Page 106 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

"I don't know what to do with this," I admit. Truth for truth. "With you. With us."

"You don't have to know yet." His hand rests on the bench between us, not reaching for mine, just existing in the same space. "I'm not asking for forgiveness. Or for another chance. I'm just offering truth. Whatever happens next is your choice."

Something breaks open inside my chest—not pain, but the absence of it. The relief of finally understanding. Four yearsof questions answered without evasion. Four years of doubt clarified into certainty, even if that certainty is complicated.

"I told Latanya I never stopped loving you." The confession emerges before I can reconsider. "Yesterday. I didn't plan to say it. It just... came out."

His eyes widen fractionally—the only sign that my words have landed. His breathing shifts, but he doesn't move toward me. Doesn't press the advantage of vulnerability.

"And do you?" he asks. "Still?"

The question hangs between us, weighted with everything that might follow. Ten years since we first collided in that seminar room. Six years of marriage that began in fire and ended in ice. With four years of rebuilding myself from the wreckage he left. With the knowledge that love was never our problem—trust was.

"I don't know how to stop," I admit. The words tear from somewhere honest and unguarded. "Even when I convinced myself I had."

He exhales, the sound carrying years of tension. His fingers flex on the bench between us, an aborted movement toward mine, disciplined into stillness.

"I've never tried to stop," he says. "I just got better at living with it."

Silence settles—not the loaded, dangerous kind of avoidance, but something gentler. A pause. A breath. A moment of recognizing that some conversations require space between words.

My phone vibrates in my purse. Once, twice. A third time—the pattern I've set for priority calls. I reach for it automatically, years of motherhood conditioning me to respond immediately to potential emergencies.

Unknown number.

"I should take this," I say. "It could be Jaden's school."

Jakob nods, leaning back to give me privacy while remaining present.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Warren?" A man's voice, professional but concerned. "This is David Kim, head instructor at Elite Karate Academy. I'm calling because Jaden didn't check in for his class today. I wanted to make sure everything's alright."

Ice slides down my spine. "I'm sorry—what?"

"Jaden. He's not here. The class started thirty minutes ago. We always call when a student doesn't show up."

My mind races, calculating times and arrangements. "But he should be. My friend Latanya was picking him up from school and bringing him directly."

"No one has brought him in today, ma'am."

My heart slams against my ribs, a trapped bird battering for escape. "Thank you. I'll call you back."

I end the call, fingers already moving to find Latanya's number. Jakob watches my face, reading the shift from confusion to the first tendrils of fear.

"What's wrong?"

"Jaden isn't at karate." The words come clipped, precise. "Latanya was supposed to take him directly from school."

I press the phone to my ear, counting rings. One. Two. Three. Each stretch into eternity.

"Chanel!" Latanya's voice comes through too bright, too high. Something in her tone sets my nerves on edge—a wrongness I can't immediately name. "I was just thinking about you."

"Where's Jaden?" I cut through pleasantries, maternal instinct sharpening my voice to a blade's edge. "The karate academy called. He never arrived."

"Oh..." A pause, too long. Her voice drifts, disconnected from urgency. "Everything's fine. Why are you yelling?"

Jakob has gone still beside me—predator stillness—catching the shift in my posture. I press speaker so he can hear, my hand steady despite the terror building beneath my breastbone.