Page 104 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

Because that's what this has always been about. Waiting for the right moment to tell the truth. Waiting for the courage to be seen fully. Waiting for Chanel to decide if the man I am—not the one I pretended to be—is someone she could love again.

Four years ago, I walked away to protect her from Megan's poison. From the darkness I carried inside me. From the ruthlessness required to build empires and destroy enemies.

Today, I've eliminated the external threat. But the internal one remains—the fear that the real me, the complete me, might be too much. Too dark. Too broken. Too dangerous.

The fear that honesty might cost me the only thing I've ever truly wanted.

I check my watch. Ten thirty-seven. I have time to prepare for tomorrow's meeting—to gather the evidence Chanel deserves to see. The complete truth about why I left, what I've done to protect her, who I really am beneath the façade.

At my desk, I collect the divorce papers I've carried for four years—unsigned, unresolved, a physical reminder of what I lost and what I'm fighting to reclaim. I slide them into my pocket alongside the ring.

Tomorrow, Chanel will see all of me—the tenderness and the violence, the protection and the possession, the man who would burn down the world to keep her safe and the man who memorizes the exact cadence of her breathing when she sleeps.

Tomorrow, I offer her a choice made with clear eyes and full information.

Tomorrow, I find out if what broke once might still be saved.

Not by pretending to be better than I am.

But by becoming real enough to be worthy of her truth in return.

NINETEEN

THE SILENCE BREAKS

CHANEL

The Egyptian Wing stands empty at 11:52. Ancient pharaohs watch through stone eyes as I choose my position—not hiding, not waiting. Standing. Present.

I've arrived early to claim space, to ground myself before Jakob appears. To breathe without his presence altering the chemistry of the air.

I stop before a glass case displaying funeral jewelry—delicate gold pieces created to accompany the dead into whatever comes after. Symbols of permanence. Of bonds that transcend endings. The irony doesn't escape me.

Ten years ago, I stood in this same spot with Jakob on our second date. He'd researched every exhibit, memorized facts about each dynasty, each artifact. Not to impress me with knowledge—to show me he was willing to work for my attention. That effort mattered more than the information itself.

Now we return to neutral ground, both different versions of who we were. Both carrying burial jewelry of our own—memories, wounds, hopes embalmed but never truly laid to rest.

My reflection in the glass stares back at me—a woman composed on the surface, while beneath runs an undercurrent of emotion I've spent years damming. Today, I've come to decide if I'm brave enough to let the walls come down. If what floods through might nourish rather than drown.

I hear him before I see him. The particular cadence of his stride—unhurried yet precise—as familiar to me as Jaden's laugh or my own heartbeat. My body registers his approach before my mind can armor against it—pulse quickening, breath catching, skin warming in rebellion against reason.

I don't turn immediately. Allow myself three heartbeats to prepare. To remember why I came. Not for reconciliation. Not for absolution. For truth, uncomplicated by performance or strategy.

"Chanel."

Just my name. But in his mouth, it carries history. Two syllables that contain everything we were, everything we lost.

I turn.

Jakob stands ten feet away, no closer than necessary, respecting the boundary of space between us. Not in his usual tailored armor—he's wearing dark jeans, a simple gray sweater. Clothes that don't assert power or position. His eyes hold mine without artifice, without the careful calculation I've grown accustomed to seeing there.

"Thank you for coming," I say.

"Thank you for asking."

We study each other across marble and history. Both searching for signs of what comes next. Both waiting for the other to break first.

I'm the one who moves, closing half the distance between us. Not retreat, not advance—adjustment. Finding the precise point where conversation feels possible without proximity becoming overwhelming.