Page 79 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Her coffee mug left on the counter, lipstick staining the rim. The indent of her body on my couch, still warm when I press my palm against it. The whispered conversations with our son down the hall, her laugh softening in ways I haven't heard in years.
I stand at the windows of the penthouse tonight, Manhattan's lights like a galaxy spread beneath me—distant, cold, beautiful.
Behind me, Chanel moves through the kitchen with quiet precision, the soft sounds of domesticity an exquisite torture. She's wearing one of my shirts, stolen from my closet without asking. The fabric drapes across her shoulders, falls to mid-thigh, transforms something mundane into something sacred.
My throat tightens each time she reaches for something on a high shelf, the hem rising just enough to make my hands flex at my sides.
This isn't just cohabitation. It's resurrection. A life I buried four years ago, clawing its way back to the surface, making me believe in ghosts.
"You're staring," she says without turning, arranging takeout containers with the same meticulous attention she once gave to spreadsheets at my dining room table, years ago. Back when this was our home, not my fortress.
"I'm memorizing," I correct, crossing to her.
My hand finds the small of her back, that perfect curve I've traced with fingertips and lips and memory. Something fractures in my chest when she doesn't pull away.
"This feels?—"
"Don't." She glances up, eyes holding mine with that fierce intelligence that first unraveled me in grad school. Something fragile lives in the warning. "The moment you name something good, you invite its destruction."
I press my lips to her temple instead, breathing her in—coconut shampoo, that perfume she dabs at her throat each morning, the underlying note that's simply her. Something hot and possessive coils low in my gut, primitive and uncontrollable.
"Superstitious," I murmur against her skin.
"Protective," she counters, but leans into the touch.
Her phone vibrates on the counter, screen illuminating with an email notification. She glances at it, then freezes beneath my hand. I feel it before I see it—the way her body goes rigid, how her breath catches and holds.
Every instinct I possess sharpens to a killing edge.
"What is it?" I ask, though something thick and toxic already fills my lungs, choking me. The feeling is sickeningly familiar—the suspended moment before markets crash, the silence before betrayal speaks its name.
She doesn't answer, just passes me the phone with fingers gone cold. I scan the message, each word slicing deeper than thelast. It's addressed to Chanel, copied to the RSV executive board, the Novare leadership team, and several financial news outlets.
Ms. Warren,
This serves as formal notice that your continued involvement with both, the White Glove Pivot audit and Jakob Giannetti constitutes a conflict of interest requiring immediate legal redress.
Beyond the obvious impropriety of your undisclosed personal relationship with the subject of your audit, we have obtained evidence of communications suggesting potential fraud, market manipulation, and deliberate misrepresentation of financial findings.
Should you fail to withdraw from both the audit and your relationship with Mr. Giannetti within 48 hours, this evidence will be submitted to the SEC, the Financial Conduct Authority, and all relevant media outlets.
Separately, we believe Mr. Giannetti should be reminded of our previous conversation regarding confidential matters from Novare's early operations. As a founding partner, I retain extensive documentation of our initial client engagements, funding channels, and operational methods that would not withstand regulatory scrutiny. That information remains secured — for now.
Regards, Megan Ardano, Esquire Ardano Holdings
My phone buzzes next—the same message with an attachment. I open it to find copies of doctored communications, fabricated evidence of collusion between Chanel and me. Conversations that never happened. Numbers that tell a story of corruption rather than the truth.
The cold in my chest crystallizes into something harder. More lethal.
"She's coming for you directly now," I say, voice tight with controlled violence. "She's done playing in the shadows."
Chanel steps back, arms crossing over her chest. The inches between us stretch to miles.
"This isn't just about me. She mentions'confidential matters.' What is she talking about, Jakob?"
The moment crystallizes—perfect, terrible clarity. I've been here before, standing at the precipice of truth and consequence, calculating what to reveal and what to protect. Four years ago, I chose silence. Chose to shield Chanel from Megan's toxicity by walking away rather than dragging her into the darkness of what I'd done.
Now Megan's left me no choice.
