Page 85 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"They offered me a graceful exit to protect the firm's reputation." My voice doesn't sound like my own—too flat, too controlled, scrubbed clean of the rage vibrating through my body. "Remote work only. Effective immediately."
I move past him toward the windows, needing distance, needing air. Needing not to smell his cologne, or register the heat of his body as I pass. My reflection in the glass looks hollowed out. A woman trying to remember who she was before today. Before him.
"I'll call Martin." His voice hardens with that quiet authority that once made me feel protected. Now it scrapes against my raw nerves like sandpaper. "This is?—"
"Don't."
The word slices between us, sharper than I intend. I see him flinch in the glass.
I turn slowly, something unraveling inside me. Something I've kept tightly wound since the divorce papers landed on my kitchen table four years ago.
"Don't fix this. Don't manage it." My voice cracks on the last word, betraying me. I swallow hard, reclaiming control. "Don't use your power, or your money, or your influence to solve a problem you created."
The silence that follows feels radioactive. Dangerous. When I look at him again, I find him watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with memories I've spent years trying to bury.
"You waited until now?" I finally ask, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper. "After I rebuilt everything? After I learned how to be whole without needing you for anything but Jaden?"
He takes a step toward me, then stops himself. Something vulnerable breaks through his carefully constructed control—a crack in the perfect façade of Jakob Giannetti, corporate titan.
"I wanted to protect you, Chanel."
A laugh escapes me—a sound so bitter it burns my throat. "You wanted to protect me." I repeat the words, each one a stone I want to throw at him. "That's what you keep saying. That's your justification for four years of silence."
I grip the counter edge, knuckles going white. My hands won't stop shaking. I need him not to see this weakness, this evidence that he still affects me.
"You didn't protect me, Jakob." The words taste like blood in my mouth. "You positioned me."
His eyes widen fractionally—the only sign that the blow landed.
"You positioned me as the woman you stopped wanting. The woman you cheated on. The woman who wasn't enough." My voice splinters around the edges, composure cracking. "You let me carry that weight for four years while you played the silent martyr."
"That wasn't my intention."
"Your intentions mean nothing against your impact." The control I've maintained starts to slip. Words tumble out faster, harder. "Do you know what it costs to rebuild from abandonment? To explain to your child why his parents couldn't stay together? To fight for respect in boardrooms where they're ready to dismiss me as'angry Black single mother'instead of seeing the financial strategist I've become? To watch years of hard-earned credibility dissolve into stereotype the moment they learn about our history?"
He steps toward me, one hand extended. I jerk back so violently my hip catches the counter edge, pain flaring sharp against my side.
"Don't."
He freezes, hand still outstretched. His fingers curl slowly into a fist before dropping to his side. I watch his throat work as he swallows.
"I never meant to hurt you," he says, voice rough with something that might be regret.
"That's what you said yesterday." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold. "That's what you've been saying since I walked back into your life. As if intention negates consequence."
I move toward the guest room where my things are still scattered—evidence of our temporary cohabitation. Each item I touch feels contaminated now, tainted by proximity to a man I can't seem to escape.
"You let her win." The accusation slips out before I can stop it, soft but lethal. "You gave Megan exactly what she wanted. You surrendered to her threat instead of fighting for us."
"I was trying to save you from her vendetta."
"No." I turn back to him, fury washing through me in a wave so powerful my vision blurs at the edges. "You were trying to save yourself from having to fight for what mattered. It was easier to walk away than to face the consequences of your choices. Easier to divorce me than to trust me with the truth."
He moves toward me with the fluid grace of a man accustomed to taking up space, to claiming territory. This time I don't retreat. Can't. My legs won't obey the command to move, to maintain distance.
"You're not the man I needed, Jakob." The words come from somewhere beneath my ribs, raw and bleeding. "You're the man I left."
Something fractures in his expression—pain so naked it's almost obscene on a face usually so controlled. I feel a savage pleasure at the sight, then immediate, crushing shame for wanting to wound him.
