Page 11 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

Mrs. Abernathy's cooking is excellent, though nothing like Chanel's Sunday dinners with their intricate spices and generations of family recipes. I eat mechanically, focused more on Jaden's ongoing narrative than the food itself.

After dinner, after bath time and two bedtime stories, Jaden finally settles into the room I designed specifically for him—walls covered in space-themed wallpaper, ceiling painted with constellations that glow in darkness.

I sit on the edge of his bed, watching his eyelids grow heavy. "All set, buddy?"

He nods, then hesitates. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Is Mom mad at you again?"

The question blindsides me. I maintain a neutral expression, despite my accelerating pulse. "What makes you ask that?"

He shrugs, small fingers playing with the edge of his blanket—the elephant one I purchased when he was born. "She got really quiet when I told her about our volcano. Like she does when she's trying not to be mad."

Christ. Eight years old and already interpreting emotional undercurrents like an expert. Another inheritance from his mother.

"Your mom's not angry," I say carefully. "We just have some adult matters to resolve."

"Work stuff?" His eyes widen, trusting.

"Something like that." I brush his hair back from his forehead, marveling at how perfectly his features blend Chanel's elegance with my sharper angles. "Nothing for you to worry about, okay?"

"Okay." He yawns, nestling deeper into his pillow. "Love you, Dad."

"Love you too, buddy." I press my lips to his forehead. "Sleep well."

I remain until his breathing evens out, until I'm certain he's drifted into dreams untainted by adult complexities. Then I withdraw, closing his door silently behind me.

In the stillness of my living room, with the city glittering beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, I pour two fingers of scotch and carry it to the terrace. The night air cools my skin, distant traffic creating white noise that fails to drown out the echo of Jaden's question.

Is Mom mad at you again?

I take a long swallow of scotch, welcoming the burn down my throat. The truth exceeds his comprehension. Exceeds even Chanel's understanding, who still believes I left because I wanted freedom. Because someone else existed. Because I stopped loving her.

I wounded Chanel deliberately. A clean break. Deep enough to scar. Letting her hate me was safer than letting her see the truth. It was safer for her—and easier for me.

Over the years, we’ve seen each other and played civil for Jaden.

But this is different.

This is her inside my world again. And I just permitted her to methodically dig into everything I intentionally buried. Everything I walked away to protect.

I drain the scotch, the burn sharp enough to distract. For a moment. But it doesn’t dull the truth that still lives under my skin:

I never stopped loving her.

Not for a single day.

THREE

BREACH POINT

CHANEL

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