Page 75 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
Trust was.
Trust in his presence. Trust in his promises. Trust in his capacity to be the man I glimpsed in moments like these—fully engaged, emotionally available, wholly present.
Trust that he wouldn't retreat into work and silence when emotions became too raw, too demanding, too inconvenient for the empire he was building.
I move to the window, putting physical distance between myself and this realization. Manhattan sprawls below, Sunday afternoon light gilding buildings in false promise. I press my palm against cool glass, anchoring myself against vertigo that has nothing to do with height and everything to do with the ground shifting beneath assumptions I've built my post-divorce life upon.
"All done!" Jaden announces, the scrape of his chair against hardwood, disrupting my spiral of realization. "Can we go now?"
"Get your jacket," I say automatically, parent-mode engaging despite internal turmoil. "It's getting cooler."
He races from the room, energy contained during homework now seeking release. His footsteps echo down the hallway, leaving Jakob and me in sudden silence that feels weighted with unasked questions.
"You okay?" he asks, moving beside me at the window. Not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat of him, the gravitational pull of his presence.
"I’m fine." The words crisp, defensive. A shield against the reality I'm not ready to process.
"Chanel." My name in his mouth still does things to me I refuse to name. "Talk to me."
"About what?" I turn to face him, needing to see his expression. To gauge his sincerity. To remind myself of all the reasons trust remains the barrier between what we were and what we might still be.
His eyes—those impossible blue eyes that see too much, that tracked my naked body with reverence last night, that watch our son with undisguised love—search mine with an intensity that makes breathing difficult.
"About whatever put that look on your face just now." His hand lifts, hovering near my cheek without touching, respecting boundaries I myself demolished hours ago in the darkness of his bedroom. "You went somewhere else. Somewhere that hurt."
The observation disarms me—not the fact, which is true, but his willingness to notice. To acknowledge. To ask rather than assume or ignore or dismiss.
"Just remembering something," I say, offering partial truth, the habit of emotional self-protection too ingrained to abandon completely.
"Something about us."
I nod once, unwilling to elaborate. Yet unwilling to lie. Caught in the limbo between trust and self-preservation that's defined our relationship from the beginning.
He steps closer, hand finally making contact with my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicts the power I know his hands possess. The damage they can inflict when wielded without care.
"I'm right here," he says softly. "Not going anywhere."
The promise hangs between us, fragile as blown glass. Beautiful and breakable. Impossible to accept without reservation. Without fear. Without memory of similar promises that shattered against the hard surface of reality.
"Don't make promises you can't keep," I whisper, voice steadier than the trembling that starts beneath my skin, in places he can't see but reaches without even trying.
"I'm not." His gaze holds mine, unwavering, unbearably sincere. "Not anymore."
Before I can respond—before I can challenge or accept or retreat from the precipice this conversation approaches—Jaden barrels back into the room, jacket half-on, enthusiasm undimmed by our obvious tension.
"Ready!" he announces, oblivious to the current passing between us. To the unfinished conversation. To the way Jakob's hand drops from my face with reluctance that feels like its own confession.
"Then let's go," Jakob says, attention shifting to our son with the practiced ease of compartmentalization I once resented, now recognize as necessary. "Race you to the elevator."
Jaden takes off immediately, competitive streak ignited, leaving us momentarily alone in the wake of his departure. Jakob's eyes find mine again, something unspoken passing between us—acknowledgment, perhaps. Recognition that this conversation isn't finished. That some promises require more than words to prove.
He turns to follow our son, pausing in the doorway to look back at me. "Coming?"
The question carries more weight than its casual delivery suggests.Coming to the park. Coming back to this family. Coming to trust promises I've heard before.
I nod, unable to find words that won't reveal too much or too little of the turmoil beneath my carefully maintained surface. He accepts this silent response, disappearing down the hallway after Jaden, leaving me alone with the echo of his promise, and the dangerous hope it ignites.
I'm right here. Not going anywhere.
