Page 122 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
The question exposes what we've both been circling. The fear that stability between us depends on stasis. That changing one variable might collapse the equation we've only just balanced.
"Nothing changes," I tell her, absolute certainty in each syllable. "Except perhaps you stop settling for professional satisfaction and start building what you actually want."
Her breath catches—the observation too accurate to deflect.
"You think I'm settling."
"I think you're surviving." The distinction matters. "I think you're making the best choices from limited options. I'm just expanding the options."
She looks back at the check, at the number that represents not just money, but possibility. Freedom. Agency reclaimed rather than granted.
"And what do you get from this?" The question isn't accusatory. Just precise. The auditor who traces every transaction to its source. Who identifies motives beneath movements.
"I get to see what you build when nothing constrains you." Truth emerges unvarnished. Undefended. "I get to witness what you become when fear of financial instability doesn't factor into your choices."
She absorbs this, fingers still tracing the check's edge. Not pushing it away. Not yet claiming it. Just considering what it represents beyond its numerical value.
Then she looks up, eyes meeting mine with unsettling directness. "I never wanted your money, Jakob. All I wanted was you."
The words hollow me out. Then rebuild me from inside. Cells rearranging around a truth I've spent years avoiding—that what I thought was protection was actually fear. That what I framed as nobility was actually cowardice disguised as sacrifice.
I exhale, voice emerging hoarse with recognition. "I let you go once. Told myself it was for the best." The admission scrapes my throat. "But I think... it was just easier than admitting I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?" she asks, though her eyes suggest she already knows.
"Of needing you more than you needed me." The truth emerges unvarnished. Undefended. "Of loving something I couldn't control. Couldn't predict. Couldn't protect through calculation."
She absorbs this, fingers curled around her wine stem. Not reaching for me. Not retreating. Just present with the weight of confession between us.
"And now?" The question hangs in air disturbed only by candlelight.
I reach across the table. Cover her hand with mine. Feel the warmth of her skin, the slight tremor beneath controlled surface.
"Now I know there are worse things than vulnerability. Worse things than surrender."
"Like what?" Her voice drops lower, private despite the public setting.
"Like watching you from a distance. Like measuring my life in glimpses of what I gave away." My thumb traces the delicate bones of her wrist, the pulse point where her blood rushes closer to surface. "Like pretending I don't still wake reaching for you."
The admission costs me nothing and everything. Strips away the careful distance I've maintained. The control I've clung to like religion.
"We're different people now," she says, though she doesn't withdraw her hand from mine.
"Yes." No argument. No denial. Just recognition of transformation neither of us could have predicted. "Maybe that's why it could work this time."
Her eyes hold mine, searching for deception. For calculation. For the man who once made decisions for both of us in the name of protection.
"I won't make that mistake again," I tell her, voice steady despite the seismic shift beneath my ribcage. "I won't confuse control with care."
She looks down at our joined hands, then at the check still on the table between us. At the future it represents—not just financial security but true independence. The freedom to choose me not from necessity but from desire.
"With or without this check," she says, voice steady despite the weight of the moment, "you're my person."
The declaration undoes me more completely than any calculated seduction. Simple words that contain history, possibility, choice made with clear eyes rather than blind emotion.
"I'd rather be your husband," I answer quietly.
She breathes in, stilling. Processing implications with the same precision she applies to evidence, to risk, to everything that matters.
