Chapter 21
H arper sat at the elegant glass table, slowly swirling the wine in her glass, watching the sun dip below the horizon in hues of burnt orange and deep plum.
The view from Hassan's vacation house—a sleek, modern estate nestled just outside the city—was nothing short of breathtaking.
It was peaceful, detached from the noise of Memphis, and felt like the only place in the world quiet enough to hold the weight of what she was about to do.
Hassan owned houses all across the city.
Some he rented out, others stayed vacant, and a few were just for nights he didn’t want women knowing where he laid his head.
But this one? This house was different. It was untouched, serene—like a clean slate.
And that’s exactly why Harper chose it. If she was going to face her father, if she was going to unearth the trauma she spent years burying, she needed a place that didn’t carry the ghosts of her past.
She took another sip of wine, nerves tangling in her chest. She’d avoided this for years.
Avoided him. Avoided the hurt. Avoided the pieces of herself that shattered the night he betrayed her in the worst way a father could.
She was tired of carrying it. Tired of walking through life guarded, broken, and incapable of trusting a man enough to even let him get close.
Hassan and Roman were the only men she ever let in—and even that took time, patience, and their relentless presence to earn.
But after watching Hassan—the coldest, most guarded man there was—take those first steps toward healing with Sevyn's help, something shifted inside her. If he could do it… so could she.
She couldn’t thank Sevyn enough. Not just for what she did for Hassan, but for the way she poured into Harper too. Gently. Constantly. Honestly. It was Sevyn who planted the seed. Who encouraged this moment. And now here she was… at the start of something terrifying, but necessary.
Healing. It wasn’t for him. It was for her.
The longer she waited, the heavier her chest felt.
Harper sat with a stiff spine, her heart pounding like it knew something her mind hadn’t admitted yet—this wasn’t going to be easy.
She didn’t want to meet in public, couldn’t risk the possibility of losing control and ending up behind bars.
And Madea’s house? That was out of the question.
Too many ghosts lingered there. Too many memories she’d fought to forget.
So she asked Hassan to use this place—a quiet, secluded home far enough from the city and its noise—for a few hours.
A safe space to face her worst nightmare.
The doorbell rang, pulling her out of her spiral. She took a breath, steadying herself, and opened the door.
There he was. Hendrix. Smiling like this was just a long-overdue family reunion. Like he wasn’t the source of her deepest pain. Like he hadn’t once looked at his own daughter and seen a price tag.
She didn’t say a word. Just stepped aside.
He walked in slowly, eyes scanning the space in admiration. “This all you, babygirl?” he asked, voice low and casual, like he had the right.
That name made her stomach turn.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, her voice cold and sharp enough to slice through his bullshit.
“My bad... I know I gotta earn that,” he muttered, easing into a seat at the long glass dining table.
She didn’t sit near him. Instead, she moved to the opposite end, where her half-filled wine glass and the bottle sat waiting. She was going to need every drop of it. Because across from her sat the man who once tried to destroy her and was now sitting there like he wanted forgiveness.
“Like you earned the right to sell my body?” Her voice lashed out. “To auction off your daughter’s virginity like it was a fucking luxury item? Pure. Priceless. That’s how you described me, right?”
She wasn’t here for small talk or catch-up. She didn’t care how he’d been these past eight years. Didn’t care if he was sober now. If he had regrets. She didn’t come for apologies soaked in softness and pity. She came for the truth.
“I was a different man back then,” Hendrix said, voice lowered, trying to sound like someone healed. “I was fucked up. But I’ve changed. I just... I want to make shit right.”
Harper didn’t flinch. His tone might’ve been softer, but she knew what lived behind that voice.
She’d heard it the night he told her how much her purity could bring in.
She’d felt it when her limbs went numb from whatever he put in her drink.
She’d seen it in his eyes when he dragged her body out like product.
So no, she didn’t believe him.
“Why?” Her voice cracked—not with weakness, but rage. “Why’d you do it? Why your own daughter? ”
She thought her voice might shake, that the pain might choke her up. But it didn’t. She wasn’t broken anymore. Not crying. Not begging. Just a woman sitting across from the devil, demanding answers.
“I was strung out on drugs,” Hendrix finally said, voice cracking like he wanted sympathy. “Owed a lot of people—powerful people— money. And I was gonna get killed if I didn’t do what I did.”
