Page 113 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless
I reach the edge of the bed, close enough now to see the slight tremor in Latanya's fingers, the dilation of her pupils, the faint sheen of sweat along her hairline. Signs I've missed for years—the obsession hiding beneath friendship, the possession masked as care.
"Actually, I'm quite thirsty." I sit on the bed's edge, creating a triangle between us. Casual. Unthreatening. "You always make the best hot chocolate, Tanya. Remember that time during the blizzard? When we lost power in the apartment?"
The reference lands—a genuine memory she can anchor to. Her grip on Jaden loosens slightly as nostalgia softens herexpression. "I melted the chocolate on your gas stove. We wrapped ourselves in that ridiculous plaid blanket."
"It was perfect." I shift closer, hand resting on the bed between us. Not reaching for Jaden. Not yet. "No one's ever taken care of me like you have."
She exhales, something in her posture easing. "I know. That's what I've been trying to tell you." Her free hand reaches across the space between us, fingertips brushing my knee in a gesture too intimate, too familiar. "No one will ever love you like I do. Not him. Not anyone."
I don't flinch from her touch, though my skin contracts beneath the fabric. "I know that now."
Jaden watches this exchange with uncomprehending eyes, too young to understand the undercurrents but old enough to feel their dangerous pull.
I lean forward, close enough that my breath mingles with hers, that I can smell the wine beneath her perfume. "Let me take Jaden downstairs. Then we can talk—really talk. About everything. About us."
Her eyes widen, hope flaring so nakedly it hurts to witness. "You mean that? After everything I've done today, you're not angry?"
"I understand why you did it." The lie tastes metallic, necessary. "You were trying to protect us from him. From making the same mistakes."
Her hand finally releases Jaden's wrist, reaching instead to cup my cheek. A lover's gesture I've never permitted, never imagined until this moment. "You see it now. Finally."
I nod, turning my face slightly to whisper in Jaden's ear as I brush his hair back: "Dad's outside. Run straight to him." Then louder, to Latanya: "Jaden, go get your backpack. I need to speak with Tanya alone."
Something in my tone must register with him—the barely contained urgency beneath false calm. He slides off the bed without hesitation, eyeing Latanya warily before moving toward the door.
"Wait—" She starts to rise, suddenly suspicious of the shift in power.
I grasp her wrist, the same way she held my son's. Not threatening. A connection she's wanted for fifteen years. "Let him go, Tanya. This is between us now."
Her focus snaps back to me, hunger overriding caution. She sinks back onto the bed, closer now, knee pressing against mine. "You have no idea how long I've waited to hear you say that."
Behind her, Jaden slips through the doorway. I track his footsteps—quicker now, nearly running. The sound of his descent fades as I hold Latanya's gaze, as I maintain the illusion for precious seconds needed to put distance between predator and child.
Only when I hear the faint creak of the front door do I allow my mask to slip. Only then do I let her see the truth I've been hiding.
"What have you done, Tanya?"
She laughs, the sound almost genuine. "What do you mean? I picked him up from school. Like I've done a dozen times before."
"And brought him here instead of karate. Gave him something in that hot chocolate." My eyes flick to the mug in her hand. "Something from that prescription bottle downstairs."
"Just to help him rest." She sets the mug down, straightens a photo frame with precise fingers. "He gets so wound up after school. Too much sugar in the cafeteria, I've always said it."
The calm in her voice raises the hair on my arms. Not denial. Not defense. Just the casual certainty of someone who believes completely in their own twisted logic.
"Fifteen years." I don't move closer. Don't retreat. "Northwestern. My wedding. Jaden's birth. The divorce. All of it."
"I've always been there." She nods, pride warming her features. "When he wasn't. When nobody else was. I was the one who picked up the pieces."
"And took pictures of us without permission. Tracked our movements. Planned to take my son."
Something shifts in her posture—a subtle tensing, a recalibration. "You don't understand. We were perfect, Chanel. The three of us. A family. Until he came back."
The accusation lands with physical weight. Jakob. The audit. The aquarium visit. The slow gravitational pull back toward what we once were.
"You were my friend," I say, the past tense deliberate. "And I loved you. But not like this. Not at the cost of my child."
"Cost?" Her voice rises slightly, the first crack in her composure. "I would never hurt Jaden. I love him like he's my own."
