Page 41 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)
She scoffs, the sound bright with disbelief. "And you believe that? After four years, he suddenly has a convenient explanation for abandoning you and Jaden?"
"It's not—" I stop, weighing my words. "It's not that simple."
"It's manipulation, Chanel." She reaches across the counter, fingers brushing mine in a gesture of solidarity that suddenly feels like restraint. "He hurt you. Destroyed your marriage. Left you to rebuild alone. And now he wants back in, so he's crafting a story to make himself the hero."
Her assessment mirrors the doubts circling in my own mind—the fear that I'm being played again, that vulnerability is just another form of victimhood. But beneath those fears stirs something new. Something unexpected.
"The man I worked with these past weeks isn't the man I married," I say, the admission surprising even me. "Or maybe he is, and I'm only now seeing parts of him I missed before."
"What do you mean?" Something in Latanya's voice shifts—a note of tension beneath the question.
"He's more... collaborative now. Less controlling.
" I search for words to describe the subtle transformation I've witnessed.
"When we presented to the board together, he didn't try to speak for me or manage me.
He stood with me, not in front of me. He trusted my expertise even when it contradicted his instincts. "
Latanya's expression tightens imperceptibly. "People don't change that fundamentally, Chanel. Not men like him."
"Don't they?" I push my plate away, appetite vanishing. "We have. Both of us."
Silence stretches between us, weighted with years of shared history—her unwavering support through my darkest days, the complicated truth that even now, even knowing everything, something in me still gravitates toward Jakob like a compass finding north.
"I just worry about you," she says finally, voice gentler. "I saw what losing him did to you the first time. I don't want to watch you go through that again."
"I know." I offer a small smile, grateful for her concern even as I register the subtle pressure behind it. "That's why I walked away."
She studies me, head tilted slightly. "But part of you doesn't want to stay away, does it? What, you still love him or something?" Her laugh holds an edge. "You can't possibly?—"
The words stick in my throat, refusing to form the denial she expects. The lie I've told myself for years.
"I don't think I ever stopped," I say quietly.
Latanya goes perfectly still. For a heartbeat, her smile freezes, a perfect mask suddenly ill-fitted to her face. Something cold flickers behind her eyes—a shadow passing across the sun. Then it softens into sympathy so convincing I almost don't notice her knuckles whitening around her glass.
"Oh, Chanel." She shakes her head, compassion and disappointment mingled in her tone. "Love isn't always enough, you know that."
"I know." I gather our plates, needing movement, needing to do something with hands that suddenly want to claw at my own skin. "That's why I left. That's why it's over."
She watches me, silent for a moment too long. I'm too caught in my own confession to notice the calculation in her gaze, the subtle tightening of her fingers, the way her breathing has changed rhythm.
"So what now?" she asks finally.
I exhale slowly, pushing back the ache threatening to consume my carefully maintained composure. "Now I focus on what matters. Jaden. The audit. Moving forward."
"Healthy choices," she approves, but something in her tone rings hollow. "Speaking of Jaden, do you need me to pick him up tomorrow? I know you usually have your weekly planning session then."
The offer lands like salvation—a simple kindness, a practical solution, a way forward. "Actually, yes. Could you take him to karate at four? I need to..." I hesitate, the decision crystallizing even as I speak it. "I need to talk to Jakob. In person."
"Oh?" Her voice lifts in question. "I thought it was over."
"It is." The justification sounds thin even to my own ears. "But there are loose ends. Things we need to finalize about the audit. About Jaden's schedule."
Latanya nods slowly, something unreadable passing behind her eyes. "Of course. I can take him right from school to karate. No trouble at all."
"Thank you." Relief washes through me—for the practical support, for the lack of further questioning, for the space to address what remains unresolved between Jakob and me.
She rises, gathering her purse with practiced precision. "That's what friends are for, right? Taking care of each other. Being there when it matters."
I walk her to the door, suddenly aware of how much I've come to depend on her steadiness in a world that keeps shifting beneath my feet. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Tanya."
"Let's hope you never have to find out." She kisses my cheek, her smile returning to its perfect polish. But something has changed in the air between us—a current I can't identify, a dissonance I'm too caught in my own storm to examine.
As the door closes behind her, I return to my laptop—to numbers and systems that don't ask questions I can't answer. That don't remind me of Jakob's hands on my skin, of his whispered confessions, of the terrible truth we've both been circling.
A handwritten note catches my eye on one of the audit documents—Jakob's distinctive script in the margins of work we'd reviewed together. Not correcting my findings but building on them. Not controlling but collaborating.
For C—brilliant catch. I've adjusted the parameters accordingly. Thank you.
Such a small thing. Five words acknowledging my expertise. But something in the simple respect it conveys makes my throat tighten. This isn't the writing of a man who needs to dominate. This is the mark of someone who sees me as an equal.
A man I never fully knew. Or one who didn't exist before.
I close the file, press my fingertips against my temples where tension coils like a living thing. RSV's betrayal burns beneath my skin—the firm I helped build, the career I resurrected from the ashes of my marriage, now treats me like a liability to be managed. A problem to solve. An inconvenience.
Four years of proving myself. Of perfect calculations and flawless analysis. Of being twice as prepared, twice as precise, twice as valuable as anyone else in the room. All of it disintegrated because of an association they deemed dangerous.
The auditor in me wants to finish the White Glove Pivot—to close this chapter with the clinical perfection that has become my trademark. But the woman behind the auditor, the one who rebuilt herself in the wake of destruction, whispers a different truth.
Maybe this exile isn't punishment. Maybe it's liberation.
The thought unfurls like smoke, intoxicating and dangerous. For years, I've defined myself through the validation of institutions: promotions and partnerships, professional acclaim. External confirmation that I was worthy, valuable, whole.
What if I don't need RSV's approval anymore? What if I've outgrown them?
I pull up my email, scrolling through archived correspondence from headhunters, consultancy firms, private equity partners who've tried to lure me away over the years. Messages I archived without response, loyalty keeping me tethered to the firm that gave me a second chance.
That loyalty feels hollow now.
I begin to type, my fingers steady as I craft responses to three different offers. Exploratory. Non-committal. But open.
I'd be interested in discussing potential opportunities...
The relief that floods through me is unexpected. Sweet. I've been so focused on my past with Jakob—on what broke, what might be healing—that I've ignored the future taking shape beyond both of us.
Whatever happens tomorrow with Jakob, whether we're truly over or only beginning again, this part of my life needs no external resolution. The professional path forward is mine to claim. Mine to create. Independent of any man, any institution, any relationship that thinks it can define my worth.
Tomorrow, I'll face him again. The man who shattered me. The man I never stopped loving. The man who might be something new, or merely a more perfect version of the beautiful destruction I barely survived the first time.
But I'll face him as a woman coming into her power—not just surviving exile but transforming it into opportunity. A woman who doesn't need rescue or approval. A woman who, for the first time since the divorce papers arrived, sees a future entirely of her own making.
Four years of careful reconstruction, of boundaries maintained, of walls reinforced.
Four days of knowing those walls were always built on sand.
Four hours until I see him again, and we both discover which version of me walks through his door—the woman still haunted by what was lost, or the one finally ready to create something new from the ruins.