Page 18 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"Because it's irrelevant." I keep my voice level. "Our relationship ended four years ago. We share a child. Nothing more."
Another glance between them. Wilton clears his throat.
"Even so, Jakob, you must see how it looks. The appearance of impropriety?—"
"I don't give a damn how it looks." Now I take the chair, leaning forward slightly. "What I care about is the integrity of this audit. Ms. Warren is the most qualified person for the job. She knows the industry. She knows the players. And she has no reason to do me any favors."
"That may be true." Wilton's tone is placating. "But the partners feels?—"
"Let me be very clear." I cut him off again, voice dropping lower. "If Chanel Warren is removed from this audit, Novare Global Strategies will terminate our engagement with RSV. Immediately."
The room goes silent. Phillip's face pales slightly.
"That would be an extreme reaction," he says after a moment.
"No." I lean back slightly. "It would be the only logical response to a firm that allows outside interference to dictate its leadership decisions."
"We're not allowing outside interference," Wilton protests. "We're responding to legitimate concerns?—"
"There's nothing legitimate about framing my ex-wife for security breaches she didn't commit." I stand abruptly. "Find the real source. Fix the problem. Keep Chanel Warren in place."
Wilton stands as well, bristling at my tone. "Or what?"
I smile thinly—the professional smile that has closed billion-dollar deals and ended careers. "Or I don't just pull the Novare account. I make sure every corporate client in Manhattan knows exactly why."
The threat hangs in the air between us, stark and undeniable. RSV can't afford to lose Novare. But more than that, they can't afford the reputation hit if I start talking.
"That sounds dangerously close to blackmail, Jakob." Wilton's voice has an edge now.
"Not blackmail." I button my jacket, a deliberate gesture of finality. "Just business."
I turn to leave, then pause at the door. "I expect confirmation by end of day that the partners meeting has been canceled and Ms. Warren's position secured. If I don't get it, my team begins transition planning first thing tomorrow."
I don't wait for a response. Don't need one. The message has been delivered.
In the elevator, I exhale slowly, loosening my grip on control. I didn't go there to defend Chanel. I went to protect the audit. To ensure its integrity. To maintain the timeline for the White Glove Pivot.
At least, that's what I tell myself.
But as the elevator descends, the truth presses against my chest like a physical weight: I didn't do this for the audit.
I did it for her.
Because despite everything—the divorce, the distance, the careful walls between us—I still trust Chanel Warren more than anyone in this city.
Including myself.
"Are you going to tell her?" Tyson asks later, sprawled in my office chair while I stand at the window.
"Tell her what?"
"That you went to bat for her. That you threatened to burn down RSV if they touched her."
I don't answer immediately, just stare out at the darkening skyline. Manhattan at dusk—all sharp edges and gold light, beautiful and merciless.
"No," I say finally. "She doesn't need to know."
"Doesn't need to? Or you don't want her to?"
