Page 50 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

I extract it carefully, moving with the precision of someone navigating a minefield. The screen illuminates with Tyson's name. Not a coincidence. Not after today.

I rise from the bed without disturbing them, step into the adjoining bathroom where marble and glass contain sound. Where I can speak without waking them. Where I can be the man they don't need to see while remaining the one they need to have.

"Report," I say without preamble.

"Collins has secured the brownstone." Tyson's voice comes through clear, professional. "No police involvement. The subject is still inside. Bank accounts frozen as instructed. Flight manifests flagged. Digital footprint contained."

I press my forehead against cool glass, eyes closed. The ruthlessness I've cultivated like a hothouse flower unfurling in my chest, in my mind, in my hands—the capacity for precise destruction that built Novare, that dismantled Megan, that protects what's mine.

"And the other matter?"

"Ardano confirmed on a flight to Geneva. Untraceable account established with the agreed-upon amount. She accessed it three hours ago."

One threat contained. One eliminated. The board cleared of pieces that threatened my king. My queen. My son.

"The contingency?" I ask, voice dropping lower. The final fail-safe. The insurance policy against betrayal.

"In place. If either resurfaces within a hundred miles of your family, we'll know before they finish landing. Before they finish crossing the state line."

I nod, though he can't see me. Satisfaction settling cold and clean in my veins. The knowledge that what I've built will hold. That what I protect will remain safe.

"Handle it," I tell him. No elaboration needed. No clarification required. The directive that encompasses everything from surveillance to suppression to elimination if necessary.

"Consider it done." Tyson doesn't question. Doesn't seek moral validation. Just accepts the directive with the loyalty that's made him invaluable for twenty years. "Will you be at the penthouse or returning to your residence?"

The question lands differently than intended. Not logistics. Not security protocol. A choice about who I am. About where I belong.

I look through the open doorway to the bed where Chanel and Jaden sleep. Where they breathe in unison, dark heads close together on white pillows. Where everything I've ever wanted lies unguarded in the darkness.

"I'm home," I tell him. "Just increase surveillance on this location. Triple the usual parameters."

"Understood." A pause, uncharacteristic for a man who deals in certainties. "Jakob... is she worth all this?"

The question should offend me. Should trigger the cold rage I direct at anyone who questions my decisions, my priorities, my attachments. Instead, I find myself smiling—a small, private expression in darkness.

"She's worth more."

I end the call, slip the phone into my pocket. Stand for a moment in the liminal space between bathroom and bedroom, between the man who eliminates threats and the man who tells bedtime stories. Between the monster I've cultivated and the father I'm relearning how to be.

In the bed, Chanel shifts slightly, arm tightening around Jaden. Even in sleep, she protects. Defends. Holds what matters against her heart.

I move back to them, settling carefully on the mattress edge. Not presuming to lie beside them, to claim space as a right rather than a privilege. Just close enough to guard. To witness. To remain.

My hand finds the divorce papers in my pocket—the ones I've carried for four years, unsigned, unresolved. The physical manifestation of limbo, of a decision unmade, of a life suspended between endings and beginnings.

I place them on the nightstand, a promise for tomorrow. For conversations that can't be held while wounds are still fresh, while danger still lingers at the edges of safety. For truths that deserve clear eyes and full consciousness.

Then I settle into the chair beside the bed, angled to see both the door and the windows. To monitor entry points and sleeping breaths. To guard what I've been entrusted with—not possession, but protection. Not control, but care.

Outside, the city continues its restless pulse. Inside, I hold vigil over the peace they've found, over the trust placed in my hands, over the second chance I've been given but haven't yet earned.

I've spent four years building walls to keep danger out, never realizing I was sealing myself in darkness. Tonight, I keep watch from inside the fortress, from within the circle of what matters, from the place where protection becomes presence rather than distance.

The weight of it settles across my shoulders—not burden but ballast. Not obligation but privilege. The weight she's let me hold. The weight that keeps me anchored to earth when power would pull me skyward, away from what matters.

I watch them breathe until dawn breaks across the Manhattan skyline. Until light spills across the bed where they sleep. Until the darkness recedes and I remain, keeping the promise I made without words.

Staying.