Page 50 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"What?"
"Dance with me." His eyes hold mine, something almost vulnerable in their depths that makes my chest ache. "Make them believe."
The string quartet has started playing—something slow and achingly beautiful. Couples move toward the dance floor.
I should refuse. But I hear myself saying, "Alright.”
He places our champagne flutes on a passing tray, surrendering to inevitability.
His hand slides down my arm to capture my fingers. The contact sends heat spiraling up to my shoulder, across my chest, down to my stomach.
He leads me to the edge of the dance floor, then turns, drawing me into the circle of his arms. One hand at my waist.The other holding mine. Proper. Respectful. Just close enough to be convincing.
But as the music swells, his hold shifts. His hand slides lower on my back, fingertips grazing the exposed skin where the dress dips.
My body responds instantly—nerves firing, skin heating, breath catching in my throat. The warmth of him seeps through silk.
I'm pulled closer, the space between us narrowing until I can feel the hard plane of his chest against mine. The subtle pressure of his thigh as we turn.
We move together as if we never stopped—his lead subtle but confident, my body following without thought. Like breathing. Like existing. Like something we never had to learn because it was coded into our cells.
"They're watching," he murmurs, lips close enough to my ear that I feel his breath stir loose strands of hair.
"Who?" My voice emerges breathless, betraying me.
"Everyone." His thumb traces my spine, sending liquid heat pooling at the base.
"Good," I say, forcing steadiness into my voice. "That's the point, isn't it?"
His eyes find mine, something shifting in their depths—a crack in the careful mask he's worn all night. "Is it?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with meanings I can't afford to parse. Instead, I let him guide me through another turn—my dress a whisper of silk against his legs, his hand a brand of heat against my skin.
The music builds, and so does the tension. His hold tightens fractionally. My fingers curl against his shoulder, feeling the strength beneath. Our bodies draw closer, an inevitability neither of us seems able to resist.
When the song ends, we don't immediately part. Just stand there, barely breathing, caught in a moment that feels too real for comfort. His eyes drop to my mouth. My lips part instinctively. The air between us thickens with possibility.
"Champagne," I say finally, needing distance. Needing clarity. Needing to remember this is a pretense.
He nods, releasing me with a reluctance I can feel in his fingertips as they trail along my waist. "I'll get us fresh glasses."
As he moves away, I exhale shakily. This is harder than expected. Not the performance—that comes naturally. But maintaining the wall between performance and truth. Between the woman playing at reconciliation, and the woman who still remembers how it felt to be loved by Jakob Giannetti.
I make my way to the edge of the room, needing space to rebuild my defenses. A few acquaintances nod as I pass—recognition, curiosity, perhaps a hint of judgment in some gazes. I keep my expression neutral, my posture confident. The mask firmly in place while beneath it, my skin still burns from his touch.
"Chanel." A voice at my elbow—feminine, familiar. I turn to find Eliza Chapman, a former acquaintance from when I first moved to New York after college. "It's been ages."
"Eliza." I smile, genuinely pleased to see a friendly face. "How are you?"
"Thriving." She gestures to her protruding belly. "Number three on the way."
"Congratulations." My smile warms further. "That's wonderful."
"And you?" Her eyes flick across the room to where Jakob stands at the bar. "Rumor has it you two are..."
"Taking things slowly," I supply, the practiced line coming easily. "For Jaden's sake."
"Smart." She nods approvingly. "Kids need stability. And God knows you two were always..." She trails off, something like envy in her eyes. "Well. Let’s just say your divorce surprised us all.
