Page 27 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Something naked and unguarded crossed his face. Something that looked like grief.
Then he saw me watching, and the mask slipped back into place. But not before I glimpsed what lived beneath.
I shut off the water, and the sudden coldness Is a shock, despite the steam filling the bathroom. That moment at the piano—that brief, unguarded second—scared me more than the security breach, more than the professional threat, more than returning to the penthouse after four years away.
Because for the first time since our divorce, I don’t feel in control of the narrative. Don’t feel certain of the boundaries. Don’t feel safe behind the walls I’ve built.
For the first time in four years, I feel seen.
Really seen. And the pain I’ve endured isn’t mine alone. It’s ours. And he’s just better at disguising it.
Or maybe, he’s not
SIX
CLOSE QUARTERS
CHANEL
Two weeks.
That's how long we've been working like this—late nights at the penthouse with security protocols increasing daily.
Two weeks of stolen glances and maintained professionalism, and the growing awareness that something is shifting between us, whether we want it to or not.
Tonight marks the eleventh evening I've stayed past eight, surrounded by audit files, Singapore disclosures and the deepening mystery of who's targeting my credentials.
Eleven nights of fighting both external threats and internal ones—the ones that come alive when Jakob's eyes linger on my face a beat too long.
"You should eat something." His voice breaks the silence that's settled between us for the past hour.
I look up from my laptop, blinking away numbers and projections. "What time is it?"
"After nine." He closes his laptop with a decisive click. "You've been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes."
I want to deny it. But I stretch, shoulders aching from tension I can't quite dispel.
"Just thinking through some inconsistencies."
"It can wait." He stands, rolling his sleeves higher on his forearms—a gesture I've seen a dozen times in the past two weeks, but still makes something in my chest twist. "Food first."
Two weeks ago, I would’ve argued. Now, I just nod once, too familiar with his stubbornness to waste energy fighting.
I follow him to the kitchen, a space I've navigated nightly as our work sessions have stretched longer. He fills the space, opening the refrigerator and pulling out containers.
"I had dinner delivered earlier," he explains, not looking at me. "Italian. From that place on Sullivan."
Emilio's. My favorite. The place we used to order from on Sundays when neither of us wanted to cook. The place where the owner knew our names and always sent extra tiramisu because I once mentioned it was the best I'd ever had.
This is the third time he's ordered from there since I started working at the penthouse. The third time, he's remembered without asking.
"Thank you." I keep my voice neutral, giving nothing away. "Can I help?"
"No." He transfers pasta to plates, movements precise. "Wine?"
I should say no—to keep the boundaries clear. To remember why I'm here.
"Yes," I say instead. "Please."
