Page 8 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

"Not someone. Something.” His voice is tight, controlled. "The access pattern doesn't match any human behavior. It's automated. Scripted."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning someone planted code in our system. It's been dormant, waiting for triggers. The audit activated it."

"Can you isolate it?"

"Working on it. But Jake…" He hesitates. "It's sophisticated. Professional grade. This isn't a random attack."

"I know." I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting against a tension headache. "Keep me updated."

I hang up, mind racing through implications, scenarios, responses. If it's code, it's trackable. If it's trackable, it's stoppable. But not before it does more damage.

Not before it gets to Chanel.

I stare out at the city lights, now bright against the darkened sky. Let the coldness settle in my chest, the familiar detachment that makes necessary decisions possible.

I have to move her closer. Keep her where I can see her. Where I can protect her.

I pick up my phone, type a message to Chanel's firm address: Relocation advised. Security concerns. Audit work to continue at Novare headquarters effective immediately.

Professional. Impersonal. Nothing to suggest it's anything but standard protocol.

Nothing to reveal the truth: that I'm pulling her into my orbit not just to protect the audit, but to protect her.

That I'm doing exactly what I swore I wouldn't do four years ago: putting her in the center of my storm.

I send the message before I can reconsider. Then stand, gather my things, and head for the door. There's nothing more I can do tonight. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new threats, new decisions.

Tomorrow, Chanel Warren will be in my building. Under my roof. Within my reach.

Where I can protect her.

Where I can watch her.

Where I can pretend it's all for the audit—and not because the thought of her in danger makes something violent stir in my chest.

Home is quiet when I arrive. Mrs. Abernathy has left dinner in the warming drawer and a note on the counter: Jaden has a sleepover tomorrow. Will pick up 10 a.m Saturday.

The empty penthouse echoes with my movements—jacket dropped on a chair, shoes kicked off, scotch poured into a crystal tumbler.

Tonight, there's no excited voice chattering about school. No small body launching into my arms. No reminder that something good came from the wreckage of my marriage.

Just silence and city lights and the weight of decisions I can't undo.

I carry my drink to the terrace, the October air crisp against my skin. Below, Manhattan pulses with life—cars crawling through gridlock, people spilling from restaurants, lights blinking on in apartment windows.

All those lives, all those stories, all those secrets.

And somewhere out there, Chanel is reading my message. Processing what it means. Deciding how to respond.

I wonder if she'll fight it. If she'll see through the professional veneer to the personal motive beneath. If she'll call me on my bullshit the way she used to—eyes flashing, chin lifted, voice steady even as her hands shook with anger.

God, I miss that. Miss her fury. Her fire. The way she never backed down, never let me hide behind silence, strategy or wealth.

The woman who saw through every defense I'd built since childhood and demanded better.

I drain my scotch. The alcohol burns a path down my throat.

Our rhythm was disrupted by ambition. Years of calculated choices now depend on the outcome of the audit. But at what cost?

Because it doesn’t erase the undeniable truth I've been running from: I never stopped loving her.

But loving her doesn’t change the fact that what she doesn't know—and I'll never tell her—is that it's not just about keeping her safe from external threats.

It's about keeping her safe from me.

From the man who broke her heart to save her life.

From the man who would do it again, if necessary.

From the man who still wakes up reaching for her, even after all this time.

I check my phone. No response from Chanel. No update from Collins. No movement on any front.

Just silence and waiting and the growing certainty that something worse is coming.

I've always been good at strategy. At seeing the board, anticipating moves, calculating risks, and rewards. It's what built Novare. What made me wealthy beyond my inheritance. What kept me alive in the shark tank of Manhattan finance.

But with Chanel back in play, the rules change. The stakes rise. The consequences of failure become unacceptable.

Because this isn't just about the White Glove Pivot anymore.

It's about her. About Jaden. About the family I destroyed to protect.

About the truth I buried so deep, I sometimes convince myself it never happened.

I turn away from the city view, back toward the empty penthouse that never felt like home. Tomorrow, everything changes.

Tomorrow, the careful distance collapses. Tomorrow, we step back into each other's orbits. Whether we're ready or not.

And the truth is, I'm not ready. Not for her scrutiny. Not for her presence. Not for the way she sees through every lie I tell myself.

But ready or not, it's happening.

I close the terrace door behind me, locking it with a decisive click. Then I move through the dark halls to my bedroom, not bothering with lights. Darkness suits my mood. Matches the cold clarity settling in my chest.

Whatever's coming—whoever's coming for us—I'll be ready.

Not because I'm brave, good or worthy of second chances. But because when it comes to protecting what matters, I've never had limits.

And Chanel Warren, whether she knows it or not, still matters more than anything.

And that makes me a very dangerous man.