Chiana
Three days. Three long-ass days since Juste St. Jean had kidnapped me and thrown me into his world like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. And somehow..I had fallen into a routine. Every morning, we had breakfast together. It wasn't a request, and I learned fast that Juste didn't like repeating himself. If I didn't come downstairs on my own, he'd come get me, and I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of dragging me out of my room like I was some disobedient child. So, I came. Sat across from him at that damn marble table while he ate like we were just two regular people having a normal-ass start to our day. But nothing about this was normal.
He'd sip his black coffee, calm as hell, barely saying much, just watching me eat like he was waiting for me to start running my mouth. I never gave him that satisfaction. After breakfast, he'd disappear out the door, and I'd head to his office, combing through numbers and sifting through the absolute mess that he had the nerve to call bookkeeping. His shit was way messier than he let on.
Laundering the money wouldn't be easy. It wasn't just stacks of bills waiting to be cleaned—it was businesses, offshore accounts, assets that had to be moved carefully. The deeper I dug, the more I realized Juste was sitting on an empire. And whether I liked it or not, he had put me in charge of making sure it didn't crumble. The crazy part? I wasn't even mad at the work itself. It was a challenge. I had always been good at numbers, at making shit fit where it needed to, at making things look right even when they weren't. It was what made me good at my job, what made me successful.
And now, I was using those same skills to keep a crime family from getting caught up by the Feds. Fucking ironic. But that wasn't the part that was fucking me up the most. The part that had me tossing and turning at night, staring up at the ceiling, my body tense for reasons I didn't want to admit? It was him. Juste. His presence, his scent, the way he moved around the house like he owned everything—including me. I hated it. And yet...I didn't.
I should've hated sitting across from him at breakfast, watching the way his jaw flexed when he chewed, the way his tattoos peeked out from under his shirt sleeves, the way he smelled—rich, expensive, and dark, like he bathed in power. I should've hated the way his deep, lazy drawl slid through the air whenever he spoke, the way he looked at me with those sharp, dark eyes, like he was already two steps ahead of me. I should've hated the way my body reacted whenever he was too close. The way my breath caught whenever he leaned in, whenever his fingers brushed against mine by accident, whenever he let his gaze drag too slow over me, like he was imagining shit he had no business thinking about.
But I didn't. And that was the part that pissed me off the most. Three days, and somehow, despite every reason I had to despise him, my body was betraying me. I was attracted to the man who had taken me from my home, locked me in his world, and told me straight up that he owned me now. It was insane. It was wrong. But it was real. And I had no damn clue how to make it stop.
One night, when I couldn’t sleep, I grabbed the phone off the nightstand and slipped under the blanket like I was doing something dirty. I downloaded a few apps—just to scroll, just to look. A couple messages here and there. Nothing wild. Some old flings, a few strangers. Just distractions to remind myself that he wasn’t the only man alive. That I wasn’t losing my mind. But I got sloppy. The next morning at breakfast, my phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. I kept trying to ignore it, sipping my orange juice like my hands weren’t sweating. But he noticed. Of course he did. Juste reached across the table and snatched the phone up like it belonged to him. Unlocked it without even asking. I watched him scroll—quick—his jaw twitching. Then he slid it back across the table. All the apps were gone.
“, baeeby…”
he said, pushing his plate away and standing up so calm it made my skin crawl. I stood too, on edge, already backing toward the pantry. He didn’t raise his voice, but the way he moved had my heart stuttering.
He cornered me against the pantry door, one hand catching my arm. Firm but not hurting me. “I want you to understand something,”
he said, voice low, steady. We were so close his breath touched my lips. “I get real sensitive about my shit. And I consider you that now. My lil shit. On the way to bein’ my lil shit, whateva’ you wanna call it.”
His eyes never left mine. “That sneaky social media shit? That ends today.”
My chest was rising fast. I was stuck staring at him and found myself nodding in response.
