Page 110 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Another text arrives:GPS confirms her phone in the house. No movement for 40+ minutes. Brownstone has rear exit to alley. No security feeds available.
I assess the building, calculating entry points, blind spots, potential witnesses. The strategic part of my brain—the one that built Novare, that dismantled Megan—processes the physical architecture of threat while another part registers Chanel'sbreathing beside me. Too measured. Too controlled. A woman holding herself together through sheer force of will.
"I'm going in," I say, already reaching for the door handle.
Her hand catches my arm, grip surprising in its strength. "No."
I turn, meet her eyes—dark with fear but steady with purpose.
"Let me go in first."
Every instinct rebels against the suggestion. Every cell demands action, demands I become the shield between danger and what's mine. "Absolutely not."
"Jakob." My name in her mouth stops me. Not soft. Not pleading. Certain. "She took him because of us. Because she thinks I chose you. If you go in?—"
"She's dangerous, Chanel." The words scrape my throat. "This isn't a negotiation with RSV. This is someone who's been planning to take our son for years."
"I know exactly what she is." Something shifts in Chanel's expression—grief hardening into resolve. "That's why it has to be me. She wants me. Has always wanted me. Jaden is..." She swallows. "A way to keep me. Not his target."
Logic wars with protective rage. The tactical assessment is sound—Latanya's obsession centers on Chanel, not Jaden. His safety likely depends on maintaining that fixation. But the husband, the father in me recoils from sending her toward danger alone.
"I'll be right behind you," I say finally. Not a request.
"No." Her voice drops lower. "You'll be outside until I signal. If she sees you, if she thinks this is some coordinated attack?—"
"If she touches him—" The threat rises unbidden, muscles tensing with violent intention.
"I know." Her hand slides from my arm, voice steady.
"No." I catch her gaze, let her see what I've kept carefully contained. "You don't. I'll kill her."
Not hyperbole. Not exaggeration. Simple, cold fact. If Latanya Davis has harmed one hair on our son's head, I will end her with the same methodical precision I've applied to corporate enemies—without hesitation, without remorse.
Chanel holds my gaze. Not shock. Not horror at the monster she glimpses beneath my control. Understanding. Acceptance. Partnership in its darkest form.
"And I'll let you."
Four words that redefine us. That acknowledge the darkness we both carry—the lengths we'll go for what's ours. That tell me she sees me completely—the violence and the love, inseparable, one feeding the other.
She reaches for the door handle. I catch her wrist, not restraining, just connecting. Skin against skin. Pulse against pulse.
"Two minutes," I say. "Then I come in."
She nods once. No argument. No false bravery. Just calculation of necessary risk.
"If I can get him out quickly, I will. If not—" Her eyes meet mine. "Be ready."
The air between us thickens with unspoken truths. With the knowledge that four years of careful distance has collapsed in crisis. With the certainty that this moment will either break us completely or forge something unbreakable from our ruins.
"I love you," I say. Not manipulation. Not performance. Just truth she deserves before walking into danger.
Her eyes close briefly, pain and strength mingling in her expression. When she opens them, I see everything I've missed for four years—the woman who rebuilt herself from the wreckage I left. The woman who never needed my protection, only my truth.
"I know," she says. Then she's gone, door closing quietly behind her.
I watch her walk toward the brownstone—back straight, steps measured. No hesitation. No glances back for reassurance. Just focused purpose carrying her toward the woman who betrayed her. Toward our son. Toward the confrontation she's claiming as her right, not my responsibility.
My phone vibrates. Tyson again.
