Page 121 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

The fatalism in her voice cuts deeper than accusation. The sound of a woman who's rebuilt so many times she's grown wary of new foundations. Who's learned to settle for stability over possibility.

"Is that what you're doing at Marquez?" I ask, voice lowered to ensure privacy. "Finding satisfaction where you can?"

Her jaw tightens fractionally—the only visible sign my question has landed. "They value me. They promoted me. They didn't exile me when things got complicated."

The reference to RSV lands like a blade—precise, intentional, aimed at a specific vulnerability. At the firm that cast her aside when association with me became liability rather than asset. At the betrayal by colleagues who praised her work until it intersected with my name.

"No," I agree, not defending what can't be defended. "They didn't."

She takes another sip of wine, using the glass as momentary shield. When she lowers it, her expression has settled into something more contained. More controlled.

"This dinner is supposed to be a celebration."

"Is it?" I hold her gaze across candlelight, across history, across the wreckage we've navigated to find each other again. "Are you celebrating, Chanel? Or going through the motions?"

The question hangs between us, too direct to deflect. Too precise to evade.

"Does it matter?" she asks again, but softer now. Less defensive. "I have what matters. Jaden. My mother. You." The admission costs her, emerges almost reluctantly. "The rest is just... logistics."

You. The word lands somewhere beneath my sternum. Settles there like something molten. Her casual inclusion of me among what matters in her life ignites a hope I've tried to extinguish for years. A stubborn ember that refuses to die despite all evidence that she deserves someone better. Someone who could never do what I've done. Someone who doesn't carry darkness as constant companion.

Yet here she sits, claiming me as essential. As necessary. As hers.

The dismissal of her own professional dreams aslogisticshits like physical blow. This woman who once burned with ambition. Who fought her way from scholarship student to partnership track. Who saw her career not as accessory but as calling.

I reach into my jacket pocket. Remove the envelope I've carried for three days, waiting for the right moment. Place it on the table between us, neither offering nor withholding. Simply making its existence known.

She glances at it, eyebrow raising in silent question.

"A gift," I say. "For your promotion."

Her fingers remain still on her silverware. "You already sent flowers to the office."

"This is different."

Something in my tone must register. She sets down her knife and fork with deliberate care. Reaches for the envelope with the same precision she applies to contracts, to evidence, to anything that might contain complexity beyond its surface.

I watch her fingers break the seal. Remove the check. Process the number written in precise strokes of black ink. Her name. Eight figures. Retroactive equity in the company she helped build. The stake she would have held if I hadn't pushed her away. If I hadn't sacrificed her to protect her.

Her face remains perfectly composed. Only the slight stilling of her breath betrays impact.

"What is this?" The question emerges soft but exact.

"What you earned," I say. "What should have been yours all along."

She studies the check, then me, gaze sharp with assessment. With the intelligence that disassembles systems to their component parts. That identifies weaknesses in structures designed to appear impenetrable.

"No strings," I add, voice lower. "You're free. Start your own firm. Travel the world. Or do nothing at all."

Understanding dawns across her features—not just of the amount, but of what it represents. What I'm offering beneath the transaction. Not payment. Liberation. The choice I once stole, now returned without condition.

Her fingers trace the edge of the check, eyes fixed on the paper rather than my face. I watch calculations run behind her expression—not of monetary value but of possibility. Of doors suddenly unlocked. Of futures previously foreclosed now opening before her.

"Why now?" she asks finally, voice steadier than her fingers.

"Because you deserve the choice." I keep my voice level despite the seismic shift occurring beneath my ribcage. "Because I took options from you once. I won't do it again."

She looks up, eyes meeting mine with startling clarity. "And if I take this? If I leave Marquez & Klein? Start my own firm? What happens to us?"