Page 116 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Jaden waits at the bottom, backpack clutched against his chest like armor. His eyes track my descent, searching for answers I'm not ready to give, for stability I need to reconstruct.
"Time to go, baby." I hold out my hand, steady despite the tremor building beneath my skin.
He takes it without hesitation, fingers curling into mine with complete trust. The feeling cuts deeper than any knife—the faith of a child who believes his mother can fix anything, can face any danger, can walk through fire and emerge unburned.
I guide him toward the front door, past the photos I'll never look at the same way again, past the couch where we've shared countless glasses of wine and confidences. My free hand finds the doorknob, turns it with quiet precision.
Outside, Jakob stands exactly where I left him, body coiled with contained violence, eyes fixed on the door. Waiting. Watching. Trusting against every instinct.
The moment he sees Jaden, something breaks in his expression—relief so profound it transforms his face. He drops to one knee, arms opening without words.
Jaden hesitates, looking up at me for permission. I nod once, releasing his hand.
He runs forward, collides with his father's chest, small arms wrapping around Jakob's neck. Jakob's eyes close briefly, face pressing into our son's hair, arms enfolding him with fierce protection.
Over Jaden's head, Jakob's gaze finds mine. Questions he doesn't voice. Assessments he doesn't share. Just raw gratitude and something deeper—recognition of the strength it took to walk through that door alone. To face the threat without him.
I move toward them slowly, legs suddenly unsteady as adrenaline begins to ebb. As the gravity of what just happened—what could have happened—settles into my bones.
Jakob's arm extends, opening the circle of protection to include me without words. Without demand. Simply offering space I can choose to enter or reject.
I step into his embrace, into the shelter of his strength, into the warmth of his gratitude. Not surrender. Not dependency. Just the conscious choice to accept connection when I need it most.
His arm closes around my waist, solid and certain. Jaden between us, safe. Protected. Whole.
We stand together on the sidewalk, three people bound by blood and choice and history. A family fractured but not broken. Damaged but not destroyed.
Tomorrow will bring questions. Explanations. Decisions about what happens next, about whether the bridge between past and future can bear our weight.
But today—in this moment—we are simply survivors of the same storm. Holding each other against winds that tried and failed to tear us apart.
And for now, that's enough.
TWENTY-TWO
BROKEN THINGS
JAKOB
The penthouse stands silent as we enter with Jaden half-asleep against my shoulder, Chanel moving ahead to switch on a single lamp that casts more shadows than light.
I cross the threshold carrying our son, the weight of him against my chest more stabilizing than any anchor I've ever known.
We haven't spoken since leaving Latanya's brownstone. Haven't needed to. Some things exist beyond language—the understanding that passes between people who've faced death together and emerged breathing. Who've seen the worst and chosen to walk forward anyway.
Chanel moves through the space with the careful precision of someone navigating a place both familiar and strange. Her fingers trail along surfaces—the back of the couch, the edge of a table, the kitchen counter—as if confirming the solidity of objects that existed before today's horror and somehow still remain.
"He should eat something," she says, voice pitched low enough not to disturb Jaden's half-sleep. "The hospital said the sedative wasn't strong, but?—"
"I'll make him toast." I shift him gently in my arms, reluctant to release him even for the seconds it would take to set him down. "You should rest."
She shakes her head once, the movement sharp with residual adrenaline. "I can't. Not yet."
Our eyes meet across the kitchen island. Not the first time we've shared the aftermath of catastrophe—we weathered two miscarriages before Jaden, the bankruptcy of my first company, her father's slow death. Always, there was this: the silence afterward. The recognition between survivors.
I ease Jaden onto a bar stool, steadying him with one hand while the other reaches for bread. His eyes follow my movements, heavy-lidded but alert. Watching. Assessing. Learning what men do in the wake of danger.
"Dad?" His voice comes small, uncertain.
