Page 80 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"We need to sit down," I say, gesturing toward the living room, buying seconds I don't deserve.
"No."
The single syllable cuts like a blade. Chanel's voice isn't raised—it's lowered, stripped to something elemental.
"No more managed conversations. No more calculated revelations. Whatever you need to say, say it now. Right here."
Her eyes meet mine, unwavering. Something collapses inside me—the architecture of control I've built my life around. She deserves this—the unvarnished truth, not the sanitized version I've been parceling out in safe increments.
"Megan has evidence from Novare's early days," I begin, forcing the words past the resistance in my throat. The taste of copper floods my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek. "Transactions. Clients. Methods that wouldn't withstand regulatory scrutiny."
"The audit would have uncovered that."
"No." I shake my head. "I buried it years ago. Restructured everything when I took full control. The evidence shouldn't exist anymore, but Megan kept copies. Insurance, she called it."
Understanding begins to dawn in Chanel's eyes—a terrible clarity I've dreaded witnessing since the day I walked away. Iwatch it happen—the pieces connecting, the past rewriting itself in her mind.
"You founded Novare with her," she says, piecing it together. "She was your business partner."
"Yes. We built it together after grad school."
"And the affair," she says quietly. "It was with her."
It's not a question. Her eyes hold something deeper than accusation—knowledge. She's suspected this. Perhaps always has.
The room tilts beneath me. My pulse thunders in my ears. I taste metal, smell fear—my own. Still, I keep my face composed, though everything inside me splinters.
"Yes."
"The woman your family always wanted for you," she says, and though her voice doesn't break, something in her eyes does. "The right match. Same world. Same privileges. Same...race."
The words hit like body blows. I don't flinch, but something tears inside me—old scar tissue ripping open.
"During our separation."
"Yes." My voice sounds distant to my own ears. Blood rushes through my head, a deafening roar. "Once. It wasn't?—"
"Don't."
She holds up a hand. The gesture feels absolute, like a door slamming shut.
"I don't need the details of what you did or didn't do with her body. What I need is the truth about why you left me."
The floor seems to shift beneath me. This is the moment I've avoided for four years—the reckoning I feared would destroy whatever remained between us. I see us suddenly in double exposure: here in this kitchen, and years ago in another one, where I made the decision that broke us both.
Megan's face, flushed with triumph. The photographs spread across my desk. The voice recordings. The fabricated emailslinking Chanel to insider trading schemes she'd never been part of.
"She'll never recover from this,"Megan had promised."But you can protect her, Jakob. You know how."
"Megan used what happened as leverage," I say, each word dragging from somewhere raw and unprotected. My hands shake. I hide them in my pockets. "She threatened to destroy everything—the company, yes, but more importantly, you. Your career. Your reputation. She had... resources. Connections. The ability to make allegations that would follow you regardless of truth."
Chanel's face doesn't change, but I see her throat work as she swallows. The pulse at the hollow of her neck beats too fast.
"She wanted me," I continue, needing her to understand. The words taste like ash. "Not just physically. She wanted what we had. What I chose instead of her. The narrative was always supposed to be different—the Giannetti heir and the Ardano heiress. Two dynasties. A perfect merger."
I can still see my father's face the first time I brought Chanel home. The careful neutrality masking disapproval. "She's very...accomplished," he'd said later. A word chosen to avoid others.
"So, you filed for divorce," she says, voice terrifyingly even. "To protect me."
