Page 31 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
I open my eyes, pushing the memories away. This is dangerous territory. These are thoughts I can't afford—feelings I've locked away for good reason.
But alone and unable to sleep, I allow myself one concession: I miss how he used to make me feel safe.
Not just physically, though that was part of it. But the bone-deep security of being with someone who saw all of me—the ambition, the fear, the damage, the strength—and chose meanyway. Who made space for all my contradictions. Who never asked me to be less than I was.
Until he did.
Until he decided I was better off without him.
I turn again, restless with thoughts I can't quiet. The moonlight through the blinds casts jail-bar shadows across the bed, across my body. Fitting, somehow.
Down the hall, I hear a door open and close. Footsteps passing my room. The master suite door clicking shut.
Jakob, finally going to bed.
I wonder if he's lying awake too. If he's thinking about me, about us, about the delicate balance we've managed these past two weeks. If he regrets any of it—the secrets, the silence, the years of separation.
The thought follows me into uneasy dreams—of running through endless hallways, of doors that open to reveal more doors, of Jakob always one room ahead, just out of reach.
When morning comes, I wake to sunlight streaming through the blinds and the disorienting moment of not knowing where I am. Then reality rushes back—the penthouse, the audit, another night spent in Jakob's guest room.
I sit up, reaching for my phone to check the time. 6:17 a.m. Early, but not unusually so for me. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, listening for movement in the apartment.
Silence.
I stand, stretching muscles stiff from tension even in sleep. Then I move to the window, lifting one slat of the blinds to look out at Manhattan waking up thirty-eight floors below. The city spreads out in all directions, a testament to ambition, power, and the relentless pursuit of more.
Jakob's world. The world he tried to give me, then took away.
I let the blind fall back into place and turn toward the door. Time to face the day. Time to face him—and the truth he’s still withholding.
But as I reach for the handle, a realization stops me cold:
The longing I felt last night—for safety, for belonging, for him—didn't appear suddenly. It's been building with this shared space, soft touches, and quiet dinners.
Growing stronger with each late night, each shared glance, each moment of unchecked connection.
Because deep down, I already know: I never stopped wanting him.
I just got good at surviving without him.
SEVEN
PUBLIC LIES, PRIVATE TRUTHS
JAKOB
I'm already awake when the alert comes.
Lying in the dark, staring at shadows on my ceiling, counting the hours Chanel's spent in the penthouse she left four years ago.
She's at home tonight, though. And it’s probably for the best.
The phone vibrates against the nightstand at 4:17 a.m. Not a sound—just a silent pulse against wood, insistent as a second heartbeat. I reach for it without looking, the gesture worn smooth by years of midnight crises.
PRIORITY ALERT: MEDIA EXPOSURE
Sleep wasn't coming anyway. I sit up, sheets falling to my waist, and swipe through to the attachment. It loads pixel by slow pixel, a blurry image crawling into focus.
