Page 32 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Two figures entering my building. Her hand on my arm, the contact so light it shouldn't register, but it's the first time she's touched me voluntarily since the audit began. My body curved toward hers like a planet finding orbit. The timestamp: yesterday evening, 9:42 p.m.
Chanel and me. Arriving at the penthouse. Together.
Fuck.
I zoom in, studying angles, lighting, distance. Professional assessment layered over the cold knot forming in my chest. It's grainy—taken from across the street with a telephoto lens. Amateur but effective. The kind of shot that suggests intimacy without proving it.
The photo itself isn't damning. Two professionals working late. But context makes it poison—her, the audit lead examining my company. Me, the subject of her scrutiny.
Together. After hours. Alone.
I dial Collins, my head of security. He answers on the first ring.
"Sir." His voice carries no trace of sleep. He exists as I do—half-conscious, always waiting for the world to burn.
"Source?"
"Working on it. First appeared onFinanceWhispersat 3:48 a.m. Two reposts already."
FinanceWhispers. A niche blog dedicated to Wall Street gossip, just respectable enough to be dangerous. Someone timed this—late enough that we'd be asleep, early enough to circulate before markets open.
"Take it down."
“I’m already negotiating. But..." He hesitates.
"But?"
"The photo's coming from inside your security network. Someone with system access."
My jaw locks, teeth grinding against a surge of rage that tastes metallic. "Internal breach?"
“It appears that way."
"Find them." I end the call, muscles coiling with the kind of tension that once drove me to put my fist through drywall.
This isn't just an embarrassment. This is calculated damage. A deliberate strike not just at Novare, but at her. At Chanel. Again.
I stand, pulling on sweatpants, mind shifting into the cold tactical place I've cultivated since childhood. Identify the threat. Assess the damage. Contain the spread. Protect the vulnerable points.
Chanel. The audit. Novare. In that order.
I've never lied to myself about my priorities. Not even now.
My fingers fly across the laptop keys, accessing the penthouse security system. Every entry, every exit, every camera feed for the past week. The logs show nothing unusual—no unauthorized access, no system glitches. Just the expected traffic: staff, security, and Chanel.
Chanel, staying later each night. Chanel, accepting dinner. Chanel, slowly letting down her guard in ways so subtle no one else would notice.
The slight softening around her eyes when she thinks I'm not looking. The way she's stopped sitting like she might need to run at any moment. The casual grace with which she moves through spaces that were once ours, now just mine.
I pull up her access logs next—tracking her system usage, her digital footprint across Novare's network. I know her pattern now, as methodical and precise as everything about her. But there—three anomalies in the past 24 hours. Access points that don't match her behavioral signature.
Someone's still using her credentials. Still building the case against her. And now, adding a public component.
A message appears on my screen. Tyson: Photo's spreading. Morning calls?
I type back:My office. 7 a.m.
I check the time: 4:43. Less than three hours until the storm hits in full force. I should wait—give her these last moments of peace before everything changes.
