Present Day CASH, 29
Present Day
Zambia was already in his passenger seat by the time Cash finally shook the memory out of his head.
Still, his father’s words clung to him, bout setting a date, living together, “rising to the occasion.” About how the Muhammad family was getting impatient.
And how this wedding wasn’t just a formality, it was about alliances, about securing future opportunities.
Cash started the engine, jaw tight. Zambia glanced over, oblivious, or pretending to be.
“So, I was thinking,” she began, flipping open her phone, “we could do those crystal charger plates for the Walima. And maybe Platinum flatware, like in that Dubai wedding I showed you. Oh, and I found a florist in L.A. that does these crazy hanging installations—” He drove in silence, knuckles flexing on the wheel. She didn’t notice.
“Also, we should lock in a photographer by next week. I mean, unless you wanna go cheap, but—” Cash’s patience snapped. He jerked the wheel, pulling over hard to the curb.
She stared at him, startled. “What the hell”
“You remember Fairmount Park?” he cut in.
Her eyes flickered, just for a second. “What are you—”
“This not what we agreed to.” The car went quiet. “No love,” he said, eyes locked on hers.
“No babies. No fake happy couple shit. Business only. That was you, remember?”
She swallowed, sitting back a little. “You’re the one breaking the rules, Z.”
For once, she didn’t have a comeback. Then she laughed under her breath, shaking her head.
“Cash… we were kids when we made that stupid agreement. Fifteen. Sitting at somebody else’s wedding talking shit like we knew what life was.
You don’t think people grow up? Change their minds?
” His jaw ticked. “No.” His stare was ice-cold.
She angled toward him, voice soft but precise.
“Well, I’ve had a change of heart.” Cash’s eyes cut to hers, flat and unreadable.
“Well, I clearly haven’t. You and I made a deal, and for years we’ve honored it.
I never blew up your spot about everything you were doing in New York.
You done had niggas, bitches and everything in between. ” Her lips parted, but he kept going.
“And you haven’t, Cassius?” she shot back, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been more than active on the dating scene in this city the past decade. Just because your shit is low-key and discreet, and temporary, don’t make you better than me. Do not make you cleaner.”
“Zambia, you were a fucking sugar baby to several rich white dudes. Might still be. Don’t think I don’t know about the condo in King of Prussia. Your parents ain’t paying for that.” His voice was cold now. “You said it was just about the trust fund a few days ago, what happened?”
“Nothing happened. I just decided I wanted both,” she said coolly.
“The man and the money.” Cash leaned in, voice dropping low, heavy with finality.
His eyes cut into hers, face stone hard. “Well, let me make it real clear,” he said, each word sharp.
“This shit between you and me? Business only. I’ll never love you. I’ll never touch you again. And this marriage gon’ be exactly what we said it was. Business. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.”
“Well, we need to at least make it look good,” she shot back, voice clipped.
“Me living separate from you? Looks suspect.”
“I’ll call my father’s men. They’ll have you moved in within a few days.”
“Where?” she asked, chin tilting. “The house in Media,” he replied flatly.
“Why not the Bala Cynwyd house? That’s more my aesthetic.”
“Like I said… Media.” Zambia scoffed. “Cash, that’s far as fuck from everything and everyone.
I wouldn’t mind staying in the condo on the Parkway—at least until we figure out where we want to nest.” His eyes snapped to hers, cold as steel. She rolled her eyes and leaned back. “Fine.”