Page 112 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
My foot hits something as I step forward—a small orange prescription bottle rolled against the baseboard. I crouch, read the label without touching it. Sleeping aid, prescribed two days ago. Forty-count. The cap unsealed.
I rise slowly, calculations shifting. Not a physical threat, then. Something quieter. More insidious.
"Jaden?" I call, voice careful, pitched to soothe rather than alarm.
A soft thump from upstairs. Then silence.
I move toward the staircase, each step precisely placed to avoid the third and seventh stairs that always creak—knowledge gathered over years of friendship that now serves a different purpose. My hand slides along the banister, steady despite the adrenaline humming beneath my skin.
The upstairs hallway stretches before me—four doors, all closed. The guest room where I've slept dozens of times. The office filled with Latanya's teaching materials. The bathroom with the claw-foot tub she restored herself. And her bedroom atthe end—the master suite with windows overlooking the small garden below.
A sound comes from behind the last door—soft murmuring, almost melodic. A woman's voice, gentle as a lullaby.
I move toward it, each footstep silent on plush carpet. Press my ear against painted wood.
"You have her eyes, you know." Latanya's voice drifts through, dreamy and distant. "The same way they crinkle when you smile. The same little line between your brows when you concentrate. I always told her that."
Silence. Then Jaden's voice, smaller than I've ever heard it: "Can I call my mom now?"
"Oh, sweetie." Latanya's laugh floats like something disconnected from reality. "She's so busy with work. With your father. Let's let her finish her important meetings first."
My fingers curl against the door, nails biting into my palm. The casual cruelty of using his consideration against him—Jaden, always careful not to interrupt my work calls, my meetings, my deadlines.
I don't hesitate. Don't wait for a better moment or a safer opening. I turn the knob and push the door open in one fluid motion.
The bedroom has transformed since I last saw it. Photos cover an entire wall—pictures of me, of Jaden, of us together. Some I recognize from social media, from frames in my own home. Others taken without my knowledge—me entering my apartment building, waiting at school pickup, jogging in the park near my office.
Jaden sits on the edge of the king-sized bed, still in his school uniform, shoes off, back straight with the careful posture of a child trying not to provoke unpredictable adults. His eyes find mine, relief washing over his face.
"Mom!"
Latanya stands by the dresser, one hand resting on a silver-framed photo of the three of us at Coney Island last summer. Her other hand holds a mug—hot chocolate from the sweet scent hanging in the air. She doesn't startle at my entrance. Doesn't look surprised. Just tilts her head, a smile spreading across her face like she's been expecting me all along.
"There you are." Her voice carries the same warmth it always has—the tone that comforted me through two miscarriages before Jaden, through the lonely nights after Jakob left. "I was just telling Jaden you'd come soon. Wasn't I, sweetie?"
Jaden doesn't answer. His eyes remain fixed on me, searching my face for cues on how to navigate whatever's happening.
I step fully into the room, positioning myself between them. "Jaden, get your backpack. We're leaving."
"But we just made hot chocolate." Latanya's smile doesn't waver, though something flickers behind her eyes—a ripple across still water. "And I thought we'd look through these old photos. There are so many he hasn't seen—from before he was born. From college."
She gestures toward the wall of surveillance disguised as nostalgia. My stomach turns at the realization that what I'm seeing is just the visible evidence. The physical manifestation of years of watching, wanting, waiting.
"Jaden." I keep my voice even, eyes never leaving Latanya. "It's time to go home."
Latanya's hand closes around Jaden's wrist, too tight. Too possessive. "But we haven't even started our special afternoon." Her smile stretches unnaturally wide, voice pitched to mimic the warmth that once came naturally. "I was telling Jaden about when you and I lived in that awful dorm. Remember? With the broken heater?"
My son's eyes widen at her grip, confusion bleeding into the first edges of fear. I've never seen that look on his face before—the dawning realization that adults can become unpredictable, dangerous.
I move toward the bed, each step measured. Calculating distance, angles, vulnerabilities. "That sounds lovely. Why don't we all go downstairs? I'll make tea while you tell those stories."
"Always so polite." Latanya's laugh trickles like broken glass. "So careful not to upset anyone. That's what I've always loved about you. Even when you're screaming inside, you maintain perfect composure."
Her fingers tighten visibly on Jaden's wrist. He winces but doesn't pull away, instinctively understanding the fragility of this moment. My seven-year-old, reading danger in the room with heartbreaking clarity.
"You've been such a good boy today," I tell him, voice steady while my heart hammers against my ribs. "Why don't you show me what Tanya gave you to drink? It smelled delicious."
Latanya's eyes narrow fractionally. "It's just hot chocolate. You don't need to inspect everything, Chanel. We're not at your office."
