Page 9 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

FIVE

THE QUIET DECISION

CHANEL

I don’t knock.

The penthouse door swings open before my knuckles can connect with the wood, as if Jakob knew the exact second I’d arrive. He stands in the doorway, tie loosened, sleeves rolled to the elbows, eyes watchful.

“Chanel.” He steps aside to let me pass. No smile. No pleasantries. Just my name, spoken with careful neutrality.

I walk and scan the home I haven’t seen since I moved out.

The space feels both familiar and foreign—the same panoramic windows overlooking Manhattan, the same minimalist furniture, the same stark palette of white, black, and steel.

But the art is different. The books are arranged differently.

The air smells of an unfamiliar cologne.

This isn’t our home anymore. It’s his territory now.

“The dining table is set up for us to work,” he says, closing the door behind us.

I follow him through the open-concept space, maintaining a distance between us. The presence of my laptop bag grounds me, the strap clenched in my fist like a lifeline I didn’t know I needed.

The dining table—twelve feet of polished black glass that we used exactly twice during our marriage—is now a command center. Laptops open. Documents spread. Coffee mugs at strategic intervals.

“You’ve been busy,” I observe, setting my bag down on one of the empty chairs.

“Preparing.” He gestures to the seat at the head of the table. “That one’s yours.”

The positioning is deliberate. Not beside him. Not across from him. But at the head. A small redistribution of power that throws me slightly off balance.

I sit, keeping my coat on. A statement that I won’t be staying long.

Jakob doesn’t comment on it. Just takes the seat to my right, angling his body toward me. “Coffee?”

“No.” I open my laptop, and the password screens flash before the home screen appears. “Let’s just get started.”

He studies me for a moment, then nods once. “The Singapore files first, then.”

We work with sterile efficiency for the next hour. He walks me through the proprietary data—trading algorithms, client portfolios, and internal risk assessments.

I take notes. Ask questions. Push where necessary. Challenge when appropriate.

Our voices stay professional. Our eyes on the screens more than each other.

If anyone were watching, they’d see two colleagues working late. Nothing more.

But beneath the surface, tension hums like a live wire.

I feel his gaze when I’m not looking. Feel the careful space he maintains between us. Feel the weight of history pressing against my resolve to remain indifferent—as if there wasn’t a time, he was my everything.

“This risk profile,” I say, pointing to a chart on his screen. “The exposure levels seem inconsistent with the hedging strategy.”

“They are.” He leans closer—not enough to touch, but enough that I catch the scent of him. “That’s the point. Look at the correlation matrix.”

I force my focus to the numbers, not his proximity. “You’re deliberately maintaining vulnerability in these sectors?”

“Strategic vulnerability.” He taps the screen. “We’re inviting oversight where we can control the narrative.”

“While obscuring the real risk areas.” I sit back, something clicking into place. “This entire audit… It’s a controlled burn.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “The best defense is a strategic offense.”

“You’re sacrificing certain positions to protect others.” I scan the data with new understanding. “Which begs the question: what exactly are you protecting, Jakob?”

His name slips out before I can catch it. The first time I’ve said it aloud without calculation.

He goes still for a fraction of a second—so brief I would’ve missed it if I weren’t watching for it.

“The White Glove Pivot depends on perceived transparency.” He doesn’t answer my real question. “We’re providing exactly that.”

“Perceived transparency isn’t actual transparency.”

“In this business, perception is reality.” He turns his screen toward me, pulling up another file. “Which brings us to the more pressing issue.”

The screen fills with security logs—timestamps, access points, file pathways. My credentials, moving through the Novare system in patterns I don’t recognize.

“These aren’t mine,” I say immediately.

“I know.” His voice lacks the accusation I expected. “The behavioral pattern doesn’t match yours. You’re methodical. Sequential. These access points are scattered, opportunistic.”

I look up from the screen, studying his face. “You analyzed my digital behavior?”

“I had our security team analyze all authorized users.” He meets my gaze directly. “Your pattern deviation was the most significant.”

“Because it’s not me.”

“Exactly.” He leans back in his chair, putting deliberate distance between us. “Someone is targeting you specifically. Using your credentials to access sensitive files. Creating a digital trail that looks like corporate espionage.”

The implication settles cold in my stomach. “To discredit the audit.”

“To discredit you.” His voice drops lower. “The question is why.”

