Page 109 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

Chanel's breath hitches. I glance at her, catch the exact moment understanding blooms across her face—horror and betrayal crystallizing into certainty.

"She's been tracking us," she says. The words fall like stones. "For years."

"There's more," Tyson continues. "Calendar entries. Daily logs. Something labeled'contingencies' that I'm still trying to decrypt."

I take the next corner too sharply, tires protesting. "Financial records?"

"Working on it. Her spending patterns changed eight months ago. Regular withdrawals, two thousand dollars monthly. Cash."

The implications stack like bodies. Eight months—when Chanel and I first reconnected professionally. When the audit began. When whatever fragile hope Latanya harbored started to fracture.

"How did I miss this?" Chanel's voice holds no self-pity, just clinical assessment of a threat incorrectly gauged.

"Because she was perfect," I say, the truth simple and brutal. "She made herself exactly what you needed. When you needed it."

"Incoming data from her laptop," Tyson interrupts. "Searches on Jakob Giannetti going back years. Detailed tracking of your movements, business dealings, relationships."

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Personal files?"

"Journal entries. Still decrypting. But the fragments I'm seeing—" He hesitates, unusual for a man who's delivered the worst news imaginable without blinking. "They're fixated on Chanel. Possessive. Detailed plans for a future together. With Jaden."

Without me.

The words hang unspoken. Unnecessary.

Chanel's spine straightens, something shifting in her posture. The initial shock receding, replaced by something colder. More focused. The warrior beneath the auditor emerging.

"Tell me about today," she says, voice steady. "What triggered this?"

Tyson's typing accelerates. "Pulling location data. Her phone was at your apartment yesterday, then at the school this morning for pickup. I'll have security camera footage shortly, but—wait."

The pause stretches too long.

"What?" I demand.

"Bank alerts just came through. She emptied her accounts three days ago. All of them. And there's a property outside Baltimore purchased six months ago. Cash transaction, shell company, but I'm seeing utility connections in her name."

The pattern clarifies, horrifyingly complete. This wasn't impulse. Wasn't triggered by yesterday's conversation. This wasthe activation of a long-constructed plan—waiting only for the right moment.

"She was always going to take him," Chanel says, the realization flat and terrible. "She just moved up the timeline when she realized I might go back to you."

I don't correct the assumption about us reconciling. Truth is a luxury we can't afford until Jaden is safe.

"We're five minutes out," I say to Tyson. "Keep digging. And Tyson?—"

"I know." His voice drops lower. "Full containment protocol."

The call ends as we turn onto Latanya's street. I park half a block away, engine idling. The brownstone sits mid-row, lights visible through front windows. Nothing visibly wrong. Nothing screaming danger.

Everything screaming trap.

"Her car's there," Chanel notes, eyes fixed on the silver Audi parked directly in front. "But that doesn't mean?—"

My phone vibrates. Text from Tyson:Security cam from school confirmed she picked up Jaden. He went willingly. No signs of distress.

I show Chanel the screen. Her fingers brush mine as she takes the phone—the first contact since the museum. The touch anchors me, pulls me back from the edge where calculation blurs into bloodlust.

"Of course he went willingly," she says, voice hollow. "He's known her his whole life."