Page 23 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
The screen fills with security logs—timestamps, access points, file pathways. My credentials, moving through the Novare system in patterns I don’t recognize.
“These aren’t mine,” I say immediately.
“I know.” His voice lacks the accusation I expected. “The behavioral pattern doesn’t match yours. You’re methodical. Sequential. These access points are scattered, opportunistic.”
I look up from the screen, studying his face. “You analyzed my digital behavior?”
“I had our security team analyze all authorized users.” He meets my gaze directly. “Your pattern deviation was the most significant.”
“Because it’s not me.”
“Exactly.” He leans back in his chair, putting deliberate distance between us. “Someone is targeting you specifically. Using your credentials to access sensitive files. Creating a digital trail that looks like corporate espionage.”
The implication settles cold in my stomach. “To discredit the audit.”
“To discredit you.” His voice drops lower. “The question is why.”
I close my laptop, needing a moment to process. Someone is systematically undermining me.
First the server delays. Then the security flags. Now this—digital impersonation sophisticated enough to breach Novare’s systems.
“You have theories,” I say—not a question.
He studies me for a long moment, eyes unreadable. “Several.”
“And you’re not going to share them.”
“Not yet.” He stands abruptly. “I need a drink. You?”
The sudden shift throws me. “What?”
“A drink.” He moves toward the kitchen. “Scotch? Wine? Water?”
“Wine,” I say after a pause. “Red.”
He nods, disappearing around the corner. I hear cabinet doors opening, glasses clinking, the soft pop of a cork being extracted. Sounds that trigger unwelcome memories I’ve spent years burying—nights working late in this same apartment, Jakob bringing me wine, his hand brushing mine as he passed the glass.
I push the memories away. Stand. Move to the windows, needing distance from the table, the work, the past pressing in from all sides.
Manhattan sprawls before me, a glittering grid of light and ambition. Somewhere in that maze of steel and glass, someone is moving against me. Trying to destroy what I’ve built.
And here I am, back in the penthouse I walked away from four years ago, with the man who let me go without a fight.
“Cabernet.” Jakob’s behind me, closer than expected. “Still your preference?”
I turn to find him standing three feet away, holding out a glass of deep red wine. His face is carefully neutral, but something flickers in his eyes when our fingers brush during the exchange.
“Thank you.” I take a small sip, needing something to do with my hands. The wine is excellent—rich, complex, and expensive. Not the kind of wine I keep at my place.
During our divorce, I tried to walk away with nothing. I didn’t marry Jakob for his money, and I didn’t want it when it ended. But he insisted—threatened to take it to court if I didn’t accept a settlement. In the end, I walked away with enough to buy a small country.
My mother called me insane for depositing it and refusing to spend a dime. But it felt dirty—like hush money for a marriage I didn’t agree to end.
Jakob moves to stand beside me at the window, his glass of scotch, neat, held loosely in long fingers I used to know by touch.
For a moment, we stand, looking out at the city, not speaking. The silence should be uncomfortable. Instead, it feels like the first honest thing between us since I walked into his boardroom two weeks ago.
“I told them if they removed you, I’d pull the audit. Scrap the engagement. Walk away from the entire pivot.”
