Page 123 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

"Again?" she asks. Not doubt. Clarification.

"Again," I confirm. "Different this time. Better."

Her fingers turn beneath mine, palms meeting, skin against skin. The simplest form of connection. The most complex inwhat it represents. With her other hand, she picks up the check, folds it precisely, slips it into her clutch.

"Then yes," she answers.

One syllable that rebuilds what four years of absence tried to destroy. That bridges what secrets and silence tried to sever. That reclaims what fear sacrificed in the name of protection.

I don't move to kiss her. Don't rush to seal the promise with performance. Just hold her gaze across candlelight, across history, across the wreckage we've navigated to find each other again.

"Take me home," she says, the command gentle but absolute.

I pause, searching her eyes for clarification. "Your place?"

"No," she answers, certainty in every syllable. "Yours."

The distinction matters. Her choosing my territory. My space. A deliberate crossing of boundaries we've maintained for years.

I signal for the check. Leave cash that more than covers the bill. Offer my hand as she rises from her chair. Feel her fingers slide between mine with the certainty of decision fully made.

We walk through the restaurant without speaking. Without needing to. Bodies aligned in the perfect synchronicity that once defined us. That now defines us again, but with the wisdom of fracture and repair.

Outside, the city unfolds around us—lights against darkness, movement against stillness, life continuing its relentless forward motion. My car waits at the curb, driver standing at attention.

"Let's walk," Chanel says, tugging gently at my hand. "It's not far."

I dismiss the driver with a nod. Follow her lead down sidewalks still damp from earlier rain. The rhythm of two people moving in tandem rather than isolation.

We don't speak of practicalities—of where we'll live, of how we'll merge separate lives into shared existence, of what we'll tellJaden. Those conversations will come. Tonight exists in its own timeline, suspended between past and future. A moment of pure presence.

When she stops at a crosswalk, I find myself studying her profile in neon light—the straight line of her nose, the determined set of her jaw, the slight curve of her mouth that suggests decisions made rather than questions lingering. The face I've memorized in fragments now viewed as whole.

"What?" she asks, catching my gaze.

"Nothing." I shake my head slightly. "Everything."

The light changes. We cross the street, her hand still in mine. Five blocks from the penthouse. Four. Three. The distance collapsing with each step toward what waits on the other side of yes.

At the building's entrance, I nod to the security guard who straightens imperceptibly at the sight of Chanel beside me. At this woman who once belonged here returning after years of absence. I guide her to the private elevator, key card granting access to the top floor without stops.

"He remembers me," she says quietly as the doors close.

"Everyone does." The truth emerges without artifice. The staff, the building manager, the doormen—all preserving a careful silence about her absence. All maintaining the fiction that she might return at any moment.

Inside the elevator, I press the button for the penthouse. She turns to face me as doors slide closed, sealing us in shared space with mirrored walls that reflect us from every angle. That show me what we look like together—her dark hair against my lighter suit, her curves against my angles, her composed features against my more guarded ones.

Two people who've survived each other's absence. Who've earned each other's presence.

"Are you sure?" I ask, needing to hear it once more. Needing to know this isn't impulse, nostalgia or wine-softened boundaries.

Her answer comes not in words but in movement. In the careful precision with which she steps closer. Places her palm against my chest, directly over my heart. Tilts her face upward, eyes never leaving mine.

"I'm sure," she whispers against my mouth.

And then her lips find mine, and four years of careful distance collapse in the space between heartbeats—in the heat of her mouth opening beneath mine. In the perfect pressure of her body against mine. In the quiet sound she makes when my hands find her waist, her back, the nape of her neck.

The elevator chimes. Doors slide open. We break apart just enough to exit, to move down the short hallway to the penthouse entrance. My hands steady as I unlock the door—control maintained despite the current running beneath the surface.