Page 118 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Jaden's eyelids flutter, fighting the pull of exhaustion. Chanel's gaze remains fixed on my face, something in her expression I can't immediately decipher. Not quite softness. Not quite wariness. Something more complex—assessment wrapped in memory.
"One day, a girl moved in next door. She didn't build towers. She built bridges. Connected things that seemed separate. Created paths where none existed before."
The story unfolds without planning, words emerging from some place beneath conscious thought. Not the fairy tales I used to tell. Something closer to confession disguised as fable.
"The boy thought his towers were what mattered. How high they reached. How impressive they looked. He didn't understand that the girl's bridges were stronger. More important. That connecting was harder than climbing."
Jaden's breathing deepens, body growing heavier against the mattress. Succumbing to safety after terror, to peace after chaos.
"It took losing everything for the boy to understand. That towers fall. That height means nothing without foundation. That the strongest thing he ever built wasn't made of stone or steel, but of promises kept and truths told and moments when he chose to stay instead of leave."
By the time I finish, Jaden is asleep, face relaxed in the perfect abandon only children achieve. But Chanel remains awake, eyes holding mine across our son's sleeping form. In the half-light, her face carries shadows I put there and strength I didn't. Beauty I recognize and resolve I'm still learning.
"You stayed," she says, voice barely audible. Not accusation. Not praise. Just acknowledgment of a choice made and kept.
"Yes." The single syllable carries the weight of the day, of four years, of every decision that led us to this moment—our son sleeping between us, danger temporarily held at bay, truth hovering in the air between confession and acceptance.
She stretches out beside Jaden. one arm draped protectively across his small body. Her eyes never leave mine, even as fatigue pulls at her features, softens the sharp edges of control she's maintained since the museum.
"I don't need you to fix everything," she whispers, words slipping through the space between consciousness and surrender. "Just...stay."
Then she's gone, pulled under by the emotional undertow of the day. Her face in sleep is younger, stripped of the armor she's constructed since I left. The face I remember from morningsbefore dawn, from nights when passion left her defenseless, from the hospital bed where she first held our son.
I remain motionless, watching over them as darkness thickens around us. As the city lights create patterns across the ceiling, across their sleeping forms. As my phone vibrates silently against my thigh.
I extract it carefully, moving with the precision of someone navigating a minefield. The screen illuminates with Tyson's name. Not a coincidence. Not after today.
I rise from the bed without disturbing them, step into the adjoining bathroom where marble and glass contain sound. Where I can speak without waking them. Where I can be the man they don't need to see while remaining the one they need to have.
"Report," I say without preamble.
"Collins has secured the brownstone." Tyson's voice comes through clear, professional. "No police involvement. The subject is still inside. Bank accounts frozen as instructed. Flight manifests flagged. Digital footprint contained."
I press my forehead against cool glass, eyes closed. The ruthlessness I've cultivated like a hothouse flower unfurling in my chest, in my mind, in my hands—the capacity for precise destruction that built Novare, that dismantled Megan, that protects what's mine.
"And the other matter?"
"Ardano confirmed on a flight to Geneva. Untraceable account established with the agreed-upon amount. She accessed it three hours ago."
One threat contained. One eliminated. The board cleared of pieces that threatened my king. My queen. My son.
"The contingency?" I ask, voice dropping lower. The final fail-safe. The insurance policy against betrayal.
"In place. If either resurfaces within a hundred miles of your family, we'll know before they finish landing. Before they finish crossing the state line."
I nod, though he can't see me. Satisfaction settling cold and clean in my veins. The knowledge that what I've built will hold. That what I protect will remain safe.
"Handle it," I tell him. No elaboration needed. No clarification required. The directive that encompasses everything from surveillance to suppression to elimination if necessary.
"Consider it done." Tyson doesn't question. Doesn't seek moral validation. Just accepts the directive with the loyalty that's made him invaluable for twenty years. "Will you be at the penthouse or returning to your residence?"
The question lands differently than intended. Not logistics. Not security protocol. A choice about who I am. About where I belong.
I look through the open doorway to the bed where Chanel and Jaden sleep. Where they breathe in unison, dark heads close together on white pillows. Where everything I've ever wanted lies unguarded in the darkness.
"I'm home," I tell him. "Just increase surveillance on this location. Triple the usual parameters."
"Understood." A pause, uncharacteristic for a man who deals in certainties. "Jakob... is she worth all this?"
