removes his glasses, setting them carefully on the desk. “How’s the Novare audit progressing?”

“We’ve had some technical delays, but we’re on schedule.” I sit straight, hands folded in my lap. “The preliminary findings are promising.”

“Good, good.” He nods, fingers tapping against his desk. “And your… relationship with the client?”

There it is . The real question is beneath the surface.

“Professional.” I keep my voice neutral. “Novare management has been cooperative.”

“All of management?” He puts his glasses back on, looking at me over the rims. “Including the CEO?”

My pulse speeds up, but I don’t let it reach my face. “Mr. Giannetti has been appropriately involved.”

“Appropriately.” He repeats the word like he’s tasting it. “Interesting choice of words.”

I say nothing. Wait for him to show his hand.

“There are concerns, Chanel.” He slides a folder across the desk. “About objectivity.”

I don’t reach for it. “Whose concerns?”

“The partners.” He sits back. “There have been suggestions that your handling of the Novare audit might be… compromised.”

“Compromised.” My voice is ice. “On what basis?”

“The access irregularities from your terminal, for one.” He gestures to the folder. “Three instances in the past week. All during non-business hours.”

“I haven’t accessed any files outside of business hours.” I finally take the folder, opening it to find system logs. My credentials. Late-night access to restricted Novare files I’ve never seen.

“Someone has.” He watches my face. “Using your authorization.”

The implication hangs between us. Either I’m lying, or someone has compromised my security credentials. Neither scenario reflects well on my leadership.

“My credentials have been misused.” I close the folder.

“That’s one possibility.” His tone suggests he’s considering others.

“It’s the only possibility.” I hand the folder back to him. “I suggest IT conduct a full security audit of credential usage patterns. They’ll find these don’t match my behavioral footprint.”

“Already underway.” He takes the folder, but doesn’t set it aside. “There’s also the matter of your… familiarity with Novare Global Strategies.”

My blood runs cold. “I’ve never worked with them before this audit.”

“Not professionally, perhaps.” His eyes lock onto mine. “But personally?”

Someone knows . Someone has connected Chanel Warren to Chanel Giannetti. The floor seems to tilt beneath me, but he’ll have to spill it—because I can do this all day.

“I’m not sure what you’re implying, Phillip.”

“I’m not implying anything.” He opens the folder again, removing a photograph. Then he slides it across the desk. “I’m asking about this.”

It’s a corporate event photo at least eight years old. Jakob and I were at a charity event, his hand on the small of my back, my face turned up toward his. We look young and in love.

I look at the photograph for exactly three seconds, then back at Phillip. “I was married to Jakob Giannetti. We divorced four years ago. We share a child. None of this affects my ability to conduct a thorough and objective audit of his company.”

To his credit, Phillip doesn’t look shocked. Just nods slowly, as if confirming a suspicion.

“Why wasn’t this disclosed?”

I meet his gaze directly. “I wasn’t aware that Novare Global Strategies would be our client until the assignment was made.”

“You could have recused yourself.”

“On what grounds?” I keep my voice level. “Our personal relationship ended years ago. We maintain a civil co-parenting arrangement. There’s no conflict of interest.”

“The partners see it differently.” He removes his glasses again, suddenly looking tired. “They’re considering reassigning the audit leadership.”

There it is . The real reason for this meeting. Not information gathering—notification. They’ve already decided.

“That would be a mistake.” I stand slowly, holding my composure. “I’m the most qualified person for this audit. My team is halfway through the document requests. A leadership change now would set the timeline back weeks.”

“It’s not about qualifications, Chanel.” His voice softens, which is worse than anger. “It’s about perception.”

“Perception can be managed. Numbers can’t. And numbers are what matter in an audit.”

“In an ideal world, perhaps.” He stands as well, signaling the end of the meeting. “But we don’t live in that world.”

“No.” I move toward the door. “We don’t.”

“The partners meet tomorrow morning.” He says it to my back. “I’ll do what I can.”

I don’t thank him. Don’t acknowledge the implied support. Just nod once and walk out, my racing heart.

In the elevator, I press the button for the ground floor instead of returning to my team. I need air. Space. A moment to process the fact that my career is being systematically dismantled by someone with access to both my past and Novare’s systems.

Four years at Rowe Stratton & Vale. Four years of rebuilding my life, piece by meticulous piece, after Jakob left.

RSV was the first real job I took after our divorce—the cornerstone of my new identity. I'd spent nights studying while Jaden slept, mornings practicing interview responses in the mirror, afternoons networking with trembling hands but a steady voice.

This firm became my foundation when everything else crumbled.

All my eggs in one basket. My mother would scold me for that. But single mothers don't get the luxury of diversification. We get one shot, one path forward. One chance to prove we can stand alone.

The lobby is crowded with the afternoon rush—people heading out for late lunches or early departures. I move through them in a daze, pushing through the revolving door into the sharp October air.

I walk two blocks before my phone buzzes. A text from Marina: Where are you? Novare’s people are here.

I stop abruptly, someone bumping into me from behind with a muttered curse. Jakob’s team is in my conference room while I’m absent. Perfect optics for someone building a case about my compromised leadership.

I turn back, walking faster now. Type a response: Stall them. On my way.

The elevator ride back up feels endless. I use the time to rebuild my walls, brick by mental brick. Whatever is happening—whoever is behind it—I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.

When the doors open, I step out with my shoulders back, chin lifted. The picture of controlled confidence.

Until I see who’s waiting in the hallway outside the conference room.

Jakob.

He’s in profile, talking to someone from his team—a tall man with close-cropped hair who nods at whatever instruction Jakob is giving. Neither notices me immediately, giving me a moment to steel myself against the impact of seeing him in my territory.

Jakob looks exactly as he did in his boardroom—commanding, controlled, untouchable. Except now he’s the one out of place. The one who doesn’t belong.

I clear my throat slightly as I approach. Both men turn.

“Mr. Giannetti.” I nod once. “I wasn’t aware you’d be joining the status update.”

“Ms. Warren.” His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. “Last-minute decision. Hope it’s not an inconvenience.”

“Not at all.” I gesture toward the conference room door. “Shall we?”

The next hour is choreographed professional performance. I present findings. Answer questions. Push back where necessary. All while hyperaware of Jakob’s presence at the far end of the table, his attention steady on my face like a physical touch I can’t brush away.

When the meeting ends, I expect him to leave with his team. Instead, he hangs back, organizing papers that don’t need organizing, until we’re the only two left in the room.

“Don’t.” I say it without looking up from my laptop.

“Don’t what?” His voice is neutral. Careful.