Page 69 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Water stills as she goes motionless, attention absolute. Listening not just with ears but with the empathy that always undid me. That made me both crave her presence and fear it.
"When he died, the company was worth billions on paper. But it was built on lies, on exploited relationships, on fear rather than respect." I exhale slowly, steadying myself againstmemories that still cut. "It took me three years to clean it up. To make it something I wasn't ashamed to attach my name to."
I pause, weighing how much truth to give her. Deciding finally on all of it.
"But I'm not delusional, Chanel. Even after this audit, my hands aren't clean. I've made choices that would keep you up at night. Crossed lines when necessary. There's a part of me that's still him—that knows how to apply pressure until something breaks." My fingers tighten against the porcelain edge. "I've spent years wondering if I could have both worlds—you and the company, our son and the empire I've built. If I could keep the parts of him that made me successful without becoming everything I hated."
"You never told me. Not all of it," she adds, understanding dawning in her eyes. "The man in the boardroom,"
I nod once, the connection made—the ruthless CEO and the damaged son, two sides of the same coin.
"I didn't want you to see that part of me. The part that came from him.” Admitting this hurts me more than any million-dollar deal, corporate takeover, or anything else—except leaving her four years ago. "I didn't want you to look at me and see what I might become."
She goes still, water motionless around her as she absorbs this. Her silence stretches long enough that I consider retreating, rebuilding walls I've just dismantled. Then her hand emerges from the water, not reaching for comfort but for connection, fingers brushing mine.
"So instead of letting me see all of you, you showed me nothing." Her voice holds no accusation, just quiet analysis. "You compartmentalized us the way you did everything else."
The precision of her assessment leaves me exposed—seen in a way I've spent a lifetime avoiding. Yet instead of wanting towithdraw, I find myself desperate to continue, to lay everything bare while she's willing to witness it.
"You deserved better than half a man. Than someone who couldn't give you all of himself." I tighten my grip on her hand, anchoring myself to her warmth. "I thought I was protecting you. Instead, I was just afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"That if you saw all of me—the darkness, the damage, the parts of him I can't excise—you'd leave." The truth stripped bare, exposed like nerve endings. "Everyone I've ever loved has disappeared, one way or another. And I couldn't bear it if you did too."
She sits up suddenly, water sluicing down her body, hand still gripping mine. "You idiot."
Not the response I expected. I blink, thrown off rhythm for the first time in this conversation.
"You pushed me away because you were afraid I'd leave?" The incredulity in her voice would be comical if it weren't edged with hurt. "You filed for divorce because you couldn't bear losing me?"
Put that way, the contradiction is inescapable. Indefensible. "I thought it would hurt less if I controlled when and how it happened."
"And did it?" The question quiet, devastating in its simplicity.
"No." The single syllable contains multitudes of regret, of nights spent staring at ceilings. Of achievements hollow without her to share them. "It nearly killed me."
She studies me for a long moment, water cooling around her, candlelight flickering across features I've memorized, dreamed of, mourned. Then she stands in a single fluid motion, water cascading from curves I've retraced with desperate hands.
"Hand me that towel."
I comply, rising to pass her the thick Egyptian cotton, careful not to touch, not to presume, not to shatter this fragile moment of truth between us.
She wraps it around herself, tucking the edge above her breasts, then steps from the tub to stand before me. Close enough that I can count individual droplets on her shoulders. Can see the pulse beating at the base of her throat.
"Jakob." My name in her mouth still sounds like prayer. Like possession. Like everything I've ever wanted and feared. "Take me to bed."
Not a request. A command. One I have no power to refuse, no desire to question.
I lift her—one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back—her body fitting against mine with the perfection of puzzle pieces reuniting.
She doesn't protest, doesn't remind me she can walk, doesn't maintain the independence that's become her armor. Just circles my neck with damp arms, face pressing into the curve of my shoulder.
I carry her to the bedroom—my bedroom, not the guest room where she's been sleeping. Lower her to sheets I've lain alone in for four years, the white cotton stark against her brown skin, still flushed from heat.
She reaches for me, towel falling away, body bared not just physically, but emotionally. Vulnerable in a way she hasn't been since before I broke us.
"Come here."
