Page 33 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
But this can't wait. Not something this targeted. Not when it's her career at risk.
I call her with a heads-up, and damage control starts at 6:15 a.m.
Board members with too much money and too little patience. Partners with questions they're afraid to ask directly. Investors whose concerns sound like threats. I take them in succession, voice steady, response calculated: Yes, we're aware of the photo. No, there's no impropriety. Yes, the audit continues uncompromised. No, there's no cause for concern.
Tyson sits across from me, tracking media coverage in real-time.
"Six financial blogs now. Twitter's picking it up. 'Giannetti's Midnight Audit' is trending in finance circles."
I don't respond, already on the next call—Phillip Gardner from RSV. His voice carries the careful neutrality of a man testing ice before committing his weight.
"Jakob, I'm sure you understand our position. The appearance of impropriety?—"
"Is just that. Appearance." I cut him off, patience thinning with each repetition. "Ms. Warren and I were working late. The White Glove Pivot has an aggressive timeline."
"Even so. The board is considering our options."
Translation: They're looking for a way to remove Chanel without implicating themselves in the fallout.
"Your options," I say, voice dropping to the register I reserve for threats wrapped in courtesy, "are limited to proceeding as planned. Any disruption to the audit leadership will result in immediate termination of our engagement."
Silence stretches between us. I wait, giving him space to calculate the cost. Novare is RSV's largest client this quarter. Losing us would trigger questions, market speculation, share value erosion.
"I'll convey your position to the partners.” His tone suggests he already knows the outcome.
"Please do." I end the call, setting the phone down with controlled precision.
Tyson raises an eyebrow. "Subtle."
"Effective." I check my watch—7:28. No word from Chanel since our brief pre-dawn conversation. "Any update on the source?"
He shakes his head. "Collins is still tracking it. But whoever did this covered their tracks."
The intercom buzzes. My assistant's voice—tighter than usual. "Mr. Giannetti, Ms. Warren is here."
I glance at Tyson, who stands without needing instruction. "I'll check with Collins again."
He slips out just as Chanel enters—poised, polished, and radiating the precise fury I've been expecting. She's wearing a charcoal suit, with a low ponytail and a bold lipstick.
Battle armor. And my gaze travels down to her lips before she clears her throat.
"Close the door," I say, not moving from behind my desk.
She does, each movement controlled like she's holding herself together through sheer force of will. When she turns to face me, her eyes meet mine, winter-dark and familiar—the exact shade they turned the night I told her I wanted a divorce.
"Explain."
One word. Loaded like a gun.
"Someone leaked a photo of us entering the penthouse last night." I don't sugarcoat it, don't apologize. We're past that. "It's circulating on financial blogs."
"I know." She sets her bag on a chair but remains standing. "I saw it this morning. What I want to know is how it happened."
"Internal breach. Someone with access to my security network."
"The same someone who's been using my credentials?"
"Most likely."
