Page 6 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
TWO
WHAT WE DON’T SAY
JAKOB
I register the exact moment Chanel Warren enters my boardroom.
Not because I'm searching for her. Not because I've memorized the subtle essence of jasmine that trails her like a phantom.
But because the air transforms.
The way it always did when she claimed a space.
I maintain my focus on the VP of Acquisitions, nodding at inconsequential quarterly projections while every molecule in my body orients toward her with magnetic precision.
I've constructed empires on self-restraint. Cultivated a reputation for being untouchable. I can endure this collision without revealing the wound beneath.
"Ms. Warren," Douglas says. "We're just getting started."
Warren.
The name she reclaimed after I severed us with ink and signature. The name that erases our connection in the minds of everyone around this table.
I continue writing notes, give Douglas a calculated nod, and then—only then—do I permit myself to acknowledge her presence.
She sits across the table, dark eyes fixed on her portfolio, hair swept into an elegant bun that exposes the curve of her neck. I remember that skin against my mouth. Remember how she'd arch when I'd press my lips to that exact hollow beneath her ear.
I swallow hard. Reset. Refocus.
"Let's begin," I announce, tone unwavering, gaze sweeping the room without lingering on her. "We have significant ground to cover."
She doesn't look at me either.
Marina launches into her presentation on audit protocols and preliminary findings. I listen with partial attention, the remainder of my mind calculating the probability that Chanel's assignment to this account was coincidental.
The statistical likelihood hovers near zero.
Someone orchestrated this collision—someone ignorant of our history. Someone who couldn't comprehend what they've initiated.
I force my concentration back to the meeting, to the White Glove Pivot that will cement Novare's global position. This deal transcends personal history.It must.
"—particularly concerned with the Singapore disclosures," Marina continues. "The documentation shows?—"
"The Singapore position is clean." I interrupt, reclaiming command of the room. "The question isn't what's in the filing. It's what's missing."
Then it happens. Chanel's attention shifts to me directly for the first time. The impact is visceral—a silent explosion behind my ribs. Four years of public distance obliterated in a single exchange.
For three seconds—I count them—neither of us breaks the connection. Her expression remains cool, professional, revealing nothing to anyone who doesn't recognize her tell: the subtle tightening at the corner of her jaw, the almost imperceptible narrowing of her gaze. She's as destabilized as I am.
Good.I'm not drowning alone.
"What exactly is missing, Mr. Giannetti?"
The formality of my surname from her lips inflicts a subtle violence. A reminder of what we've become to each other in public: strangers with history.
I shift position, recalibrating.
"Context." The word is loaded and too honest. "The Singapore disclosures need context. Historical pattern analysis. Year-over-year comparison tracking."
