Page 68 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

Something softens in her expression. Permission, perhaps. Or recognition of the power she holds in this moment.

She unzips her skirt, letting it pool at her feet, stepping out of it with the same precise grace that defines her in boardrooms, in kitchens, in every space she occupies.

I remain still, restraint a physical ache as she unhooks her bra, slides lace down her legs, stands before me naked and unashamed. Not a performance. Not a seduction. Just Chanel—stripped of armor, of pretense.

She steps into the bath, sinking into steam with a sigh that vibrates low in my gut. Eyes closing as heat envelops her, as tension begins its slow release from muscles I've relearned but haven't soothed.

"You can sit," she says without opening her eyes, gesturing to the floor beside the tub.

I lower myself to the tile, back against the cool porcelain, close enough to touch her—but not doing so. Waiting. Always waiting for her to decide what happens next. What I'm allowed to be to her.

Minutes pass in companionable silence, broken only by the occasional lap of water as she shifts, as warmth works its way into tissue and bone.

"What do you want, Chanel?" The question emerges unbidden. Unplanned.

Her eyes open, finding mine through rising steam. "Right now? Or in general?"

"Both. Either." I shrug, the gesture insufficient for the weight of what I'm asking. "Everything."

She considers this, head tilting slightly against the edge of the tub. Water beads on her collarbone, tracing paths I want to follow with my tongue.

"I used to think I knew," she says finally. "Partnership at the firm. Financial security. Raising Jaden to be a good man." She pauses, something shifting in her expression. "But lately, I'm not sure."

"What's changed?"

"Me, maybe." Water laps against porcelain as she shifts. "Or maybe I'm just asking different questions."

"Such as?"

"Such as whether partnership is worth the cost. Whether I want to keep living according to someone else's schedule, someone else's priorities." Her gaze sharpens, focusing on me with sudden intensity. "Whether I want to build something of my own instead of supporting what others have built."

"You could do it," I say, conviction absolute. "Build something of your own. You've always had that vision. That drive."

"Maybe." She sinks deeper into the water, vulnerability reasserting itself. "But there's Jaden to consider. His stability. His routine."

"He'd adapt. He's resilient."Like his mother, I don't add. "And he'd be proud of you. As he should be."

Something softens in her expression—gratitude perhaps. Or recognition. "What about you, Jakob? What do you want?"

The question I've been avoiding. The one with no safe answer.

"For the company? For the audit? For—" I gesture vaguely between us, unwilling to name what exists in this undefined space.

"Let's start with the audit," she says, offering the professional as safer ground. "Why is it so important to you? Really?"

I consider deflection. Consider the half-truths I've told myself, told her, told everyone who's asked why I'm subjecting my company to this level of scrutiny.

Instead, I give her the truth. The one I've only recently admitted to myself.

"I want to build something that lasts. Something I can pass to Jaden someday, if he wants it." I pause, fingers tracing patterns on the tile. "Something better than what was left to me."

"Your father's company," she prompts, knowledge of my history evident but incomplete.

"My father's mess," I correct, old bitterness rising. "His legacy of shortcuts and compromise and deals made in backrooms with handshakes that left blood on the floor."

She watches me, silent. Waiting for what comes next. What I've never fully shared with her—or anyone.

"He wasn't just ruthless in business," I continue, words emerging with effort. "He was brutal at home. To my mother. To me. Control was everything. Appearances were everything. Nothing else mattered—not happiness, not connection, not anything that couldn't be measured in dollars, power or favors."