Page 101 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"You included Rowe Stratton & Vale." Not a question. A confirmation of strategy I already approved.
"Senior partners received personalized assessments this morning." Tyson's voice drops to a confidential register. "Each file included projections of what happens to their client base if they move against Chanel Warren in any form. The message was... unambiguous."
I nod once, satisfaction settling like a cold weight in my chest. Whether Chanel comes back to me or not is her choice. Whether she keeps her career intact is non-negotiable.
"No retaliation. No professional consequences. Her reputation remains pristine." I trace the screen with my index finger, circling the name of Phillip Gardner. "Make sure they understand this isn't a one-time warning."
"They understand." Tyson's eyes meet mine, recognition passing between us. "Collins sent Gardner the names of his offshore accounts in the Caymans. Said you were'holding them in trust'for now."
A threat that doesn't need to be spoken. A line drawn around Chanel that no one will dare cross.
I stand, moving toward the window again. Tactics flowing through my mind like cold, clear water. Every avenue closed. Every escape route severed. Every potential ally threatened or neutralized. Megan has nowhere to go but here—forced to face me directly, to witness the consequences of targeting what's mine.
Even if Chanel is no longer mine to claim.
The thought hits like a physical blow—sharp pain beneath my ribs, breath caught mid-inhale. My hand flattens against the glass, steadying myself against the wave of raw, primitive loss that follows. For a moment, the carefully constructed architecture of control falters, revealing the man beneath—the one who would rather burn everything to ash than live in a world where she chooses to walk away again.
I close my eyes. Force air into resistant lungs. Let the pain wash through me without resistance.
She might choose freedom from me. From us. From the darkness I've finally stopped pretending doesn't exist.
I open my eyes, vision sharpening with renewed clarity. If that's her choice, I'll honor it. But I'll still ensure she's protected—from Megan, from RSV, from anyone who might mistake her independence for vulnerability.
No matter what happens at the Met today, Chanel Warren will never again pay the price for loving me.
"The brother?" I ask, turning back to Tyson, voice steady despite the tremor still echoing through my chest.
"Still holding out. Family estate complicates things."
"Focus there next." I slide the tablet back. "He breaks, she loses her last safe harbor."
Tyson nods, makes a note. Doesn't question the strategy or the coldness behind it. He's known me twenty years—watched me build empires, dismantle threats, navigate waters where weaker men drown. But he's never seen this version of me. The one who no longer cares how he's perceived. The one who has weighed cost against necessity and chosen truth over image.
The one who loves Chanel more than his own carefully constructed façade.
"What about Novare?" he asks. "The systems are still dark."
"Keep them down until we finish with Megan." I reach up, fingers finding the slight ridge beneath my shirt collar—the thin silver chain holding the gold band I've worn against my skin since the day Chanel left. I press it briefly against my sternum, feeling the familiar weight of the wedding ring I've never truly relinquished. "After that, we reassess."
I don't finish the thought. Don't need to. After Megan, everything either breaks or begins again. After Megan, I'll know if I have a chance at redemption or confirmation of what I'vealways feared—that some damage can't be undone, no matter the intention.
"And if she doesn't understand?" Tyson's question lands like a stone in still water. "If this—" he gestures to the monitors, the evidence of methodical destruction "—is too much?"
I close my fist around the ring beneath my shirt, feel its edges press through fabric into my palm. "Then at least she'll know the truth. All of it. Who I am. What I'm capable of. What I've done to protect her."
"And if that's not what she wants?"
The question should cut deeper than it does. Should make me reconsider, recalculate, retreat to safer ground. It doesn't.
"Then she deserves to make that choice with all the information." I let the ring fall back against my skin. "Not the sanitized version I've been parceling out in safe increments."
Tyson watches me with the careful assessment of a man who understands power—its uses, its costs, its consequences.
"You've never been this exposed before."
"No," I agree, turning back to the window. To the city now fully awake, unaware of the currents shifting beneath its surface. "I haven't."
My phone vibrates on the desk. Collins:She's moving. Heading to your building.
