Chapter 4
Ilocked the front door behind me and adjusted my blazer, ignoring the quiet echo through the penthouse after I changed my clothes, thankful that I did at least keep a few necessities here at Dom’s.
The place still smelled like his cologne lingering and his presence still felt strong.
He hadn’t made it back yet, but that was typical.
Dom didn’t move on time, instead he moved on purpose however long that took.
I had promised him I’d rest, but business didn’t take naps and neither did the law.
My phone had been vibrating since sunrise, and I ignored every call because I wanted to focus on my appointment.
One of my oldest clients, Trent “Kilo” Watkins had called twice, and left one voicemail, as well as sent a message through his cousin saying it was urgent with a slew of emails as well.
Apparently, he had a new murder attached to an ongoing Rico.
He was buried under charges and wanted me.
By the time I stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the garage, I’d already shifted back into lawyer mode.
The part of me that handled chaos better than anything else.
My driver opened the door of the black BMW, and I slid in.
The city was awake now looking like glitter bouncing off damn near every window around me.
Miami looked too pretty for the kind of dirt it hid behind it, but if you knew, you knew and most tourist didn’t that’s why they couldn’t stay away.
The ride was smooth until we hit Biscayne and that’s when I noticed something strange.
People were staring and it wasn’t the usual kind of stares either. These were the kind that followed me even after the light changed and now people were lifting their phones, being weird in my opinion. Someone yelled, “Congratulations!” from across the street.
I frowned. “What the hell?”
When we reached my office building, the front desk girl, Tasha, practically tripped trying to buzz me in. “Ms. Royal! Oh my God, congratulations!”
I blinked a few times, tightening my grip on my bag. “Thanks, but… what exactly are we congratulating?”
She grinned, pulled out her phone, and turned the screen around. “It’s everywhere.”
The headline hit me in my chest: “Criminal Defense Powerhouse Pregnant by Alleged Kingpin Husband. Miami’s Royal Family Expands.”
Below it, there was that photo of me and Dom leaving the doctor’s office earlier with me holding the sonogram and him with that look on his face that said fuck around and find out.
His arm was around me, his security was blurred out in the background, and paparazzi flashes caught the perfect moment to snap photos.
I didn’t think they would actually sale the shit this quick.
I stared at the screen as heat built up in my face. “You gotta be kidding me.”
Tasha laughed nervously. “Girl, you’re trending. They’re calling y’all Miami royalty for real now.”
“Of course they are,” I mumbled, pushing past her toward the elevator.
Inside my office, one of my assistants, Troya, was already pacing. “Carmen, don’t be mad, but Channel 7 called for a statement. Then the Herald emailed asking for an interview about you and Dom’s… uh, partnership.”
I dropped my purse on the desk and exhaled. “Partnership? That’s what they’re calling it now?”
She nodded. “They used the word empire too.”
“Figures.” I walked over to the blinds, opening them just enough to see the streets below. Reporters had already started gathering out front, with cameras aimed toward the door like they were vampires thirsting for blood.
It wasn’t that our marriage was a secret because Dom never hid me, although it was technically arranged, we built our world carefully, keeping certain parts private.
People whispered, of course, because that’s just how people were.
They speculated but this… this was confirmation splashed across every feed and damn headline.
Now the world knew exactly who Mrs. Royal was. My phone vibrated again with group chat notifications from other lawyers, colleagues, even prosecutors. Some texts were genuine congratulations and others were curiosity and shade:
You really married him?
Carmen, the Feds are going be watching that nursery.
Congratulations… I think?
I closed my eyes and exhaled. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to be famous,” I said under my breath.
Troya chuckled from the doorway. “It’s not fame, Carmen. It’s power and people don’t know how to act when a woman owns both.”
I smirked a little at that because she wasn’t wrong.
Still, power came with a spotlight, and spotlights burned hot sometimes.
I slipped off my blazer and sat behind my desk.
My mind was already running through crisis management as far as what needed to be locked down, which files to move offline, which names to scrub from my active client logs.
The firm had been built on strategy and silence, and I wasn’t about to let a headline undo that.
“Pull everything sensitive from the system,” I told Troya. “Anything that connects to Royal Enterprises or the West Palm cases, take it offline. Print backups and put them in the safe.”
