Page 99 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
She rises, gathering her purse with practiced precision. "That's what friends are for, right? Taking care of each other. Being there when it matters."
I walk her to the door, suddenly aware of how much I've come to depend on her steadiness in a world that keeps shifting beneath my feet. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Tanya."
"Let's hope you never have to find out." She kisses my cheek, her smile returning to its perfect polish. But something has changed in the air between us—a current I can't identify, a dissonance I'm too caught in my own storm to examine.
As the door closes behind her, I return to my laptop—to numbers and systems that don't ask questions I can't answer.That don't remind me of Jakob's hands on my skin, of his whispered confessions, of the terrible truth we've both been circling.
A handwritten note catches my eye on one of the audit documents—Jakob's distinctive script in the margins of work we'd reviewed together. Not correcting my findings but building on them. Not controlling but collaborating.
For C—brilliant catch. I've adjusted the parameters accordingly. Thank you.
Such a small thing. Five words acknowledging my expertise. But something in the simple respect it conveys makes my throat tighten. This isn't the writing of a man who needs to dominate. This is the mark of someone who sees me as an equal.
A man I never fully knew. Or one who didn't exist before.
I close the file, press my fingertips against my temples where tension coils like a living thing. RSV's betrayal burns beneath my skin—the firm I helped build, the career I resurrected from the ashes of my marriage, now treats me like a liability to be managed. A problem to solve. An inconvenience.
Four years of proving myself. Of perfect calculations and flawless analysis. Of being twice as prepared, twice as precise, twice as valuable as anyone else in the room. All of it disintegrated because of an association they deemed dangerous.
The auditor in me wants to finish the White Glove Pivot—to close this chapter with the clinical perfection that has become my trademark. But the woman behind the auditor, the one who rebuilt herself in the wake of destruction, whispers a different truth.
Maybe this exile isn't punishment. Maybe it's liberation.
The thought unfurls like smoke, intoxicating and dangerous. For years, I've defined myself through the validation of institutions: promotions and partnerships, professional acclaim. External confirmation that I was worthy, valuable, whole.
What if I don't need RSV's approval anymore? What if I've outgrown them?
I pull up my email, scrolling through archived correspondence from headhunters, consultancy firms, private equity partners who've tried to lure me away over the years. Messages I archived without response, loyalty keeping me tethered to the firm that gave me a second chance.
That loyalty feels hollow now.
I begin to type, my fingers steady as I craft responses to three different offers. Exploratory. Non-committal. But open.
I'd be interested in discussing potential opportunities...
The relief that floods through me is unexpected. Sweet. I've been so focused on my past with Jakob—on what broke, what might be healing—that I've ignored the future taking shape beyond both of us.
Whatever happens tomorrow with Jakob, whether we're truly over or only beginning again, this part of my life needs no external resolution. The professional path forward is mine to claim. Mine to create. Independent of any man, any institution, any relationship that thinks it can define my worth.
Tomorrow, I'll face him again. The man who shattered me. The man I never stopped loving. The man who might be something new, or merely a more perfect version of the beautiful destruction I barely survived the first time.
But I'll face him as a woman coming into her power—not just surviving exile but transforming it into opportunity. A woman who doesn't need rescue or approval. A woman who, for the first time since the divorce papers arrived, sees a future entirely of her own making.
Four years of careful reconstruction, of boundaries maintained, of walls reinforced.
Four days of knowing those walls were always built on sand.
Four hours until I see him again, and we both discover which version of me walks through his door—the woman still haunted by what was lost, or the one finally ready to create something new from the ruins.
EIGHTEEN
THE LAST MOVE
JAKOB
I don't sleep. Haven't for days.
The city glitters beneath my window like a circuit board—lines of light connecting destinations, decisions, destinies. Seventy stories above the streets, I watch Manhattan wake while I remain motionless, suspended between action and aftermath.
