Page 111 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

We got into her journal files. It's worse than we thought. She's convinced Jaden is somehow her child with Chanel. Has been constructing elaborate fantasy for years. Documented plans to ‘create space’ between you and Chanel. Detailed surveillance of your interactions.

I close the text, eyes never leaving Chanel as she climbs the brownstone steps. My hand slides to the gun holstered at my back—a precaution I've carried since Megan's first threat against my family. A promise of protection I've never needed to fulfill.

Until now.

Another text appears:

Security cams from street near school show her stopping at pharmacy two blocks from pickup. Purchased something with cash. Can't confirm what.

My blood chills. The tactical assessment shifts,. Not just emotional instability. Possible chemical threat. Possible intent to sedate.

I open the car door, decision made. The risk matrix no longer favors Chanel's approach. No longer supports my restraint.

Then I see her at the brownstone door. Not knocking. Not announcing herself. Withdrawing keys from her purse—Latanya's spare keys, the ones she'd trusted her friend with. The ones that represent years of calculated infiltration.

Chanel pauses, key in hand. Her shoulders rise and fall once—a single deep breath. Then she slips the key into the lock and turns it with quiet precision.

I stand frozen beside the car, tactical assessment warring with something deeper. Something harder to name.

Trust.

Not in Chanel's physical capability to subdue a threat—Latanya has four inches and twenty pounds on her. Not in her strategic approach, though her logic is sound.

Trust in her right to face this betrayal directly. In her capacity to protect what's hers without my intervention. In the fierce, unflinching strength I glimpsed when we presented to the board together—when she stood her ground without flinching, without needing me to defend her.

The door closes behind her. I count seconds, each one stretching like hours. My body vibrates with contained violence, with the need to move, to act, to destroy whatever threatens what's mine.

But I remain still. Because for the first time in our history, I see Chanel not as something to shield, but as an equal force. Not something to protect, but someone to stand with. Not a vulnerability, but a strength parallel to my own.

One-minute passes. My hand remains on the gun. My eyes never leave the door.

Trust doesn't mean abandoning vigilance. Doesn't mean relinquishing the capacity for necessary violence. It means allowing her the space to demonstrate her own power before I assert mine.

The lessons of four years learned too late.

TWENTY-ONE

THE FIRE THIS TIME

CHANEL

The key slides into the lock with a familiar click—the same sound I've heard countless times entering this brownstone for Sunday brunches, emergency wine nights, Christmas mornings when Latanya insisted Jaden open presents at her place too.

My fingers steady against brass that now feels like a weapon. Trust, transforming into a blade against my throat.

I step inside. The silence hits first—that artificial quiet of someone holding their breath. No television. No music. Just the soft hum of central air pushing against my skin.

Photos line the entryway—dozens more than I remember, multiplied since my last visit three weeks ago. My eyes catch on new additions: Jaden at the playground I took him to last Saturday. Me leaving the RSV building last Tuesday. Shots that weren't taken by me, that I never posed for. Moments stolen without permission.

I let the door close behind me without a sound. Fifteen years of friendship trained me to call out, to announce myself with casual comfort. Today, I move like an intruder in a space I once considered sanctuary.

"Latanya?" My voice carries just enough to travel, not enough to startle. Calculated. Measured. The voice I use in boardrooms when I need to appear calm while preparing for war.

No answer comes. Just the soft creaking of wood from somewhere upstairs.

I scan the living room—pillows perfectly arranged, magazines fanned precisely on the coffee table. Nothing disturbed. Nothing revealing the chaos that must have entered with my son.

Jaden's backpack sits propped against the couch—the blue dinosaur pattern I watched him choose on our back-to-school shopping trip. The sight of it tightens something in my chest—not fear, but rage so crystalline it clarifies rather than clouds my vision.