Page 54 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
My heart hammers against my ribs as I consider reaching for her, my fingers aching to trace the curve of her sleeping form. But instead, I grab the throw blanket draped over the adjacent chair, unwilling to risk crossing that line. Not because I don't want to, but because I don't deserve her.
Every cell in my body gravitates toward her like she's my personal magnetic north, the need to touch her, hold her, possess her again burns through my veins with an intensity that frightens me.
Before I can stop myself, I reach for the throw blanket again. The one she used to steal during movies, wrapping herself until only her eyes were visible above the edge.
I unfold it carefully, letting it settle over her like a whisper. My fingers brush her hair as I tuck the blanket around her shoulders. The contact, sending electricity up my arm. She stirs but doesn't wake, moving closer.
"Chanel…” I whisper.
She sighs, tension easing from her face. I should leave. Should retreat to my room with its cold sheets and hollow silence. Should stop watching her like she's oxygen and I'm drowning.
Instead, my fingers linger at her temple, tracing the curve of her cheekbone with a touch so light it barely registers. My thumb brushes the corner of her mouth, remembering its taste, its heat, its perfect fit against mine.
Her lips part on an exhale, and desire hits me like a physical blow—not just for her body, but for everything we were. Everything we lost. Everything we might still be if I could find the words to bridge the silence I built between us.
But words have never been my strength, not with her.
I fuck it up. To unpin a grenade and destroy everything.
So I straighten, pulling my hand back before I cross a line I can't uncross because having her silence is better than not having her at all.
I step away before I wake her with confessions I have no right to make. Turn toward my bedroom, counting steps to keep from turning back.
At my door, I pause, looking over my shoulder one last time. She's shifted, curling into the blanket, face peaceful now. For one breath, one heartbeat, she looks like she belongs here. Like she never left.
The illusion burns through my chest, leaving regret in its wake.
I close my bedroom door quietly behind me, but I don't sleep.
* * *
"This timeline is impossible."
Chanel's voice cuts through the conference room, sharp enough to silence the three analysts gathered around the table. Her finger taps the projection on the screen. The White Glove Pivot's final phase is scheduled for completion in six weeks.
"It's ambitious," I counter, keeping my tone neutral despite the tension coiling at the base of my spine. "Not impossible."
"Ambitious?" She turns to face me fully, eyes narrowed. "It's reckless. The compliance audit needs a thorough review. At least eight weeks of scrutiny. You're skipping essential steps."
"I'm streamlining." I hold her gaze, aware of the analysts exchanging glances. "The market won't wait while we dot every i. We move now or lose momentum."
"The market won't care if we lose compliance certification because we rushed verification." She crosses her arms, the gesture pulling her blouse tight across her chest. "This isn't about momentum. It's about your impatience."
The accusation lands like a blow, too close to personal territory. I feel my jaw tighten, control slipping.
"My impatience built this company while others were still debating risk matrices."
"And your impatience might cost you everything you've built," she fires back, not backing down an inch. "The Singapore disclosures alone need deeper analysis. The board won't sign off without it."
"The board will sign off on whatever I tell them to."
The words slip out sharper than I mean, revealing the steel I usually keep sheathed around her. The room temperature seems to drop ten degrees. The analysts freeze, eyes darting between us like spectators at a tennis match played with knives.
Chanel's spine straightens, facing me head-on, daring me to make my next move. "Then why hire my firm at all? If you're just going to dictate terms regardless of professional assessment?"
"Your firm was hired to validate, not obstruct."
"Obstruct?" Color rises in her cheeks, the flush of anger I've seen too rarely since she moved in. Since we started this careful dance of proximity without intimacy. "I'm trying to protect your company from regulatory backlash."
