Page 25 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
I straighten, needing distance to think clearly. “Who has both the access and the motive?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, just watches me with unreadable eyes.
“You have a theory,” I press.
“I do.” He closes the laptop, decision made. “But it’s getting late, and you need time to process what we’ve already covered.”
The dismissal, however gentle, ignites a flare of irritation. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Decide what I need. What I can handle.” I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “I’m not fragile, Jakob.”
“I never said you were.” Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a tightness at the corners of his mouth. “But even the strongest foundations need time to set.”
Before I can argue further, he stands, ending the conversation. “You should stay here tonight.”
The suggestion catches me off guard. “Excuse me?”
“It’s late. You’ve been drinking. And the security situation is escalating.” He says it all matter-of-factly, as if suggesting I borrow an umbrella for rain. “The guest room is made up.”
“I’m not staying here.” I gather my laptop and files.
“It’s the most secure option.”
“It’s inappropriate.”
“It’s practical.” He doesn’t move to stop me, just watches with that unnerving steadiness. “But the choice is yours. As always.”
The last part catches like a hook under my ribs—as if I had a choice four years ago when he walked away. As if I had a choice two weeks ago when he reappeared in my professional life. As if Ihave a choice now, with someone threatening my credibility and my career.
“I’ll call a car.”
“Already done.” He nods toward the door. “It’s waiting downstairs.”
Of course, it is. Jakob Giannetti is always three steps ahead. Always controlling the variables. He always makes sure to appear reasonable, yet gives me no real options at all.
I zip my bag closed, sling it over my shoulder, and move toward the door without looking back. “I’ll review the rest of the files tomorrow.”
“6 p.m.,” he confirms. “Here.”
I stop at the door, hand on the knob. “My office would be more appropriate.”
“And less secure.” His voice is closer now—he’s followed me to the door. “The breach originated inside RSV’s network. Until we identify the source, all sensitive work happens here.”
I turn to face him, ready to argue further. But the words die in my throat at his expression—not arrogance or control, but something closer to concern. Genuine concern.
“Fine.” I concede the point with poor grace. “Tomorrow. 6 p.m.”
He nods once, satisfaction ghosting across his features. “I’ll walk you down.”
“That’s unnecessary.”
“Humor me.” He opens the door, holding it for me with old-fashioned courtesy that feels both familiar and strange.
I step past him into the hallway, hyperaware of his presence behind me. The elevator ride down thirty-eight floors is silent and tense with unspoken words.
In the lobby, a black Suburban idles at the curb, the driver standing beside the open rear door. Jakob nods to him as we approach.
