Page 115 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

"I see you, Tanya." I reach up slowly, hand not moving toward the knife but toward her face. Fingertips brushing her cheek where tears have started to fall. "I see the woman who held me when I couldn't stand. Who celebrated every victory. Who knows how I take my coffee and which wine makes me laugh too loud."

Her breath catches, knife lowering fractionally.

"I see the brilliant teacher who makes children believe in themselves. The friend who never let me give up." My voice remains steady, anchored in truth beneath strategy. "And I see what loving me has cost you."

The knife point drops further, her control wavering beneath recognition.

"But this—" I gesture to the wall of surveillance, the hidden obsession made manifest. "This isn't love. This is possession. This is fear that I might choose something you haven't planned for."

"He'll just hurt you again." The knife hangs forgotten at her side now. "He'll take everything and leave nothing. Like last time."

"Maybe." I don't offer false certainty. Don't pretend to know what's coming. "But that's my choice to make. My risk to take."

Something final breaks in her expression—the mask of control slipping completely to reveal the exhaustion beneath. Fifteen years of wanting. Of waiting. Of constructing an intricate fantasy that's dissolving before her eyes.

"I can't watch you destroy yourself for him again." Her voice hollows, defeat seeping in. "I can't."

"Then don't." I don't soften the truth with false comfort. "Step back. Let go. Find the part of yourself that exists outside of us."

The knife slips from her fingers, clatters against hardwood. Not surrender, but exhaustion. The collapse of something too fragile to sustain its own weight.

She sinks to the edge of the bed, shoulders curving inward. Smaller suddenly. Human rather than threat.

"What happens now?" she asks, voice distant.

I don't answer immediately. Instead, I move to the dresser, to the wall of photographs that chronicle her obsession. My fingers find the edge of one frame—a candid shot of me laughing at something off-camera, taken without my knowledge.

"Now I take my son home." I turn the frame facedown. "Now you get help. Real help."

"They'll arrest me." The reality seems to hit her with sudden force. "For taking him."

"No." The decision forms even as I speak it. "No police. No charges. Not if you leave. Not if you never contact us again."

She looks up, surprise cutting through despair. "Why would you protect me after this?"

I think of Jakob outside, waiting with contained violence. Of the destruction he could unleash with a word. Of the fifteen years that can't be erased by one day's madness.

"Because once, you were my friend." The truth costs me, but I give it anyway. "Because hatred would take more energy than I'm willing to spend on this. Because Jaden has seen enough trauma for one day."

She absorbs this, fingers twisting in her lap. "Where would I go?"

"I don't care." The words emerge without cruelty but without compromise. "As long as it's away from us."

I bend, pick up the knife, slip it into my pocket. Not threat. Insurance.

"You have twenty-four hours." I move toward the door, not turning my back completely. "After that, what happens isn't up to me."

The unspoken presence of Jakob hangs between us—the threat she knows I'm capable of restraining, but not forever. Not if she pushes.

She nods once, a gesture of acknowledgment rather than agreement. "I did love you. Not just what I wanted you to be."

"I know." The admission comes easier than expected. "That's the tragedy of it."

I back through the doorway, unwilling to turn completely away from her, even now. Even defeated.

"Goodbye, Tanya."

I don't wait for her response. Don't linger in the doorway for final words or false promises. Just pull the door closed, listen for the soft click of the latch, then turn toward the stairs.