Page 20 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"Tell me you found someone,” I answer without preamble.
"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.
