Page 119 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
The question should offend me. Should trigger the cold rage I direct at anyone who questions my decisions, my priorities, my attachments. Instead, I find myself smiling—a small, private expression in darkness.
"She's worth more."
I end the call, slip the phone into my pocket. Stand for a moment in the liminal space between bathroom and bedroom, between the man who eliminates threats and the man who tellsbedtime stories. Between the monster I've cultivated and the father I'm relearning how to be.
In the bed, Chanel shifts slightly, arm tightening around Jaden. Even in sleep, she protects. Defends. Holds what matters against her heart.
I move back to them, settling carefully on the mattress edge. Not presuming to lie beside them, to claim space as a right rather than a privilege. Just close enough to guard. To witness. To remain.
My hand finds the divorce papers in my pocket—the ones I've carried for four years, unsigned, unresolved. The physical manifestation of limbo, of a decision unmade, of a life suspended between endings and beginnings.
I place them on the nightstand, a promise for tomorrow. For conversations that can't be held while wounds are still fresh, while danger still lingers at the edges of safety. For truths that deserve clear eyes and full consciousness.
Then I settle into the chair beside the bed, angled to see both the door and the windows. To monitor entry points and sleeping breaths. To guard what I've been entrusted with—not possession, but protection. Not control, but care.
Outside, the city continues its restless pulse. Inside, I hold vigil over the peace they've found, over the trust placed in my hands, over the second chance I've been given but haven't yet earned.
I've spent four years building walls to keep danger out, never realizing I was sealing myself in darkness. Tonight, I keep watch from inside the fortress, from within the circle of what matters, from the place where protection becomes presence rather than distance.
The weight of it settles across my shoulders—not burden but ballast. Not obligation but privilege. The weight she's let mehold. The weight that keeps me anchored to earth when power would pull me skyward, away from what matters.
I watch them breathe until dawn breaks across the Manhattan skyline. Until light spills across the bed where they sleep. Until the darkness recedes and I remain, keeping the promise I made without words.
Staying.
TWENTY-THREE
SURRENDER
JAKOB
The restaurant hums with wealth—quiet money that doesn't need to announce itself.
Crystal chandeliers suspended above tables spaced far enough apart for secrets to remain secrets. The kind of place where decisions that shift markets are made between appetizers and dessert. The kind of place where I used to feel most at home.
Tonight, I'm a stranger in familiar territory.
I arrived fifteen minutes early, claimed the corner table with the best sightlines. Old habits.
The sommelier recognized me, presented the wine list with a slight bow. I ordered the Bordeaux Chanel favored during our marriage—a detail I've kept filed away with other fragments of her I couldn't bear to discard.
Information as talisman. Data points preserved like pressed flowers between pages of memory.
When she enters, conversation briefly suspends, then resumes at a different pitch. Not because she demands attention. Because she earns it without trying.
She moves between tables with easy confidence, midnight blue dress catching light like water holds moonlight. Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders—longer than during our marriage, when she kept it strictly controlled in the razor-sharp bob that announced precision before she spoke a word. This softer style frames a face that's grown more certain in its beauty, more unapologetic in its power.
I stand as she approaches, something in my chest tightening at the smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Perfect enough to fool everyone else in the room. Not perfect enough to fool me.
"You're early," she says, allowing the host to pull out her chair.
"Old habits." I wait until she's seated before reclaiming my own. "Congratulations are in order."
Her fingers smooth the napkin across her lap—a gesture I recognize from a thousand meals shared across a decade. The unconscious precision that defines her, even in celebration.
"Thank you." She meets my eyes directly, no deflection. "It's been a long road."
The words land between us—four years of that road walked separately.
