Page 131 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"I want foundation," she corrects, thumb brushing across my lower lip. "Not escape routes. Not temporary solutions. Something we build together that outlasts us."
I sit up, bringing her with me. My hands frame her face, hold her steady as I search for hesitation. For compromise. For the flicker of uncertainty that might suggest decision made from pregnancy hormones or temporary emotion rather than bone-deep certainty.
Find nothing but absolute conviction.
"When do we break ground?"
Her smile unfolds slowly—transforms from surprise to victory to genuine pleasure at having been understood without explanation. At being chosen without condition or reservation.
"I've already called the architect," she admits, hint of defiance in her voice. The reminder that while she may share my name again, she's never surrendered her autonomy. Her right to move through the world on her own terms. "But I told him we'd finalize plans together. That it's our vision, not just mine."
The concession matters more than the initiative. The acknowledgment that what we build now isn't hers or mine—but ours. A family carved from pain and persistence and the stubborn refusal to stay broken.
"Jaden will love it," I say, thinking of our son who's adapted to penthouses and hotel suites and the transient existence we've given him without complaint. Who deserves earth beneath his feet and trees he can watch grow alongside him. "He's been asking for a dog."
"I know."
The laughter in her voice feels like victory. Like permission to want things I once denied as unnecessary luxury. As weakness that might be exploited. "He's negotiated very strategically. Said a brother or sister would be acceptable alternative if a dog was out of the question."
"Got both instead." I can't help the pride that surges at our son's inherit understanding of leverage. Of timing. Of the careful dance between desire and demand. "He's definitely your child."
"He's definitely ours," she corrects, the emphasis deliberate. The reminder that some bonds transcend time and distance and legal documents designed to sever. "Stubborn and calculating and too smart for his own good."
I pull her closer, eliminating what little space remains between us. Between bodies still humming from earlier connection. From pleasure given and received without restraint or performance.
"And this one?" My hand returns to her stomach, to the barely perceptible curve that will soon become undeniable evidence of what we've created. "What will this one be?"
"A girl," she says with certainty that brooks no argument. That needs no medical confirmation or technological verification. "I've known since the beginning."
"Poor world," I murmur, already imagining daughter with Chanel's fierce determination and take-no-prisoners approach to obstacles.
With her beauty and brilliance and bone-deep refusal to be diminished or defined by others' expectations.
"Lucky us," she counters, the slight correction speaking volumes about what matters. About where true value lies. About the difference between the man I was and the man I've become under her unrelenting demand for authenticity rather than performance.
My mouth finds hers with a certainty born from years of knowing—from first kisses stolen between lectures to reunion vows whispered in Vegas to midnight reconnections after days apart.
The kiss contains nothing of question or doubt. Just absolute certainty of belonging. Of rightness. Of home found in flesh.
"I have something for you too," I tell her when we break for breath.
Reach for nightstand drawer that holds what I've been waiting to give her. What I've carried like a secret, like promise, like proof that some things refuse to die even when buried.
The velvet box seems small against the weight of what it represents. Against land and blueprints and the foundations we'll break ground on. Yet it contains something equally vital—equally essential to who we're choosing to become.
She opens it with steady hands—with the deliberate care of a woman who knows value beyond price or polish.
The ring catches shadowed light—emerald-cut diamond set in platinum that echoes the wedding band she already wears. That matches the one I haven't removed since Vegas chapel where we made promises with no witnesses but ourselves.
"Ten years," I say simply, words unnecessary but offered anyway. Marker of time that should have broken us yet somehow forged something stronger instead. "Traditional gift is tin. Seemed inadequate."
"We've never been traditional."
Her voice carries emotion held carefully in check. Vulnerability controlled but no longer hidden. Truth offered with the trust that I won't use it as weapon.
She slides the ring onto finger already bearing wedding band—promise layered upon promise. Vow reinforcing vow.
"Does this mean you'll stay married to me another decade?"
