Page 55 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"My company doesn't need protection." I stand, needing the height, needing any advantage in this unexpected battle. "It needs execution."
"What it needs is leadership that listens to expertise." She doesn't back down, doesn't cede the single inch I've come to expect from everyone else in my orbit. "But that was always your problem, wasn't it?"
And there it is—the shift from professional to personal. The line crossed. The first public acknowledgment of our history since she walked back into my life.
I sense the analysts' discomfort sharpen.
"That's enough for today," I say, not taking my eyes off Chanel. "We'll reconvene tomorrow. Mitchell, prepare the revised Singapore analysis. Davis, coordinate with legal on the compliance verification."
They don't need to be told twice. Chairs scrape back. Laptops close. Bodies exit with the urgent efficiency of people escaping a burning building.
When the door closes behind them, leaving us alone in the sudden silence, I exhale slowly through my nose. Count backward from ten. Rebuilding control that should never have slipped.
"What the hell was that?" My voice drops to a register I've never used with her before.
"That was me doing my job." She gathers her papers, movements sharp with controlled fury. "The job you're paying my firm to do. The one you're now telling me to compromise."
"I'm not asking you to compromise. I'm asking you to adapt."
"No, you're asking me to sign off on a timeline that puts your company at risk because you're too stubborn to listen to reason." She slams her portfolio closed, the sound cracking like a gunshot in the quiet room. "Typical."
The word ignites something dangerous within me. "Typical? You want to talk about typical, Chanel? How about your typical refusal to bend even when the situation demands it? Your typical insistence that your way is the only way? Your typical?—"
"Don't." She cuts me off, eyes flashing. "Don't make this about us."
"Isn't it already?" I step closer, control fraying with each word. "Isn't that what this is really about? Not the timeline. But us."
"There is no us." She doesn't back away, even as I advance, even as the space between us narrows to nothing. "There's a business arrangement. A professional relationship. That's all."
"Is that what you tell yourself when you wake up under my roof?" I'm close enough to count the frantic pulse at her throat—a rhythm that betrays her calm facade. "When you wear my clothes to sleep? When you sleep in my sofa? That it's just business?"
"Stop." Her voice wavers for the first time, uncertainty bleeding through anger.
"When you kissed me?" I lower my voice, leaning closer, close enough to smell her perfume, to feel the heat radiating from her skin. “Was that just business, too?”
Her eyes widen, realization dawning. "You?—"
"I covered you with a blanket." The words escape me, more jagged than I meant. "I touched your hair. Your face. You didn’t wake up. But you sensed it was me."
She remains silent, but the quickening of her breath betrays her, each rise and fall of her chest echoing the frantic beat in my ears. But I can't stop myself.
"Tell me this is just business, Chanel." I'm asking for a lie. I need her to reestablish this boundary before I annihilate it. "Tell me there's nothing else happening here."
"I can't."
Something breaks in me—self-control, resolve, the barriers I built in steel since she walked away.
My hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone in a reminder of last night's touch. She stills beneath my palm, eyes locked on mine, waiting.
I don't think. Don't calculate. Don't weigh the consequences. I just close the final distance between us, finding her mouth with the precision of muscle memory that never fades.
For one heartbeat, she doesn't respond. Then her lips part, her body arches, her hands fist the lapel of my jacket, pulling me closer or pushing me away. She doesn't seem to know which. And I don't give a damn.
I don't give her time to decide. I deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against hers in a reunion that feels like coming home and stepping off a cliff simultaneously.
She makes a sound against my mouth that sounds like hunger. Her hands release my shirt to slide up my chest, around my neck, fingers threading into my hair with bruising force.
I back her against the conference table, lifting her onto its edge without breaking the kiss. My hands spanning her waist, thumbs pressing into hipbones through the fabric of her skirt.
