Page 51 of Falling for Mr. Ruthless (The Rules We Break #1)

TWENTY-THREE

SURRENDER

JAKOB

The restaurant hums with wealth—quiet money that doesn't need to announce itself.

Crystal chandeliers suspended above tables spaced far enough apart for secrets to remain secrets. The kind of place where decisions that shift markets are made between appetizers and dessert. The kind of place where I used to feel most at home.

Tonight, I'm a stranger in familiar territory.

I arrived fifteen minutes early, claimed the corner table with the best sightlines. Old habits.

The sommelier recognized me, presented the wine list with a slight bow. I ordered the Bordeaux Chanel favored during our marriage—a detail I've kept filed away with other fragments of her I couldn't bear to discard.

Information as talisman. Data points preserved like pressed flowers between pages of memory.

When she enters, conversation briefly suspends, then resumes at a different pitch. Not because she demands attention. Because she earns it without trying.

She moves between tables with easy confidence, midnight blue dress catching light like water holds moonlight.

Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders—longer than during our marriage, when she kept it strictly controlled in the razor-sharp bob that announced precision before she spoke a word.

This softer style frames a face that's grown more certain in its beauty, more unapologetic in its power.

I stand as she approaches, something in my chest tightening at the smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Perfect enough to fool everyone else in the room. Not perfect enough to fool me.

"You're early," she says, allowing the host to pull out her chair.

"Old habits." I wait until she's seated before reclaiming my own. "Congratulations are in order."

Her fingers smooth the napkin across her lap—a gesture I recognize from a thousand meals shared across a decade. The unconscious precision that defines her, even in celebration.

"Thank you." She meets my eyes directly, no deflection. "It's been a long road."

The words land between us—four years of that road walked separately.

Four years of her rebuilding what my choices fractured. Four years of proving herself twice over to compensate for the association with my name. And now, six months at a firm that recognized her talent but didn't witness her fight.

"You've earned it." I signal for the wine to be poured, watch the dark liquid pool in crystal. "Marquez & Klein is lucky to have you."

Her eyebrow lifts slightly—the only tell she allows herself. "Not the most traditional congratulations from a competitor."

"I'm not here as a competitor." I raise my glass, a gesture of both tribute and truce. "I'm here as..."

The word hovers unspoken.

What am I to her now? Ex-husband. Co-parent. Almost-lover. Almost-enemy. Categories too small to contain what exists between us.

"As Jakob," she finishes for me, lifting her own glass. "That's enough."

We drink in unison. The wine tastes exactly as I remember—dark fruit layered with earth, with time, with patience. Her lipstick leaves a crescent mark on the rim. I find myself tracking it with unnecessary attention. This small evidence of her presence.

The server approaches with menus. I watch Chanel order with the same efficiency she applies to everything—no hesitation, no self-conscious qualifiers.

When my turn comes, I realize I haven't glanced at the options.

Find myself ordering the same dish she selected.

Another form of synchronicity. Another echo of how we move in each other's gravity.

When we're alone again, she leans forward slightly. "Jaden's science camp starts next Monday. He's been asking if you'll come for the drop-off."

"I'll be there." Not a question. Not a negotiation. A certainty.

"It's early. Six AM check-in. The Singapore call?—"

"Already moved to afternoon." I watch her nod, something passing between us without words. A trust earned in small moments. Built over time. The kind that doesn't require explanation.

"He'll be happy." She takes another sip of wine, throat moving as she swallows. "He's finally starting to feel like himself again. The way he was before the Latanya incident."

The delicate reference to Latanya. To the day that could have ended with unimaginable loss instead of quiet healing.

Eight months have passed since that afternoon at the brownstone.

Since the night I kept watch while they slept.

Since something fractured began mending in ways neither of us fully understand.

"Different how?" I ask, though I've observed the changes myself. In weekend visits. In school pickups. In the careful way we've rebuilt routine from trauma.

"More settled." Her fingers trace condensation on her water glass. "Less anxious about transitions. About us."

