Page 1 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

Chapter 1

AMAI

Igave up pretending to sleep at 4:47 AM.

The ceiling fan had been spinning for hours, the same lazy rotation that did nothing to cool the heat crawling under my skin. I’d counted the rotations. Lost count. Started over. My mind wouldn’t shut down, wouldn’t stop replaying the moment Yahmaria walked into my house like she still had keys. That crazy ass bitch probably did. I never bothered to change the locks because I didn’t think I’d ever see her ass again. Every private investigator I hired lost track of her. Yaya was just as dangerous as she was beautiful. Victor Baptiste, her dad, made sure of it.

I didn’t mention it to Truth because I was handling it. When Yaya disappeared, I thought we were off the hook. Now it looked like I’d been hiding this from Truth. What we were building was already so fragile. If I consumed her with the weight of what I felt she would crack under the pressure. I had to ease her into this life or she wouldn’t stay.

I threw the sheets off and sat up, my feet hitting the plush carpet. The house was silent except for the hum of the AC and the distant sound of a car alarm going off somewhere in the Garden District. My jaw ached from clenching it all night.

Yahmaria showing up wasn’t random.

But nothing with my father was ever random. His fingerprints were all over this. As soon as I found a sliver of happiness, he managed to snuff it out.

I stood and walked to the bathroom, flipping on the light. The mirror showed a man who looked like he’d been in a fight—eyes bloodshot, jaw tight, shoulders carrying tension like armor. I turned on the shower. Made it cold. Stepped under the spray before it had time to warm up.

The shock of it hit my skin like a slap, but I didn’t move. Just stood there and let the cold water beat against my skull, my shoulders, my chest. Let it wake me up. Let it sharpen the edges of my thoughts until they were clean and precise.

Winston had sent her.

That was the only explanation that made sense. Yahmaria didn’t do anything without calculation, and she sure as hell didn’t show up at my house after months of silence just because she missed me. She was a message. A reminder.

You’re still tied to me. You’re still tied to him.

I pressed my palms against the tile and let the water run down my back.

The problem with Yahmaria wasn’t that I hated her. Hate was easy. Hate was clean. The problem was that she was untouchable in ways that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with legacy. Her father and mine had built empires together. Blood oaths. Loyalty that went back decades. Literally put muthafuckas in the dirt together. They had so much shit on each other that the relationship was based more on self-preservation than anything else.

If I touched her, I touched that.

And if I touched that, I lost my father. We couldn’t stand each other, but he was still my dad. I could never take him from my mom. Not in her condition.

I hated being boxed in, and that’s exactly what was happening. My father was stripping away any hope I had of a life with Truth. A life I didn’t know I wanted until she walked into my office.

Truth was light, hope, strength, and stunning. She felt like home. Something I never really had growing up or even now. I’d just been existing. Killing. Building. Empty.

I’d tasted it, and now I craved it. Craved her.

I turned off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel. Dried off with sharp, aggressive movements. My skin felt too tight, like I was wearing someone else’s body, and it didn’t fit right.

I walked back into the bedroom and opened my closet.

Stared at the rows of suits, the tailored shirts, the shoes that cost more than most people made in a month. I pulled out a black suit—Tom Ford, three-piece, the kind that saidI’m here to end a conversation, not start one.Black shirt. No tie. I wanted my throat free. Wanted to be able to breathe when this went sideways.

Because it was going to go sideways.

I dressed slowly, each button a decision, each movement deliberate. This wasn’t about looking good. This was about armor. This was about walking into my father’s house and making sure he understood that I wasn’t the son he could control anymore.

I checked my phone.

5:23 AM.

No messages from Truth. She was probably still asleep, the baby finally giving her a few hours of rest. I thought about texting her, telling her where I was going. But what would I say?

Going to confront my father about my estranged wife showing up at my house because he’s playing chess with my life, and I’m tired of being a piece on the board.

Yeah. That would go over well.