Page 6 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

“Don’t pretend this is a coincidence.” I close my laptop, finally meeting his eyes. “You showing up today, of all days.”

He studies me for a long moment, head tilted slightly. “What happened today?”

“Like you don’t know.” I start gathering my things, movements sharp with anger I can’t quite contain. “The security breach. The partners meeting. The convenient discovery of our past connection.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by something that looks almost like fury. “Chanel?—”

“Save it.” I cut him off, standing abruptly. “I don’t need your explanation. Or your help. I can handle this myself.”

“I’m sure you can.” He doesn’t move from his seat, just watches me with that unnerving steadiness. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I know what’s happening.” His voice drops lower. “And it’s not what you think.”

I laugh, short and sharp. “Enlighten me, then.”

“Not here.” He glances toward the glass walls, the open office beyond where people pretend not to watch us. “My office. Tonight.”

“Not a chance.” I sling my bag over my shoulder.

“Seven o’clock.” He stands now, buttoning his suit jacket in one smooth motion. “If you want answers.”

“I’ll find my own answers.” I move toward the door. “I always do.”

“I have no doubt.” Something like respect flickers in his eyes. “But this time, you might want to hear mine first.”

I don’t respond. Just walk out, past curious eyes and whispered speculations, straight to the elevator and down to the parking garage, where I can finally breathe again.

The call comes at 6:17 p.m., exactly twelve hours after the first email.

“They canceled the partners’ meeting.” Marina’s voice is tight with confusion. “Phillip says they addressed the security concerns.”

“What does that mean?” I pace my kitchen, phone pressed to my ear.

“He wouldn’t say. Just that we’re proceeding as planned, under your leadership.”

Something doesn’t fit. The partners don’t reverse course without reason. Security concerns don’t just disappear.

“Did he mention who resolved the issues?”

A pause. “Not specifically. But whispers said he had a meeting with Mr. Giannetti.”

The floor tilts beneath me again, this time for a different reason. “I see.”

“Chanel.” Marina’s voice drops lower. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” I keep my tone professional. Distant. “We’re back on track. That’s what matters.”

“If you say so.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “See you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.” I hang up before she can ask more questions I don’t want to answer.

I set the phone down carefully, like it might detonate. Jakob met with Phillip. After our conversation. After I walked away, after I told him I didn’t need his help.

And now the partners’ meeting is canceled. The security concerns are addressed. My leadership position is secure.

Jakob defended me. Behind closed doors, in conversations I wasn’t part of, he defended me.

I should be relieved. Grateful, even. Instead, I feel something dangerous uncoiling in my chest—hot and tight and impossible to ignore.

Not because he thought I needed defending.

But because he never doubted me.

I pick up my phone again, open a new message to a number I only use to communicate about our son. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a long moment before I type: I never needed your protection. Just your truth.

I stare at the words—black against white, stark and honest in a way we never were with each other. My thumb hovers over the send button.

One press to begin a conversation four years overdue.

Or the reopening of a wound finally beginning to heal.

I delete the message.

Some truths are too dangerous to speak aloud. Some silences are safer than words.

I set the phone down and walk to the window, looking out at the Brooklyn streets below. Somewhere across the river, in a high-rise, Jakob is probably doing the same thing—looking out at the same city. Breathing the same air.

Keeping the same secrets.

I press my palm against the cool glass. Four years of careful distance collapsed in the space of two weeks.

Four years of controlled co-parenting and avoided gazes and separate parent-teacher conferences—all undermined by proximity, shared purpose, and the undeniable gravity that still pulls us toward each other, even when we know better.

My phone buzzes on the counter behind me. I turn, expecting Marina with more questions. Or Latanya, checking in about dinner tomorrow.

Instead, I see his name on the screen. One new message.

The Singapore files are ready. My office. Tomorrow. 6 p.m .

No mention of today’s events. No acknowledgment of his intervention. No personal touch at all.

Just business. Just the audit. Just the indifference masked as professional courtesy.

I don’t respond immediately. Let him wait. Let him wonder if I’ll show up or send someone else in my place.

Finally, I type back: I’ll be there.

Three words that commit me to nothing beyond professional obligation.

Three words that nonetheless feel like stepping off a cliff.