Page 30 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

"Can we play Mario Kart after breakfast?" Jaden asks, already moving past the moment, resilient in the way children are when not taught to hold grudges, to expect disappointment, to anticipate abandonment.

"Homework first," I say automatically, parent-mode engaging like a default setting.

"I'll help," Jakob offers, hand still warm against my back. "Then maybe we can all go to the park again. While the weather holds."

"Yes!" Jaden pumps his fist, victory assured in his mind. The day mapped out in his imagination: breakfast with both parents, homework with dad, family outing to the park. The holy trinity of childhood stability.

I should say no. Should invent a work emergency. Should maintain the careful distance that's protected both of us for four years. Should remember that this arrangement is temporary, practical. A business solution to a security problem.

Instead, I find myself nodding. Accepting. Surrendering to the moment and the hope in my son's eyes and the weight of Jakob's hand against my spine.

"Park sounds good," I say, the words emerging before I can examine their wisdom. "But homework first. Non-negotiable."

Jaden groans but doesn't argue, recognizing the tone that signals immovable boundaries. Jakob's hand tightens briefly against my back before dropping away, the loss of contact immediate and disorienting.

"Pancakes first," he says, moving to the stove with easy confidence. "Can't solve math problems on an empty stomach."

We fall into a rhythm then, the three of us moving around the kitchen in a dance that feels both foreign and familiar.

Jakob flipping pancakes with unnecessary flourish.

Jaden setting the table without being asked.

Me slicing fruit into the precise shapes our son prefers, maintaining the illusion of healthy choices alongside chocolate chip indulgence.

It feels right. It feels easy. And nothing this easy ever lasts.

* * *

"X equals seven," Jakob says, pointing to the worksheet spread on the dining table. "See how we got there?"

Jaden nods, pencil tapping against the paper in the rhythm of consideration. "So for the next one, I divide both sides by two?"

"Exactly."

I watch them from the kitchen doorway, witnessing this exchange of knowledge, this moment of patience and pride and presence. Jakob leans over our son's shoulder, one hand resting on the back of his chair, the other gesturing toward the equation.

He hums softly as Jaden works through the problem—a half-conscious habit I'd forgotten until this moment. A low, melodic sound that vibrates beneath his words. A soundtrack to concentration.

The tune catches in my chest, memory ambushing me without warning. That same humming, that same melody, filtering through a half-open door four years ago. Three months after he moved out. Two weeks after the divorce was finalized.

I'd come to pick up Jaden for his weekend visit. Had arrived early, key still working in the lock he never changed. Had followed the sound of humming to find them together at this same table—Jakob patient, present, engaged with our son in a way he'd never been with me.

In that moment, watching them through the doorway, I made a decision.

Didn't fight for full custody. Didn't restrict visitation.

Didn't punish Jakob for leaving me by limiting his access to Jaden.

Because the evidence was before me: he was a better father than he'd been a husband.

More patient. More present. More willing to give of himself.

And Jaden deserved that version of his father, even if I'd never experienced that version of my husband.

"Mom! I got it!" Jaden's voice pulls me from the memory, back to the present moment that mirrors the past with uncomfortable precision. "X equals three!"

"Good job, buddy." I push off from the doorframe, moving into the room, into the tableau of father and son that once shattered and rebuilt my understanding of family. "I knew you could do it."

"Dad showed me a trick." His face bright with accomplishment and the simple joy of shared knowledge. "It makes way more sense now."

"Your mom's the one who insisted on this school," Jakob says, straightening, creating space that I instinctively fill, the three of us forming a triangle of connection. "She knew they'd challenge you the right way."

The acknowledgment surprises me—not the fact, which is true, but his willingness to credit me with it. To recognize my role in shaping our son's education, his opportunities, his future.

"It was a joint decision," I concede, offering reciprocal recognition that costs me nothing but pride.

Jakob's eyes meet mine over Jaden's head, something passing between us that goes beyond co-parenting courtesy. A current of understanding, of shared purpose, of mutual respect that feels dangerously like foundation-building.

