Page 84 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
And I gave her calculation instead. Strategy. Control.
She walked away without another word. And this silence feels different than all the others we've shared.
Not angry. Not broken.
Just done.
FIFTEEN
THE TRIGGER HITS
CHANEL
The email arrives with the precise, silent violence of a blade between ribs:
Given the current circumstances, we believe it would be in everyone's best interest if you continued your excellent work remotely until the White Glove Pivot concludes.
Corporate language. Sanitized execution. Professional death dressed as consideration.
I read it three times, each word burning deeper into my skin. My fingers hover over the keyboard, trembling so violently I have to press them flat against the desk to steady them. The taste of copper floods my mouth—I've bitten the inside of my cheek without realizing it.
Not suspended. Not fired. Just quietly erased.
I power down my computer with mechanical precision. Each item from my desk goes into my leather tote—framed photo of Jaden, spare lipstick, the fountain pen my mother gave me when I made senior analyst. Objects that mark the territory I've carved in a world never designed to make space for me.
The office goes silent as I stand. Conversations die mid-sentence. Eyes track my movement, then deliberately slide away when I look up.Cowards. All of them.
Three senior partners hover near the conference room, watching. None meet my gaze. Only their silence follows me as I walk the gauntlet of open-plan desks—spine rigid, chin lifted—like I'm still someone who belongs here.
"I'll forward everything to your secure server," Sandra whispers as I pass her desk. Her voice catches. "And I'll keep your office plants alive."
This small mercy nearly breaks me—this whispered allegiance when everyone else has opted for silence. I nod once, unable to speak around the knot in my throat.
The fifty-floor descent feels endless. Just me and my reflection in polished brass, watching each other disintegrate in slow motion. The woman staring back at me is immaculate—tailored blazer, silk blouse, perfect makeup. Natural hair pulled so severely it sends dull pain through my scalp. The armor I've constructed piece by piece since Jakob left. Since I was left holding the ruins of what we built.
My phone vibrates against my palm. Jakob: Just got a call from Martin. Are you okay?
The question lands like a slap.Am I okay?When was the last time I was okay?
I don't respond. Can't. If I open that door—even a crack—everything I've contained might pour out, might drown me right here in this elevator with its perfect mirror showing the exact cost of survival on my face.
The doors slide open to the lobby's brutal indifference. I move through the revolving door into Manhattan's relentless noise, into a world that continues spinning while mine fractures along fault lines four years in the making.
The penthouse air feels charged when I step off the private elevator three hours later, like the space itself is holding its breath. Jakob stands in the kitchen, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie discarded, two glasses of amber liquid catching the light between us. His eyes track my entrance with the focused intensity of a predator.
Not a safe place anymore. Not neutral ground.
"Drink?" he offers, voice deliberately casual.
I set my laptop bag on the counter with measured precision, the soft thud echoing in the silence stretched tight between us. I want to scream. Want to throw something. Want to make him feel a fraction of the humiliation burning beneath my skin.
Instead, I stand perfectly still, letting the silence do the work my voice can't trust itself to accomplish.
"RSV suggested I take some time away," I finally say, each word carved from ice. "While the'unfortunate situation resolves.'"
Understanding darkens his eyes. Something else flickers there too—calculation. Strategy. The machinery of protection already whirring to life.
"They suspended you."
