Page 8 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

"Delicate?" Tyson barks a laugh. "You two generated enough voltage to power Manhattan. I had to physically restrain you."

"You touched my arm. Hardly restraint." I move to my desk, organizing papers that require no organization. "It doesn't matter. We're professionals. We'll manage."

"Like you managed last time?" He drops into one of the leather chairs opposite me. "Because I distinctly recall picking you up off the floor."

The memory strikes like a physical blow. The night after the divorce was finalized.

The only instance in my adult life I've consumed enough alcohol to lose consciousness. The only time I've allowed anyone, even Tyson, to witness me completely undone.

"That was different." My voice tightens. "I wasn't prepared then."

"And you are now?" He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Look me in the eye and tell me seeing her again doesn't rip you open."

I meet his stare steadily, unflinching. "It doesn't rip me open."

"Bullshit." But there's no heat behind it, only a profound sadness that cuts deeper than any anger. "You forget I know you, brother. Better than anyone. I watched you gravitate toward her like she's your personal sun. Four years, and nothing's changed."

He's right. Tyson witnessed the beginning—when Chanel and I connected in that graduate seminar. When we fell hard and fast, two people who recognized something essential in each other. When we married against every expectation, the Black scholarship girl from Dallas, and the legacy heir with too many secrets.

He was there at the end, too—when I made the decision that cost me everything that mattered.

"It doesn't matter what I feel." I straighten my tie, an unnecessary gesture that occupies my hands. "The White Glove Pivot is too important."

"And the pre-2018 documents? The ones you refuse to share?" Tyson's gaze narrows. "You know she won't stop until she has them.”

"I know." I meet his stare directly. "I'll handle it."

"The way you handled Megan?" His voice drops lower. "Because that succeeded brilliantly."

Megan. The name alone chills my blood. Four years, and still her shadow darkens everything I've constructed. Everything I've lost.

"This is different." I turn back to the window, needing distance. "Chanel doesn't know."

"But she will," Tyson says quietly. "If she's examining those files, she'll uncover the breadcrumbs. You know she will."

I close my eyes briefly, envisioning it with perfect clarity—Chanel discovering the truth. Seeing the choices I made. Understanding why I severed us both and walked away.

"Let me manage that concern." I maintain a neutral tone, controlled. "Focus on ensuring the current documentation is impeccable. No surprises."

Tyson exhales, the sound weighted with four years of accumulated worry. "And Jaden? Have you considered what this means for him?"

My son. The one pure creation Chanel and I produced together. The one undeniable proof that once, we were something magnificent.

"Jaden is fine," I state, with more confidence than I possess. "Chanel and I have always maintained civility for his sake."

"Civil isn't synonymous with honest." Tyson rises, adjusting his suit. "Eventually, you'll need to tell her the truth, Jake. All of it."

I offer no response. Can't. Because we both know he's right, and we both know I won't do it. Not if any alternative exists.

"Be careful," he says, moving toward the door. "You haven't been yourself since she left. Neither of us wants to witness what happens if you shatter all over again."

He leaves me with that uncomfortable truth, closing the door silently behind him.

I observe Chanel through the security feed.

Not from some impulse to monitor her. Not from distrust. But because I need to track her location in the building. Needto calculate the odds of encountering her in the elevator. The hallway. The executive restroom.

She moves through my offices like a phantom—or perhaps I'm the ghost, haunting the periphery of her existence through glass screens and digital distance.