Page 7 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
She's already navigating to a section in her files, her response seamless. "The pattern analysis was completed last quarter. If you're referring to the Q3 discrepancies?—"
"I'm referring to the methodology." I address her exclusively now, everyone else in the room fading to background. "Your team is using standard regression analysis when what we need is?—"
"Multi-variable trend forecasting?" She completes my thought with precision that awakens something dormant in my chest. "I've already drafted the supplemental. It's being finalized today."
My mouth nearly betrays me with a smile. Impossible not to appreciate this—the Chanel I remember—three steps ahead, unflinching, brilliant. The woman who once identified an eight-figure error in our Moscow portfolio by recognizing a pattern everyone else overlooked.
"Perfect," I respond, the word suspended between us like a shared memory.
For a dangerous heartbeat, we're synchronized again—how we used to operate when we'd complete each other's thoughts, anticipate each other's intentions. When our minds moved in tandem, sharper together than apart.
I feel pressure on my forearm—Tyson, seated beside me, applying just enough contact to pull me back from the precipice I'm approaching. A silent warning. I don't acknowledge it, but I break the connection with Chanel.
The meeting continues. I document. Question. Maintain the illusion of a CEO fully engaged with audit protocols rather than a man resisting the gravitational pull of the woman across the table.
Until she says, "We'll need access to the full compliance history. All subsidiary documentation, acquisition papers, historical?—"
"No." The refusal emerges sharper than intended.
She looks up, one eyebrow arching in silent challenge. "Excuse me?"
"The historical documentation prior to 2018 is irrelevant to the current audit scope." I maintain a reasonable tone—the inflection I employ when establishing boundaries that won't be breached.
"With all due respect, Mr. Giannetti, my team determines what's relevant to the audit scope." Her composure remains intact, calculated. But I see heat rising in her gaze. "The White Glove certification requires complete transparency."
"And you'll have it." I lean forward slightly, elbows on the table, ignoring Tyson's cautionary touch. "For all current operations."
She doesn't retreat. Doesn't falter. Just holds my gaze with steady intensity that once dismantled me. That still could, if I permitted it.
But those pre-2018 files contain things I can't allow her to discover. Things buried on purpose. Things that would force conversations we're unprepared to have—might never be prepared to have.
So I maintain the boundary. Watch her make a small notation in her portfolio. A question mark, undoubtedly. Chanel never could resist an enigma.
The remainder of the meeting unfolds with structured formality. Schedules confirmed. Next steps outlined. Every movement choreographed to preserve maximum distance despite sharing the same atmosphere.
When it concludes, I stand first, buttoning my jacket to keep my hands occupied.
Tyson watches through narrowed eyes in the way it does when he's reading between lines invisible to others. He arrived late, claiming the seat to my right. I registered the exact moment he recognized Chanel. The subtle straightening of his posture, the quick glance in my direction.
I exit without acknowledging him, lengthening my stride. My office is a fortress—thirty-eighth floor, corner suite, windows overlooking Manhattan like I possess it. In many ways, I do.
The door hasn't fully closed when Tyson follows, silent as a shadow. I don't bother sitting. Simply move to the window, staring out at the city while counting backward from ten—an old technique my grandfather taught me for moments when the world presses too close.
"Well, fuck me sideways." His voice is low, controlled, but I hear the undercurrent of disbelief. "Of all the audit firms in all the world..."
"Don't." I keep my back to him. "Not now."
He advances further into the room, his reflection materializing beside mine in the window. Tyson Smith, the only man I trust without reservation, the sole witness to the complete destruction of what Chanel and I were.
What we demolished.
"When were you planning to mention that your ex-wife is leading the most crucial audit of your career?" He's not angry. Worse—he's concerned.
"When it became relevant." I turn to face him, leaning against the window. "No one at RSV knows about our history. She uses Warren professionally."
"And you didn't think to warn me before I walked into that room?" Now there's an edge to his tone. "Christ, Jake. I nearly called her by her married name."
“That would've been an interesting moment." A ghost of a smile touches my mouth, though nothing about this situation amuses me. "Probably would've shattered the delicate atmosphere we've cultivated."
