Chapter 24
Jo-Leigh
You’d think after being told you’re getting married — ordered, really — the man demanding the wedding would at least have the decency to crawl into bed and hold you. But no. Swag disappears, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
And God, they’re everywhere.
The sheets still smell like him, warm leather and smoke clinging to the fabric, and I hate that I pull them closer anyway.
My chest aches with something I can’t name.
I have strong feelings for him. Feelings I’m not ready to admit, even to myself.
But marriage? To him? To anyone? That’s a whole other level I’m not sure I’m built for.
I’m only twenty-three, for crying out loud!
And I know Swag isn’t safe. He’s chaos wrapped in tattoos and temptation, his world stitched together with secrets and blood. And Ricky Langston? Whatever war brews between them, I’ve somehow been shoved right into the center.
But why?
Is Ricky really that obsessed with me, or did he just figure out the quickest way to crawl under Swag’s skin and rip him open from the inside?
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck, the knot of tension there wound tight enough to snap.
My mind keeps replaying tonight. The fight, the SUV, the way Swag’s face went feral when he saw me being dragged away.
How the man who just declared he’s marrying me tomorrow left without another word.
And now I’m stuck here, too wired to sleep, too anxious to sit still.
I’m deep in thought when a knock raps sharp against the door. I jolt upright, pulse kicking hard, my heart slamming against my ribs.
Pretty Boy’s voice filters through.
“Jo-Leigh,” he calls. “I’ve got something for you.”
I hesitate, frozen halfway between standing and sitting, my brain trying to catch up with my heartbeat. Something in his tone sounds off, but I’m not sure why. I pad softly across the room, every nerve buzzing, and hover with my hand on the doorknob.
“What is it?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound steady.
There’s a pause on the other side.
Then, quieter, almost like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear, “Just… open up. You need to see this.”
My stomach drops, cold and sharp. Because with the way tonight’s gone, I already know whatever’s waiting on the other side of that door isn’t good. I crack the door, and Pretty Boy pushes a box into my hands so fast I almost drop it.
“This is from Swag.”
Before I can ask anything, he leans in, glancing down the hallway both ways like we’re about to get caught. His voice is low, urgent.
“You need to check out the room next to yours.”
I blink at him, confused. “What?”
He jerks his chin toward the right. “Before you marry Swag look in the room next door. There’s a blue box in there under some blankets. That’ll give you some answers.”
My stomach twists, cold and sharp. “Pretty Boy, I don’t?—”
“Trust me, Jo-Leigh.” His gaze locks on mine, steady but shadowed by something I can’t name. “I don’t want to see you caught up in this shit.”
I glance down at the box in my hands, then back up at him. “What kind of answers are we talking about?”
He hesitates, his jaw flexing. For a moment, I think he won’t answer at all.
Then he mutters, barely above a whisper, “The kind Swag doesn’t want you to have.”
My breath stutters. Before I can press him, footsteps echo down the hallway. Pretty Boy straightens immediately, stepping back like we weren’t just conspiring in the open doorway. His whole expression shifts into something casual, detached.
“Let me know if the dress doesn’t fit,” he says louder now, like we’re talking about nothing important. “Swag had me get a few options.”
Then he turns and walks away without another word.
I shut the door slowly, leaning my back against it, heart pounding like a trapped thing in my chest. The box in my hands suddenly feels like it weighs a hundred pounds.
I set it on the dresser and stare at it, my fingers twitching to open it but too scared to see what’s inside.
My mind’s already spiraling with Pretty Boy’s warning.
I glance toward the wall that separates my room from the one next door.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But if there’s something in there…
something Swag’s keeping from me then I need to know.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to breathe.
Then I grab the doorknob, step into the hall, and head for the room next to mine.
The door creaks when I push it open, a sliver of darkness yawning inside. My breath hitches as I reach for the light switch and flick it on.
At first, I don’t understand what I’m seeing.
Against the far wall sits a crib. A little white one, paint chipped at the corners. There’s a tiny rocking chair beside it, a folded quilt hanging neatly over the back. It’s soft blue with faint little horses embroidered across the fabric.
My chest tightens.
This isn’t just some spare room.
This is a nursery.
A thin layer of dust coats everything, but it’s careful dust like someone came in once to clean and then couldn’t bring themselves to do it again.