"Only two more problems," Jaden says, oblivious to the silent exchange above him. "Then can we go to the park?"

"That was the deal," Jakob confirms, breaking our gaze to focus on our son. "Finish strong, then we'll play."

I step back, needing distance from the domesticity that threatens to unravel four years of careful boundaries. From the simple rightness of this moment that contradicts everything I've told myself about why our marriage failed, why Jakob left, why reconciliation was never an option.

Because watching him now—patient with our son, present in this moment, humming that same melody that once soundtracked a revelation—forces me to confront an uncomfortable truth: love was never our problem.

Trust was.

Trust in his presence. Trust in his promises. Trust in his capacity to be the man I glimpsed in moments like these—fully engaged, emotionally available, wholly present.

Trust that he wouldn't retreat into work and silence when emotions became too raw, too demanding, too inconvenient for the empire he was building.

I move to the window, putting physical distance between myself and this realization.

Manhattan sprawls below, Sunday afternoon light gilding buildings in false promise.

I press my palm against cool glass, anchoring myself against vertigo that has nothing to do with height and everything to do with the ground shifting beneath assumptions I've built my post-divorce life upon.

"All done!" Jaden announces, the scrape of his chair against hardwood, disrupting my spiral of realization. "Can we go now?"

"Get your jacket," I say automatically, parent-mode engaging despite internal turmoil. "It's getting cooler."

He races from the room, energy contained during homework now seeking release. His footsteps echo down the hallway, leaving Jakob and me in sudden silence that feels weighted with unasked questions.

"You okay?" he asks, moving beside me at the window. Not touching, but close enough that I feel the heat of him, the gravitational pull of his presence.

"I’m fine." The words crisp, defensive. A shield against the reality I'm not ready to process.

"Chanel." My name in his mouth still does things to me I refuse to name. "Talk to me."

"About what?" I turn to face him, needing to see his expression. To gauge his sincerity. To remind myself of all the reasons trust remains the barrier between what we were and what we might still be.

His eyes—those impossible blue eyes that see too much, that tracked my naked body with reverence last night, that watch our son with undisguised love—search mine with an intensity that makes breathing difficult.

"About whatever put that look on your face just now." His hand lifts, hovering near my cheek without touching, respecting boundaries I myself demolished hours ago in the darkness of his bedroom. "You went somewhere else. Somewhere that hurt."

The observation disarms me—not the fact, which is true, but his willingness to notice. To acknowledge. To ask rather than assume or ignore or dismiss.

"Just remembering something," I say, offering partial truth, the habit of emotional self-protection too ingrained to abandon completely.

"Something about us."

I nod once, unwilling to elaborate. Yet unwilling to lie. Caught in the limbo between trust and self-preservation that's defined our relationship from the beginning.

He steps closer, hand finally making contact with my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicts the power I know his hands possess. The damage they can inflict when wielded without care.

"I'm right here," he says softly. "Not going anywhere."

The promise hangs between us, fragile as blown glass. Beautiful and breakable. Impossible to accept without reservation. Without fear. Without memory of similar promises that shattered against the hard surface of reality.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," I whisper, voice steadier than the trembling that starts beneath my skin, in places he can't see but reaches without even trying.

"I'm not." His gaze holds mine, unwavering, unbearably sincere. "Not anymore."

Before I can respond—before I can challenge or accept or retreat from the precipice this conversation approaches—Jaden barrels back into the room, jacket half-on, enthusiasm undimmed by our obvious tension.

"Ready!" he announces, oblivious to the current passing between us. To the unfinished conversation. To the way Jakob's hand drops from my face with reluctance that feels like its own confession.

"Then let's go," Jakob says, attention shifting to our son with the practiced ease of compartmentalization I once resented, now recognize as necessary. "Race you to the elevator."

Jaden takes off immediately, competitive streak ignited, leaving us momentarily alone in the wake of his departure.

Jakob's eyes find mine again, something unspoken passing between us—acknowledgment, perhaps.

Recognition that this conversation isn't finished.

That some promises require more than words to prove.

He turns to follow our son, pausing in the doorway to look back at me. "Coming?"