She nodded fast and hurried out. I glanced back down at the tablet on my desk. The article headline was still glaring back at me, bold and somewhat messy, next to that picture of me and Dom. The comments were already wild and half gossip, half envy:
She knew what she was doing marrying him.
Power couple goals.
She’s in too deep.
That’s real love right there.
I shut the tablet because love or not, the world just decided to make our business their entertainment. I straightened my blouse, looked at my reflection in the glass, and fixed my hair. If they wanted a show, they were about to get one, but it would be on my terms.
“Pregnant, married, and still undefeated,” I whispered to myself with a small smirk. “They can write whatever they want.”
Then I reached for my phone and called my next client. “Mr. Watkins, I’ll see you in twenty minutes and before you say it, yeah, I saw the headlines. I’m still the same woman who wins.”
By the time the door opened again, my nerves were buried deep under the cool calm that always came right before a case.
The chaos outside didn’t matter right now to me.
Not the paparazzi, not the trending posts, and not even the fact that my husband’s name was being whispered in every courthouse hallway from Dade to Broward at this very moment.
All that mattered was the man stepping into my office looking like trouble.
Trent “Kilo” Watkins walked in wearing a wrinkled designer tracksuit and too much cologne, nearly choking me as his eyes darting from corner to corner like the walls had ears or something.
He had gold teeth that flashed when he tried to smile, but the tension in his jaw wouldn’t allow him because this wasn’t a friendly visit.
I motioned for him to sit as I closed the office door myself.
“Sit down, Kilo,” I said, sliding into my leather chair behind the desk. “And next time you step foot in my building, don’t bring a phone. I don’t care if it’s off. You don’t bring one.”
He swallowed hard and nodded. “Aight, Mrs. Royal, my bad.”
“Good.” I opened his file, already stacked with printouts from the last time I represented him. “Now you said this is a murder tied into your Rico?”
He nodded again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, they tryna say I ordered a hit on a nigga who was tryna flip. I didn’t though, I swear to God. They say they got a witness, but the DA won’t tell me who.”
“Of course they won’t,” I replied. “That’s called leverage.”
I leaned forward with my elbows resting on the desk. “You’re already facing a conspiracy charge under federal RICO. Now they’re adding a body on top. That means the Feds and the state are tag teaming this one, and you’re the target.”
He groaned and put his head in his hands. “That’s why I called you. I can’t trust no other lawyer with this. You the only one that ever got me off clean.”
I nodded slightly. I’d gotten him off two years ago on a trafficking case with circumstantial evidence.
It wasn’t easy, but it made my name ring through every corner of the city.
Now they came to me like I was the last line between freedom and death row and I really wasn’t, but I always gave it my all.
“Alright,” I said, clicking my pen and sliding a sheet across the desk. “My retainer for a case like this starts at two hundred thousand and it’s nonrefundable. I’ll need the wire by five p.m. today. If I have to go to court within the next seventy-two hours, that number doubles.”
Kilo blinked a few times. “Two hunnid?”
I didn’t flinch. He could act surprised all he wanted, but Kilo had it. “You wanted the best, didn’t you?”
He opened his mouth, but the look on my face shut him right up. He nodded, mumbling under his breath, “Aight. I’ll make it happen.”
“Good,” I said, tapping the paper. “Now tell me everything. Start from the beginning. I don’t want no street version of the story either. You tell me what really happened, or I’ll walk away from this case before I file a single motion. Don’t have me going in blind.”
He looked at me, hesitated, then leaned back with a deep sigh.
“Alright… the night it happened; I was at the studio. My lil cousin Dre was the one out in Opa-Locka handling drops. I told him to lay low ‘cause I heard the Feds had somebody on payroll. Next thing I know, dude who was supposed to make a delivery ends up dead. Police say my voice on a call tellin’ Dre to handle it, but I never made that call. Somebody spoofed my number, I swear ta God they did.”
I scribbled notes as he spoke, keeping my expression unreadable. “You got an alibi?”
He nodded real fast. “Hell yeah, the producer, my engineer, two chicks that was there. They all saw me. I was writin’ raps and gettin’ my dick sucked. I ain’t do that shit.”