Page 120 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Four years of her rebuilding what my choices fractured. Four years of proving herself twice over to compensate for the association with my name. And now, six months at a firm that recognized her talent but didn't witness her fight.
"You've earned it." I signal for the wine to be poured, watch the dark liquid pool in crystal. "Marquez & Klein is lucky to have you."
Her eyebrow lifts slightly—the only tell she allows herself. "Not the most traditional congratulations from a competitor."
"I'm not here as a competitor." I raise my glass, a gesture of both tribute and truce. "I'm here as..."
The word hovers unspoken.
What am I to her now?Ex-husband. Co-parent. Almost-lover. Almost-enemy. Categories too small to contain what exists between us.
"As Jakob," she finishes for me, lifting her own glass. "That's enough."
We drink in unison. The wine tastes exactly as I remember—dark fruit layered with earth, with time, with patience. Her lipstick leaves a crescent mark on the rim. I find myself tracking it with unnecessary attention. This small evidence of her presence.
The server approaches with menus. I watch Chanel order with the same efficiency she applies to everything—no hesitation, no self-conscious qualifiers. When my turn comes, I realize I haven't glanced at the options. Find myself ordering the same dish she selected. Another form of synchronicity. Another echo of how we move in each other's gravity.
When we're alone again, she leans forward slightly. "Jaden's science camp starts next Monday. He's been asking if you'll come for the drop-off."
"I'll be there." Not a question. Not a negotiation. A certainty.
"It's early. Six AM check-in. The Singapore call?—"
"Already moved to afternoon." I watch her nod, something passing between us without words. A trust earned in small moments. Built over time. The kind that doesn't require explanation.
"He'll be happy." She takes another sip of wine, throat moving as she swallows. "He's finally starting to feel like himself again. The way he was before the Latanya incident."
The delicate reference to Latanya. To the day that could have ended with unimaginable loss instead of quiet healing. Eight months have passed since that afternoon at the brownstone. Since the night I kept watch while they slept. Since something fractured began mending in ways neither of us fully understand.
"Different how?" I ask, though I've observed the changes myself. In weekend visits. In school pickups. In the careful way we've rebuilt routine from trauma.
"More settled." Her fingers trace condensation on her water glass. "Less anxious about transitions. About us."
Us. The word sits between us, neither defined nor dismissed. A space we've been circling for weeks. Approaching through practical avenues—Jaden's schedule, his nightmares, his therapy appointments. Through neutral territories where emotion can be contained within function.
The appetizers arrive. Conversation shifts to safer ground—Jaden's summer plans beyond science camp, her mother's upcoming visit, the relentless heat wave gripping the city. The familiar choreography of people who know how to dance around what matters.
I watch her as she speaks, as she eats, as she signals for more water. The precise movements that have always defined her, now imbued with something new. A certainty that comes from surviving fire and finding yourself unburned. A confidence born from standing your ground when the earth tries to swallow you whole.
And yet.
Beneath the polished veneer, I catch glimpses of something less resolved. A restlessness in her hands. A tension in her shoulders when professional accomplishments are mentioned. The subtle tells I've learned to read like another language.
"Tell me about the new position," I say, redirecting from thoughts too dangerous to voice. "Will you be leading the financial crimes division?"
She nods, cutting into her steak with surgical precision. "Effective immediately. Full team. Expanded budget." The smile that follows doesn't quite match her tone. "And final say on which clients we accept."
"They're lucky to have you," I say, meaning it more than she knows. Understanding what it costs her to excel in rooms designed to exclude her. In systems built to reward connections over competence.
"It's where I am right now." Notneedto be. Notwantto be. Justam. The distinction subtle, but significant.
"But not where you want to stay." Not a question. An observation drawn from years of knowing her breathing patterns, her micro-expressions, the specific cadence her voice takes when saying what's expected rather than what's true.
Her eyes snap to mine, surprise briefly visible before control reasserts. "It's a good opportunity."
"That doesn't answer my question."
She sets down her fork, a small concession to the conversation's shift from performance to truth. "Does it matter? We make choices. We live with them. We find satisfaction where we can."
