Page 51 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
The observation lands like a blow to the sternum. The suggestion that what Jakob and I had was obvious to outside eyes. That our separation was the unexpected twist, not our union.
"It's complicated," I say finally, the understatement scraping my throat.
"The best things are." She squeezes my arm lightly. "For what it's worth, I'm glad. You both deserve happiness." Eliza winks at me. "Call me sometime, Chanel. We should catch up properly."
As she walks away, Jakob approaches, his hand remaining firmly against my spine when he reaches me—a weight that anchors me even as it threatens to unravel me.
"You're convincing them," he says quietly.
"So are you." I meet his eyes over the rim of my glass. "Maybe too convincing."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning we should remember what this is."
"Of course." His expression doesn't change, but something shutters in his eyes—a door closing between us. "Just business."
"Just business," I repeat, but my heart aches at the thought.
His hand slides from my back, and I feel the absence like a physical wound. Cold where heat had been. Empty where touch had anchored me.
"The Whitmans are signaling," he says, nodding toward a couple across the room. "We should make an appearance."
I nod, grateful for the shift back to performance.
For the next hour, we circulate through the crowd with practiced ease. Jakob keeps me close—a hand at my waist,fingers brushing mine, the casual intimacies of a couple finding their way back to each other.
I play my part with precision, smiling at the right moments, laughing at inside jokes, standing just close enough to suggest comfort in his presence.
By the time we slip away, the narrative is firmly established. Jakob Giannetti and Chanel Warren, reconciling quietly. The photos explained. The professional concerns neutralized. The story controlled.
A perfect strategy. A flawless execution.
The ride back to the penthouse passes in charged silence. Jakob stares out the window, profile gilded by passing streetlights. I watch him from the corner of my eye, the careful distance between us on the leather seat feeling both necessary and unbearable.
In the elevator, we stand on opposite sides, the small space humming with something electric and dangerous. I stare at the climbing numbers, hyperaware of his presence, of his scent, of the memory of his hands on my skin all evening.
When the doors open to his floor, he gestures for me to exit first. I step out, heels sinking into plush carpet, and hear him follow. The silence stretches between us, weighted with everything we're not saying.
At the door to the guest room, I pause, fingers curling around the handle. I should say goodnight. Should step inside and close the door. Should maintain the boundaries I set so carefully.
Instead, I turn to face him.
"Thank you," I say, voice lower than intended. "For tonight."
He nods, hands in his pockets, eyes dark in the dim hallway. "It was..."
"Effective," I finish for him, a hollow smile touching my lips.
"I was going to say necessary."
We stand, neither moving, the air between us thick with memory and want and the ghost of what we once were to each other.
"Chanel." My name in his mouth sounds like hunger and regret intertwined.
Something fractures inside me—a dam breaking, a wall collapsing, four years of careful restraint shattering in an instant.
I don't think. Don't calculate. Don't remind myself of all the reasons this is a mistake.