I close my laptop, needing a moment to process. Someone is systematically undermining me.

First the server delays. Then the security flags. Now this—digital impersonation sophisticated enough to breach Novare’s systems.

“You have theories,” I say—not a question.

He studies me for a long moment, eyes unreadable. “Several.”

“And you’re not going to share them.”

“Not yet.” He stands abruptly. “I need a drink. You?”

The sudden shift throws me. “What?”

“A drink.” He moves toward the kitchen. “Scotch? Wine? Water?”

“Wine,” I say after a pause. “Red.”

He nods, disappearing around the corner.

I hear cabinet doors opening, glasses clinking, the soft pop of a cork being extracted.

Sounds that trigger unwelcome memories I’ve spent years burying—nights working late in this same apartment, Jakob bringing me wine, his hand brushing mine as he passed the glass.

I push the memories away. Stand. Move to the windows, needing distance from the table, the work, the past pressing in from all sides.

Manhattan sprawls before me, a glittering grid of light and ambition. Somewhere in that maze of steel and glass, someone is moving against me. Trying to destroy what I’ve built.

And here I am, back in the penthouse I walked away from four years ago, with the man who let me go without a fight.

“Cabernet.” Jakob’s behind me, closer than expected. “Still your preference?”

I turn to find him standing three feet away, holding out a glass of deep red wine. His face is carefully neutral, but something flickers in his eyes when our fingers brush during the exchange.

“Thank you.” I take a small sip, needing something to do with my hands. The wine is excellent—rich, complex, and expensive. Not the kind of wine I keep at my place.

During our divorce, I tried to walk away with nothing. I didn’t marry Jakob for his money, and I didn’t want it when it ended. But he insisted—threatened to take it to court if I didn’t accept a settlement. In the end, I walked away with enough to buy a small country.

My mother called me insane for depositing it and refusing to spend a dime. But it felt dirty—like hush money for a marriage I didn’t agree to end.

Jakob moves to stand beside me at the window, his glass of scotch, neat, held loosely in long fingers I used to know by touch.

For a moment, we stand, looking out at the city, not speaking. The silence should be uncomfortable. Instead, it feels like the first honest thing between us since I walked into his boardroom two weeks ago.

“I told them if they removed you, I’d pull the audit. Scrap the engagement. Walk away from the entire pivot.”

“What fallout?”

“If RSV had forced you off the file.” He lifts his glass, eyes on the skyline. “I was prepared to terminate the engagement. Absorb the market reaction. Delay everything.”

“That would’ve cost you billions.”

“Yes.”

“Why?” I turn to face him fully. “Why risk that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares out at the city, jaw tight, weighing something unspoken.

“The audit’s integrity matters,” he says finally.

“Bullshit.” The bite in my voice surprises even me. “There are a dozen firms that could handle this audit. You didn’t threaten to burn it all down over integrity.”

His eyes meet mine, something dangerous flickering in their depths. “What do you think I did it for?”

“I don’t know.” I set my wine glass on the window ledge with a decisive click. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

“No.” He turns toward me, and I tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. “You’re asking me to give you a reason you can dismiss. A reason that fits your narrative about who I am. And who we were.”

The accusation hits its mark—clean and precise. I take an involuntary step back.

“I don’t have a narrative.”

“Everyone has a narrative, Chanel.” He doesn’t follow my retreat, just watches with those too-perceptive eyes. “Especially about the things that hurt them.”

I look away first, unable to hold his gaze without revealing too much. “We should get back to work.”

He doesn’t move. “You asked why I was willing to accept the fallout. The answer is simple: I trust your work. I trust your judgment. I trust you to do the job right, regardless of our history.”

The words hang between us, testing the boundaries of this fragile veneer we’ve constructed.

“Trust,” I repeat, not sure how to respond. “After everything.”

“Some things don’t change.” He steps back, giving me space to breathe. “No matter how much we might want them to.”

Before I can respond, his phone buzzes from the table. He moves to check it, a frown crossing his face as he reads the message.

“Problem?” I ask, grateful for the interruption.

“Potentially.” He sets the phone down. “Collins found another breach attempt. Different pattern this time. More aggressive.”

“What are they after?”

“Not what. Who.” He looks up, eyes meeting mine. “You.”

The word lands like a physical blow. “Me?”