And there, on the dresser where Pretty Boy said it would be, sits the blue box, half-buried beneath a stack of folded baby blankets.
I hesitate before crossing the room, every step slower than the last, my breath shallow and uneven.
My fingers tremble when I finally lift the lid.
Inside are fragments of a life I didn’t know existed.
A tiny black onesie, soft with age, with the club’s patch embroidered on the chest. I turn it over, and in delicate silver thread, across where tiny shoulders would be, are the words Property of Swag .
My vision blurs.
I press the fabric to my lips without meaning to, like touching it might somehow bring the memory back for him.
Beneath it is a sonogram picture, edges curled from years of being handled, smudges on the glossy surface where someone’s thumb traced the outline over and over.
A lump rises in my throat, sharp and suffocating.
I shuffle through the rest, and everything beneath the baby things is loose and messy, like he couldn’t bear to organize the past.
I pull out a photo.
Swag — younger, softer, freer — stands with his arm slung around a girl. Blonde hair. Bright eyes. Her laughter is frozen mid-frame as she cradles a swollen belly. And he’s looking at her like she hung the goddamn stars.
Ellie.
I know it without anyone having to tell me.
The name scratches at the edge of my memory.
Something he mumbled once, drunk and broken, when he thought I wasn’t listening.
My chest caves, and I keep digging because I can’t stop, even though every new piece is another knife sliding between my ribs.
The next thing I find is a small black velvet box.
My breath stalls as I open it and inside is an engagement ring.
It’s simple and worn smooth from years of being handled.
Tucked beneath the ring is a folded note. The paper’s yellowed and creased, like it’s been opened a hundred times.
I unfold it carefully.
Princess,
It’s always you.
Jackson
I press my hand over my mouth, fighting the burn behind my eyes, but it doesn’t stop the tears. I can’t breathe past the ache tearing through my chest. I set the note down and pick up the newspaper clipping tucked beneath it. The headline punches me in the gut:
Manhattan Billionaire Malik Jafar Marries Ellie Perrault in Small Wedding
I read it twice, three times, hoping I’m wrong, but there’s no mistaking the photo. Ellie’s there in white, glowing. Swag isn’t.
Another clipping beneath it:
Jafar Family Welcomes First Son.
My hand shakes so badly I almost tear the paper. I glance at the date. It matches the sonogram.
That baby — their baby — isn’t Swag’s.
My stomach twists.
There’s another article.
Ellie Jafar to Host Charity Gala at the MoMA.
It’s not the headline that stops me. It’s the photo. Because in the background is a man I know. The same man who showed up in Louisiana years ago to hand me the envelope that changed my life. The letter awarding me a full ride to Columbia University.
I put the lid back on the box carefully, almost reverently, and set it back where I found it.
Because now I know two things for certain.
One, Ellie broke his heart. She’s the reason he built the walls.
The reason he drowns himself in control and rage and refuses to let anyone close.
The reason he’s so desperate to hold on to me even if it means forcing me into a marriage I’m not ready for.
Two, I can’t marry him. Not when I know he’ll never love me like that.
The air feels heavy, pressing against my chest until I can barely breathe. I’m halfway to the door when I hear footsteps in the hall. Heavy. Familiar.
Swag.
My throat goes dry.
Because now I know his secret, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to look at him the same way again.
“Bee?”
Swag’s voice cuts through the haze, low and rough, and when I glance up, he’s filling the doorway. His gaze flicks from me to the blue box on the dresser, and I swear his jaw tightens before he forces his face into something unreadable.
“What are you doing in here?”
My mouth is so dry I can’t form the words at first. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until I finally manage, “What is this room?”
He’s quiet for a beat too long. The kind of pause that says everything he’s not saying.
“It was going to be a nursery.”
The walls tilt just slightly, the air thick in my lungs.
“For?” I whisper, though I already know.
Swag hesitates, shoulders shifting like the weight of his past is pressing down on him right there in the doorway.
Then he says, without looking at me, “One of the guys.”
My stomach dips. Ice-cold. He lied. He looks at me like he expects me to believe it, like the ghost of that baby onesie with Property of Swag stitched across the back isn’t burned into my memory.
“Oh.”
It’s all I can manage; a single syllable caught between disbelief and heartbreak.