Harper stared at him, expression cold, empty. Like he was just another stain on her memory she was ready to wash clean.
Then she chuckled. It was low. Cold. And sharper than any blade. She took another slow sip of wine, then tilted her head at him. “So instead of dying by the same demons you chose to dance with... like a man... you served your own daughter up on a silver fucking platter to save yourself?"
Her voice didn’t tremble. It cut.
“You tried to use me. Just like you used my mama. Like we was nothing but bargaining chips to keep your sorry ass breathing. You was gonna let me get raped, drugged, sold to whoever had the highest fucking bid. And you would’ve slept like a baby. Wouldn’t’ve blinked. Wouldn’t’ve felt a damn thing.”
Her voice rose, shaking the room now. “You a sick-ass bitch!” That hit something. She saw it. His face twisted. The softness was gone. The guilt? Disappeared.
His eyes turned black.
“You just like your fucking mother,” he snapped, voice rising.
“Ungrateful. She wouldn’t have had shit without me.
You either. You think Madea paid for all that expensive shit you used to flaunt?
That was me, sending money every damn week.
You owed me that lick. And if your fuck-ass cousin didn’t step in, I wouldn’t be lookin’ over my shoulder every day. ”
And there he was. The real Hendrix. The devil behind the disguise. Harper smiled, slow and knowing. He finally said what she needed to hear.
“I owed you?” she repeated with a soft laugh, standing now, wine still in hand. “You know what... you’re right. I owe you.”
He tracked her every move, but he didn’t see it coming. “I owe you a fucking seat in hell.”
The gun came up so fast, he didn’t have time to breathe.
Two shots. One to the head. One to the chest. He dropped like dead weight—no last words, no gasps, no second chances.
Harper stared down at the blood spreading across the floor like spilled wine.
Calm washed over her like warm sunlight.
The storm inside her—the rage, the pain, the shame—finally quieted.
Her hand didn’t shake. Her heart didn’t race. It just... settled.
She took her seat, reached for her wine, and took a sip with a small smile. For the first time in her life, Harper felt weightless. And free.
Minutes later, Hassan emerged from the back room with Roman and Von.
Hendrix’s lifeless body was now wrapped in thick black trash bags, taped and sealed like evidence in a case that would never be solved.
Hassan had people who could’ve handled this—but not this one.
This wasn’t some street beef. This was Harper.
His cousin. His sister. He had to make sure this stayed buried—literally and figuratively.
So he called in the only two men he trusted to keep it tight: Roman and Von.
They moved like a seasoned cleanup crew. Precise. Efficient. Focused. No talking. Just action.
Hassan knew Braxton and the feds were still trailing him, but Von had already rerouted their eyes.
As far as surveillance was concerned, Hassan spent the night working late at his casino.
No traces. No ties. Hassan and Roman loaded the body into the back of the truck to take to the burn site, Von stayed behind to do what he did best—wipe everything.
Cameras around the property, traffic light feeds, street cams tracking Harper and Hendrix—gone. Like this night never happened.
"Roman, take Harper to Sevyn’s crib. That’s her alibi if shit ever hits the fan." Hassan’s voice was all command. No room for debate. Roman nodded and Harper grabbed her purse without a word.
Hassan pulled her in, hugging her tight. Her body didn’t shake. Her face didn’t crack. She just stood there like a soldier fresh off the battlefield.
"Sevyn really made you soft," Harper mumbled against his chest, but Hassan didn’t respond. He just held her tighter because she was right.
"Thank you, San," she added, pulling away. Their eyes locked for a second too long—hers with silent gratitude, his with a mix of worry and pride.
"Von, start wiping shit," Hassan called out as he turned away. "Already on it," Von replied, fingers flying across the keyboard of his laptop, cords and devices spread across the kitchen counter like a mobile command center.
Harper paused, her eyes drifting to the tall, inked-up man with long locs and a quiet intensity that pulled her in.
"I’ve never seen you before," she said, watching him work. "What’s your name?"
Von didn’t look up. "Von."
She smirked, intrigued. "Yeah, I heard what he called you. What did your mama name you?"
That made Von glance up. A small chuckle escaped his lips. "Avoni. "
Harper blinked, genuinely surprised. "That’s cute."