Page 105 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"I need to understand," I say. The words emerge without preamble, without cushioning. "Everything. Not just what you think I want to hear."
"I know." He doesn't approach further. Doesn't reach for me. Just stands, hands at his sides, shoulders carrying a tension I recognize from board meetings where millions hang on his decisions. "That's why I'm here."
We find a stone bench near a wall of hieroglyphics—ancient stories we can't decipher becoming backdrop to our own. We sit with precise space between us, close enough for truth, far enough for clarity.
"Start at the beginning," I say. "The real one."
He exhales, a sound like surrender. Like relief. Like a man setting down weight carried too long.
"Megan threatened you." His voice drops, pitched for privacy in the quiet gallery. "Four years ago, when Novare was still growing. When we were... separated."
"After you pulled away," I clarify. The memory still cuts—the slow erosion of connection, the silent meals, the coldness that grew between us during that final year of marriage.
"Yes." A single nod. "She had evidence of early funding practices. Connections that wouldn't withstand scrutiny. Things I did before I understood the consequences. Before us."
"She threatened to expose you?"
"No." His eyes find mine, unflinching. "She threatened to destroy you. Your reputation. Your career. She said she'd fabricate evidence of your involvement. Make it look like you'd helped structure the questionable deals."
A cold current runs through me, realization crystallizing. "She wanted me gone."
"She wanted what I had." The muscle in his jaw tightens, the only tell in his otherwise controlled face. "Not just the company. Everything."
"So you filed for divorce." The words taste bitter. "Without warning. Without explanation."
"I thought I was protecting you." No defense in his tone. Just acknowledgment. "I believed distance was safety. That I could contain the damage if I contained it to myself."
I absorb this, fitting it against memories that never quite made sense. The growing silence during our separation. The divorce papers arriving without warning. The years of careful, distant co-parenting that followed. Jaden just three years old, too young to remember us ever being whole.
"You could have told me. Let me decide for myself."
"Yes." The single syllable carries the weight of four lost years. "That was my mistake. I made a choice for both of us because I thought it was cleaner. Safer. Because I was afraid of what might happen if I asked you to face it with me."
His honesty disarms me. No excuses. No reframing. Just the stark reality of what he did and what it cost.
"And now?" I ask. "With Megan? The RSV board sending me home?"
Something shifts in his expression—a steeling, a hardness that wasn't there before. His eyes hold mine, letting me see what I suspect has always been there, beneath careful control.
"I dismantled her." The words emerge without heat, without pride. Just cold certainty. "Completely. I froze her accounts. Contacted her family. Sent evidence to investors. I made sure she understood the consequences of targeting you again."
My breath catches. Not at the ruthlessness—I've always known what Jakob is capable of. But at the lack of apology in his voice. The absence of performance. This isn't a confession designed to shock or impress. It's simply truth.
"You threatened her family?"
"Everyone she relied on. I made sure she had nowhere to go but out." He doesn't flinch from my gaze. "I told her to leavethe country within twenty-four hours, or I'd ensure the system swallowed her whole."
Four years ago, this would have terrified me—the calculated destruction, the cold precision. Today, I recognize it as the dark mirror of protection. The same instinct that made him walk away now turned outward rather than in.
"And RSV?"
"The same. I made it clear that your career remains intact. That any attempt to damage your reputation would have consequences."
I absorb this, weighing the implications. The Jakob I married kept his power hidden from me, compartmentalized between boardroom and bedroom. This Jakob is showing me everything—the violence and the tenderness, the protection and the possession, the capacity for both creation and destruction.
"This is who I am, Chanel." His voice softens, but the steel beneath remains. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I've spent four years trying to be worthy of you by hiding the parts of myself I thought you couldn't accept. I was wrong."
I study his face—the same face I've traced in sleep, in passion, in anger. The face I see echoed in our son. Behind his eyes burns something I recognize because I've felt it too: the exhaustion of performance. The desperate desire for someone who sees all of you and stays anyway.
