Page 52 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

Just me.

Free.

Now I was back in New Orleans, suffocating under the weight of a marriage that had died a long time ago, trapped with a man who hated my guts as much as I hated his.

If I had to suffer, so would he.

I didn’t care what it cost. Didn’t care who got hurt in the process.

Amai Landry didn’t get a happy ending.

Not while I was still breathing.

I pulled up to the house. It was his. He’d bought it before we ever got married. But marriage made women like me useful in all kinds of ways, and my name had found its way onto enough paperwork to make me impossible to erase.

My face was wet.

I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying.

I flipped down the visor and stared at myself in the mirror.

Mascara streaked down my cheeks. Eyes red and swollen. Lips trembling.

I lookedbroken.

And maybe I was.

But I’d be damned if I let anyone see it.

I grabbed a makeup wipe from my purse and cleaned my face with sharp, angry strokes. Fixed my foundation. Reapplied my lipstick. Smoothed down my hair.

By the time I was done, I looked like myself again.

Polished. Put together. In control.

Even if I was falling apart inside.

I grabbed my purse, got out of the car, and walked to the front door.

The house was quiet when I stepped inside.

Then I heard it—music coming from the kitchen. Something low and sultry, the kind of shit Amai liked to play when he was in a good mood.

I walked toward the sound.

And stopped in the doorway.

Layla was at the stove, her back to me, wearing a tight two-piece Alo set that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Sports bra. High-waisted leggings that clung to every curve.

Her ass wasfat.

And she knew it.

I felt something hot and vicious twist in my chest.

This was the type of shit Amai let her wear. The type of shit helikedher wearing.

Because of course he did.