Page 1 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
ONE
SCAR TISSUE
CHANEL
I don’t make mistakes anymore. Not the kind that leave scars.
Not in client meetings, not during audit preparations, and definitely not with men who've already proven they can break me.
So when I step into the thirty-second-floor conference room at Novare Global Strategies with my leather portfolio, and three hours of sleep hidden behind concealer, I'm ready. Armed with numbers that don't lie and a trained, professional smile.
What I'm not ready for ishim.
Jakob Giannetti sits at the head of the table, the Manhattan skyline framing him like a kingdom he's claimed. He's in profile when I enter, listening to the VP of Acquisitions.
His suit, a charcoal Tom Ford, is probably from that tailor on Madison he prefers. His hair is longer than it was during our marriage. Still that impossible shade between gold and brown that catches light at strange angles.
My lungs seize.
Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just a subtle hitch where oxygen should flow, while my mind calculates impossible equations:Why is he here? Who arranged this?
Who thought this was acceptable?
And beneath it all, the treacherous whisper:He still looks like mine.
Time stops as I stare at my ex-husband.
Jakob commands the space without trying—a skill he's always possessed. His shoulders stretch the seams of his suit jacket, not from bulk but from the kind of strength that comes from discipline. The charcoal fabric drapes perfectly across his frame, custom-tailored to a body I once knew by heart.
His jaw clenched slightly as he listens. The years have carved new lines at the corners of his eyes, a subtle map of stress and decisions I wasn't part of. His hands rest on the table, long fingers splayed.Those hands. They used to trace patterns on my skin at night.
My body betrays me with a rush of heat. A physical memory that has no business surviving since the ink dried on our divorce papers.
My throat tightens as his scent reaches me—cedar and clean linen, with that faint trace of vetiver I used to steal from his side of the vanity.
My skin remembers. My blood remembers. And I hate that I notice.
Hate that it still matters.
"Ms. Warren." The client liaison, Douglas Stuart, gestures toward an empty chair. "We're just getting started."
Warren. My maiden name. The name on my business cards, my office door, my reputation. The name none of my colleagues connect to Jakob Giannetti. They have no idea that the man commanding the room once commanded my heart. That for six years, I answered to a different name entirely.
I nod, muscle memory taking over as I survey the conference room. Three members of the Novare Global Strategies team on the left. Four from my firm, Rowe Stratton & Vale, on the right. And Jakob—who had Jaden yesterday for their regular Wednesday dinner—presiding over them all like a financial deity.
He hasn't noticed me yet.
I slide into the empty chair beside my supervisor, Marina, opening my portfolio with steady fingers that betray nothing of the hurricane behind my ribs. She leans close, murmuring, "White Glove audit pre-brief. Standard procedure. I've got point."
I nod again, grateful for the script. Follow protocol. Review numbers. Present findings. Don't look at Jakob. Don't remember how his voice vibrates against your skin at 3 a.m. Don't think about how he traces the curve of your shoulder while you pretend to sleep.
"—particularly concerned with the Singapore disclosures," Marina continues. "The documentation shows?—"
"The Singapore position is clean." Jakob's voice slices through the room. "The question isn't what's in the filing. It's what's missing."
My attention snaps toward him before I can control the impulse.
His gaze—ice blue ringed with darker color—collides with mine. Recognition ignites, followed by something electric and indefinable that charges the molecules between us.