Us . The word sits between us, neither defined nor dismissed. A space we've been circling for weeks. Approaching through practical avenues—Jaden's schedule, his nightmares, his therapy appointments. Through neutral territories where emotion can be contained within function.

The appetizers arrive. Conversation shifts to safer ground—Jaden's summer plans beyond science camp, her mother's upcoming visit, the relentless heat wave gripping the city. The familiar choreography of people who know how to dance around what matters.

I watch her as she speaks, as she eats, as she signals for more water.

The precise movements that have always defined her, now imbued with something new.

A certainty that comes from surviving fire and finding yourself unburned.

A confidence born from standing your ground when the earth tries to swallow you whole.

And yet.

Beneath the polished veneer, I catch glimpses of something less resolved. A restlessness in her hands. A tension in her shoulders when professional accomplishments are mentioned. The subtle tells I've learned to read like another language.

"Tell me about the new position," I say, redirecting from thoughts too dangerous to voice. "Will you be leading the financial crimes division?"

She nods, cutting into her steak with surgical precision. "Effective immediately. Full team. Expanded budget." The smile that follows doesn't quite match her tone. "And final say on which clients we accept."

"They're lucky to have you," I say, meaning it more than she knows. Understanding what it costs her to excel in rooms designed to exclude her. In systems built to reward connections over competence.

"It's where I am right now." Not need to be. Not want to be. Just am . The distinction subtle, but significant.

"But not where you want to stay." Not a question. An observation drawn from years of knowing her breathing patterns, her micro-expressions, the specific cadence her voice takes when saying what's expected rather than what's true.

Her eyes snap to mine, surprise briefly visible before control reasserts. "It's a good opportunity."

"That doesn't answer my question."

She sets down her fork, a small concession to the conversation's shift from performance to truth. "Does it matter? We make choices. We live with them. We find satisfaction where we can."

The fatalism in her voice cuts deeper than accusation. The sound of a woman who's rebuilt so many times she's grown wary of new foundations. Who's learned to settle for stability over possibility.

"Is that what you're doing at Marquez?" I ask, voice lowered to ensure privacy. "Finding satisfaction where you can?"

Her jaw tightens fractionally—the only visible sign my question has landed. "They value me. They promoted me. They didn't exile me when things got complicated."

The reference to RSV lands like a blade—precise, intentional, aimed at a specific vulnerability. At the firm that cast her aside when association with me became liability rather than asset. At the betrayal by colleagues who praised her work until it intersected with my name.

"No," I agree, not defending what can't be defended. "They didn't."

She takes another sip of wine, using the glass as momentary shield. When she lowers it, her expression has settled into something more contained. More controlled.

"This dinner is supposed to be a celebration."

"Is it?" I hold her gaze across candlelight, across history, across the wreckage we've navigated to find each other again. "Are you celebrating, Chanel? Or going through the motions?"

The question hangs between us, too direct to deflect. Too precise to evade.

"Does it matter?" she asks again, but softer now. Less defensive. "I have what matters. Jaden. My mother. You." The admission costs her, emerges almost reluctantly. "The rest is just... logistics."

You . The word lands somewhere beneath my sternum.

Settles there like something molten. Her casual inclusion of me among what matters in her life ignites a hope I've tried to extinguish for years.

A stubborn ember that refuses to die despite all evidence that she deserves someone better.

Someone who could never do what I've done.

Someone who doesn't carry darkness as constant companion.

Yet here she sits, claiming me as essential. As necessary. As hers.

The dismissal of her own professional dreams as logistics hits like physical blow. This woman who once burned with ambition. Who fought her way from scholarship student to partnership track. Who saw her career not as accessory but as calling.

I reach into my jacket pocket. Remove the envelope I've carried for three days, waiting for the right moment. Place it on the table between us, neither offering nor withholding. Simply making its existence known.

She glances at it, eyebrow raising in silent question.

"A gift," I say. "For your promotion."

Her fingers remain still on her silverware. "You already sent flowers to the office."

"This is different."