Page 132 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Half-teasing, half-raw. The blend of strength and vulnerability that emerged only after we stopped pretending perfection mattered more than truth.
"I'll stay married to you until they put me in the ground."
No performance in declaration. No poetry or promise. Just bone-deep certainty about what matters most. About who matters most.
Her eyes fill—emotion no longer disguised as weakness or hidden as flaw. Just honest response to our love.
"Even when I drive you crazy?" she asks, acknowledging the storms that still come. The clash of wills that never disappeared. The fact that healing doesn't mean becoming something tame or predictable.
"Especially then."
I pull her closer, eliminate what little space remains between us. Between bodies that fit together despite the jagged edges we still carry.
"That's when I remember you're real. Not fantasy or fiction. Just gloriously, impossibly yourself."
She laughs against my mouth—sound containing nothing of restraint or performance. Just genuine pleasure at being seen, being known, being chosen with full awareness of every scar and sharp edge.
"The house will be ready by next summer," she says, already planning. Already mapping the future with the precision that makes her formidable in boardrooms and bedrooms alike. "In time for the baby."
"We'll break ground in spring," I agree, already picturing foundation poured, walls raised, roof that will shelter what matters most. "Watch it rise together."
"And Aaliyah,” I say, thinking of our unborn daughter already named in quiet conversations between midnight and dawn. Already loved with ferocity that terrifies and humbles. Already protected by the fortress of our reconciled hearts.
"And Jaden," she adds, thinking of son who navigated parental separation with resilience neither of us fully deserved. Who maintained hope even when adults surrendered to fear disguised as practicality. As protection. As prudence.
"The four of us against the world."
She says it like scripture. Like law carved in stone. Like truth that needs no proof or witness.
"The world doesn't stand a chance."
Outside, Manhattan sleeps beneath our penthouse—its restless pulse finally quieted, its ceaseless ambition momentarily still. Inside, we hold something beyond worth or measurement or the false security of contingency plans.
We hold certainty.
That broken things contain more beauty in their mending. That scars can map the way home when memory fails. That love persists in bone and blood when reason insists on surrender.
My phone stays dark—the world knows better than to intrude on these hours. These moments that belong to no one but us, claimed from chaos and held like sacred things.
Some lessons leave permanent marks. Some wisdom costs more than you can bear to pay. Some truths only reveal themselves after you've lost everything that once seemed essential.
I've built and broken and remade myself in her image. Have tasted power and found it ash compared to her skin againstmine. Have conquered worlds less complex and beautiful than the woman who shares my name.
But nothing compares to this—wife who chose me twice, knowing exactly what that choice contained. Son who carries my blood but his mother's fierce heart. Daughter who exists as living testament to second chances neither of us thought possible.
This isn't the life I planned or plotted or pursued through careful manipulation.
It's infinitely more devastating.
"I love you," I tell her, words once treated as weakness now wielded like weapon and shield combined. As truth worth defending regardless of cost or consequence. "Without condition or expiration."
"I know."
No pretense or deflection. Just calm acceptance of reality we've both finally surrendered to. "I love you the same way."
She settles against me, body familiar yet never fully mapped. Never taken for granted. Never reduced to habit or routine.
We sleep.
