Chapter 20
Elara
“Elara Vance, if you don’t stand your bougie ass up and hug me—”
I stood so fast I nearly knocked over my mimosa. After I’d told her a fraction of what had happened, Shayna had flown in on a red-eye, declaring via text that my "imploding life" required a week of her presence and emergency mimosas. She pulled me into a hug that squeezed the breath out of me.
Shayna had been the only other Black girl at our private school.
She was the girl who was unapologetically Black no matter the room.
Her family was old-money rich, and she loved to tell the story of her great-great-great-grandmother who sold fried chicken to folks on trains—a venture that led to a restaurant empire across the South.
She was tiny, maybe five feet tall, but her presence was massive.
Her Andrea Iyamah dress fit her like it was painted on.
She’d been the one to grab my shoulders after the wedding announcement years ago.
“Don’t do this. Come to D.C. with me. Live in Chocolate City.
Breathe. Don’t get lost in this dynasty drama. It will eat you alive.”
I hadn’t listened.
“You look tired,” she said, her eyes searching mine. “Not regular tired. Soul tired.”
I sighed, letting my chin drop. I told her everything. In detail.
“So you let the husband go,” she summarized. “And now you’re with a young billionaire who bakes you a cake? After you tried to dump him? The billionaire boy toy? He’s rich-rich and you didn’t want him?”
“A lopsided cake,” I clarified, a real smile touching my lips. “And yes, because it’s not about the money.”
“Girl, it’s always about the money. You don’t get rid of a man who can buy Paris but makes you a fucked-up cake. That’s love. That’s keep-him-close love.” She shook her head. “So, what are you doing now?”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed.
JULIAN: Landed. Where are you?
The simple text sent a warm thrill through me.
ELARA: Brunch with my friend from school. At The Perch.
Shayna raised a brow. “That’s the boy-wonder, right? You’ve got this cheesy, lovesick look on your face.”
“Please shut up,” I mumbled.
Then, our other guests arrived. Half the restaurant paused. Shayna’s husband, Trey, was tall, handsome, and the definition of dark-skinned excellence in a navy suit. He was a corporate lawyer; they’d been married six years. And beside him… Jordan.
Her little brother. Except he wasn’t little anymore. He was broad-shouldered with a beard lined sharper than a razor’s edge. He was in a suit, but he had an edge that whispered he could be a businessman or a criminal. His eyes found mine instantly.
“Oh damn, Shayna. I forgot he looks like that now.”
“Yuck, shut up, that’s my brother.”
Jordan grinned as he approached. “El-lie.”
“You grew up. Must you call me that?” I asked.
“So did you. And yes.” His gaze swept down then back to my face, oozing sex appeal. “D.C. looks good on me. You’d like it. I’m a lobbyist now. Doing big things. And I hear you’ve been doing some… illustrious things yourself.”
Jordan sat right next to me, his knee brushing mine. He smelled like a sophisticated bad decision. Trey clasped my hand. “We’re doing dinner tonight at Minton it was a statement of fact. Jordan’s jaw ticked, but he forced a smile and moved. “By all means.”
Julian sat, his thigh pressed hard against mine.
He was mad. He flagged a waiter. “Another round of mimosas, please. And whatever these gentlemen are having.” He leaned in, his voice conspiratorial.
“If you’re in town for the weekend, I know the promoter for the Giveon concert.
I can get you backstage passes. My treat. ”
Shayna’s eyes went wide. Trey looked pleasantly surprised. Even Jordan’s posture softened. Julian wasn't the intruder anymore; he was the host. He was warm, engaged, and disarming. By the time the check came, he’d won them over completely.
When we finally left, Julian walked me to the car and helped me in. Quinn drove. The silence stretched as the city lights passed. I knew he was stewing.
“So… Jordan is your type,” he said quietly.
My lips twitched. “What?”
“He’s tall. Charismatic. Ambitious. Black.” He listed the attributes like he’d been cataloging them. “He’s your type.”
I reached over, tracing the tense line of his jaw. “Look at me.”
He held my gaze, guarded.
“First of all,” I said softly. “My ‘type’ is apparently a possessive, emotionally volatile, cake-baking billionaire. That’s a specific niche, and last I checked, Jordan doesn’t fit.”
A muscle in his jaw flexed.
“Secondly,” I continued, cradling his cheek. “He could be every adjective you listed and it wouldn’t matter. Because he’s not you.” I whispered against his skin. “I only have eyes for the man who remembered my friend’s names after one conversation.”
I watched the storm in his eyes calm. He caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my palm. “Okay,” he said, his voice rough.
He pulled me into him, his face buried in my hair. He didn’t say anything else.