Page 48 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Yes, we've been working toward reconciliation. Yes, for Jaden's sake. No, we didn't want public scrutiny. Yes, we're taking it slowly.
A script for a life I don’t lead. A relationship that doesn’t exist. A hope I buried.
And I can’t forget—this is all pretend.
When we arrive at the Kensington Hotel's grand ballroom—all gilt and crystal and old money pretending at philanthropy—my hands are steady again. This part I know. The performance. The masks. The careful navigation of power disguised as social pleasantry.
What I don't know is how to stand beside Jakob and pretend we're healing what shattered between us. How to let him touch me without remembering everything his hands once promised. How to breathe his air without wanting to fill my lungs with him until I drown.
I step from the car, his hand at my elbow. Red carpet stretches before us, flashbulbs pop like distant gunfire. His body shifts, angling toward mine—protective, possessive, the picture of a husband cherishing his wife.
Heat radiates from him, seeping through my barriers.
"Ready?" I ask, the word barely audible.
"As I'll ever be," he responds, voice dropping to a register that once made me press my thighs together in anticipation.
We pause at the top of the grand staircase, composing ourselves before descending into the crowd below. The ballroom sprawls beneath us, Manhattan's elite circling each other like predators in designer labels.
"Remember," Jakob murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, sending unwanted electricity down my spine. "We're just two people trying again. For our son."
"I know the script," I whisper back.
"It's not a script if part of it is true." His eyes hold mine, stripping away pretense with surgical precision.
Before I can respond—before I can ask which part he thinks is true—he guides me forward. We begin our descent, and I feel eyes turning toward us.
Recognition. Surprise. Speculation.
Whispers that carry despite the music:Jakob Giannetti and his ex-wife. Together again. After everything.
His hand comes to rest at the small of my back, just above where the dress dips low. His palm sears my bare skin, fingertips pressing slightly—possessively—into the curve of my spine.
My skin awakens beneath his touch like a dormant forest blooming after fire.
We pause to greet our hosts—Charles and Katherine Meyer, old money wrapped in progressive veneer. Eleanor's eyes widen slightly at the sight of us together, though she recovers with practiced grace.
"Jakob, darling." She air-kisses his cheeks. "And Chanel! What a wonderful surprise. It's been too long."
"Too long indeed," I agree, sliding into social autopilot while my body riots against his proximity. "The foundation's work is more important than ever."
"Sweet of you to say." Her gaze flicks between us, curiosity barely contained behind her Botox smile. "And how is young Jaden?"
"Growing too fast," Jakob answers smoothly. “Third grade now."
"Time flies." Charles claps Jakob on the shoulder. "Good to see you two together again. Always thought you were meant to work it out."
Jakob's hand presses firmer against my back, the subtle increase in pressure speaking volumes. "Some things just take time."
The words vibrate through me, stirring up sediment better left settled. They sound so sincere, so authentic, that for a heartbeat even I almost believe them.
Almost.
We move on, navigating the crowd with practiced ease. Jakob keeps me close, his body angled toward mine in a way that signals intimacy without being overt. A united front. A couple finding their way back to each other.
His thumb traces small circles against my spine—a gesture so familiar my body responds before my mind can intervene.
Heat pools low in my stomach. My breath shortens. My skin tightens, remembering how those same circles would start innocently at dinner parties, growing more deliberate until we were making excuses to leave early.
