Page 83 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless

"Are you going to fix it?"

I wish I could give him the answer he wants. That I could promise everything will be alright. That I'll make it better with the same confidence I solve business problems.

"I don't know if I can, buddy," I admit. "Some mistakes... they change things permanently."

His face falls, and I see in it the weight of the past four years. The way he's learned to live with disappointment, with broken promises, with parents who love him but can't seem to love each other right.

"Can I call her?" he asks.

"Of course." I hand him my phone. "She'll want to hear from you."

While he talks to Chanel, I move to the window, staring out at the city below. Somewhere out there, Megan sits waiting for her ultimatum to detonate our lives.

She miscalculated.

The damage was already done years ago—by my own hand.

I pull out my other phone, the secure line, and dial a number I haven't used in years.

"It's Giannetti," I say when the line connects. "I need everything on Megan Ardano. Everything. However deep you have to dig."

The voice on the other end confirms without question. This is how power works—instant, unquestioning compliance. The same power that convinced me I could shape the world to my will.

The same power that failed completely when it came to protecting what mattered most.

"Dad?" Jaden's voice pulls me back. "Mom says she'll pick me up tomorrow after school."

"Okay." I turn to him, forcing a smile. "How about ice cream? Before bed."

He shakes his head.

"I'm not a little kid anymore. You can't fix stuff with ice cream."

Another blow, perfectly placed.

"You're right. I'm sorry."

After he returns to his room, I stand alone in the kitchen, staring at the containers of food Chanel had arranged so carefully. The domesticity we'd been building sits in stark contrast to the wreckage of the present.

My phone vibrates with a text from Chanel:Tell Jaden I love him. I'll call in the morning.

Nothing for me. No goodnight. No reassurance. Just the bare minimum communication about our son.

I think of what she said. About decisions and control and calling it love. She's right. I've spent my life calculating risks, managing outcomes, protecting assets. And somewhere along the way, I started treating her heart like another commodity to safeguard.

The irony cuts deep—everything I did to shield her has left her more exposed, more vulnerable than if I'd simply trusted her with the truth from the beginning.

I don't reply to her text. There's nothing I can say that won't sound like another attempt to manage her, to influence her next move. Instead, I pour myself a drink I don't want and stand at the window, watching the city lights blur through unshed tears.

Megan thinks she's launched her final attack. She doesn't understand that she's already won. Four years ago. When I cut her out of Novare but let her cut me off from what mattered most.

It's almost laughable—I walked away from the woman I loved to protect her from the woman I was supposed to want. Megan never understood that she was my past. A life prescribed rather than chosen.

Chanel was my future.My choice.

Until I surrendered that choice to fear.

Now, as the night settles around me, I face a truth colder than any boardroom maneuver: Chanel doesn't need myprotection. She never did. What she needed was my honesty. My vulnerability. My trust.