Page 82 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
"I don't operate on Megan's timeline." Her chin lifts slightly. "Or yours."
"And what about Jaden? The protective arrangement? You both living here isn't just about us anymore." The words come out harsher than intended. Another mistake. "Megan's threat is real."
"So I should stay trapped in your fortress, under your rules?"
Her eyes flash—obsidian fire.
"That's exactly the problem, Jakob. You create systems of protection that double as prisons. No. I need space from you to think clearly."
She moves past me, heading for the bedroom where her things are now organized in the closet next to mine. I follow, watching as she methodically selects what she needs, packing an overnight bag. Her movements are precise, controlled.
Only the slight tremor in her hands betrays the emotion she's containing.
She pulls a silk blouse from a hanger—deep burgundy, the one she wore the first day of the audit. I remember how it looked in the conference room, how it made my mouth go dry. Now it disappears into her bag, along with the artifacts of our rebuilt life.
Each item she packs feels like another door closing.
"I never meant to hurt you," I say to her back. The words sound hollow even to me, inadequate against the weight of what I've done.
She pauses, hands stilling over an open drawer.
"That's the problem, Jakob. You never do. You just make decisions that feel right to you, that protect what you value in the way you think best. And you call it love."
She zips the bag closed with a finality that echoes in my chest.
"But real love—the kind I thought we had—doesn't decide what truths the other person deserves. It doesn't calculate risk and reward through your eyes. That’s not protection. It’s control."
I reach for her bag, a reflex to help, to do something, anything to delay what's happening. Her hand covers mine, stopping me. The touch burns. Her skin against mine, warm and familiar, and I know it's the last time I'll feel it for a while.
Maybe forever.
My hand trembles beneath hers. I can't stop it. Can't hide it. This weakness I've spent a lifetime trying to eradicate breaks through, exposing everything I've fought to conceal.
"Let me drive you home," I say, voice rough. "Or call my driver."
"I'll get a car." She slips her phone from her pocket. "I need to call Jaden and let him know I'm leaving."
"I'll tell him." I grasp at this small thing, this one responsibility I can still claim. "Let me do that much."
She studies my face, searching for something. I don't know if she finds it.
"Fine."
I don't follow her to the door. Don't watch her leave. Standing alone in the bedroom where minutes ago we belonged to each other, I wait until I hear the elevator doors close before I let myself exhale.
When I emerge, Jaden stands in the hallway, confusion etched on his face.
"Mom's going home," I tell him, keeping my voice steady. "She needs some space. Adult stuff."
His eyes narrow, so like his mother's when she's assessing a situation.
"Did you mess up again?"
The question lands with perfect aim.
"Yes. I did."
He nods once, accepting this with a child's simple understanding of cause and effect.