After that he’d started monitoring everything I did, but He'd allow me to talk and text with Amina .He’d introduced himself when he spoke to her. She had heard whispers about the St. Jeans just like I had. Her concern never seemed to be on my safety though. She didn't care to know her only focus was I was living under the same roof as a man she was determined to get me to sleep with , to open up my life as she called it .
Amina: So, what he like?
I rolled my eyes at my phone, already knowing where this was going. I was sitting at Juste's desk, drowning in paperwork, and now I had to deal with this too.
Me: Like a headache.
The typing bubbles popped up immediately.
Amina: That a good headache or a bad one?
I sucked my teeth.
Me: The kind that make you wanna fight. He’s crazy forreal
Amina: Mmhmm. Fight or fuck?
I knew she was gonna say that.
Me: Amina.
Amina: Bitch, don't "Amina"
me. I know you. Three days in a house with a fine-ass man? Ain't no way you ain't thinking about it.
I shifted in my seat, glancing toward the door like I expected Juste to be standing there, reading over my damn shoulder. But I was alone. And the truth was? I had been thinking about it. Too much. Too often. But I wasn't about to tell her that.
Me: Bye, Amina.
Amina: Bye nothing. If you don't do it, I will personally dog you for the rest of your life.
I laughed despite myself, shaking my head. I tossed my phone onto the desk, exhaling as I ran a hand through my braids. The problem was... she wasn't wrong. The tension between me and Juste was thick. Too thick. We never talked about it, never acknowledged it, but it was there. Lurking in the stolen glances, in the way my skin heated whenever he was close, in the way he looked at me sometimes—like he knew exactly what the fuck he was doing to me. Like he was waiting for me to stop fighting it. But I couldn't. Wouldn't. Because I knew if I did? It would change everything.
I looked up at the door again, expecting nothing. But this time he was there. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes locked onto me like he had been watching me for longer than I realized. I froze, my fingers tightening around the pen in my hand. He didn't say a word. Just stared. And I stared back. I hated how my gaze dragged over him without my permission, soaking in every damn detail—his sharp jawline, the way it flexed when he was thinking, the deep brown of his skin that caught the light just right, his full lips that sat in that permanent smirk like he always had the upper hand. And the way he stood. Like he knew exactly who the fuck he was. Like dominance was stitched into his DNA. He was calm, composed, but his presence carried weight. The kind of weight that let you know he was in control. Of himself. Of this house. Of me.
I swallowed, straightening in my chair, forcing myself to speak first. "You always just gon' stand in doorways like a damn shadow?"
His lips curved slightly, like he was amused. "Noles and Pierre will be here in a few,"
he said, ignoring my question completely. His voice was deep, smooth, that slow Louisiana drawl curling around his words. "They takin' you shoppin'."
I frowned. "Shopping?"
He nodded once. "We got a business meeting tomorrow. Think of it like a formal party—but still business."
I lifted an eyebrow, tilting my head slightly. "So, I'm just supposed to play dress-up and smile while you handle whatever illegal shit y'all about to do?"
His smirk deepened, and I hated how fine that shit looked.
"You gon' do what I tell you to do, ."
That low, commanding tone made my stomach tighten. But I wasn't about to let him see that. I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "And what if I don't feel like going?"
He didn't flinch, didn't even hesitate. "You still haven’t realized you don’t have a choice in any of this huh? ."
I rolled my eyes, turning back toward the laptop, like I had a choice in any of this.
Juste pushed off the doorframe, stepping further into the room. His scent hit me first, wrapping around me like a silent warning. I kept my eyes on the screen, pretending like I wasn't hyperaware of him closing the space between us. He stopped beside my chair, close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him, his presence suffocating in the best and worst way. Then he leaned down, just a little, his voice dropping low. "Don't make me come get you, ."
A shiver ran down my spine, but I masked it quick, keeping my breath even, my face blank. He pulled back just slightly, but not all the way, still close enough that I could catch the scent of his cologne. Then he hit me with the next demand. "St. Jeans wear black. Find something black. I'll make sure you have jewelry."
His tone was smooth but heavy, full of silent authority. He was hovering over me now, his deep eyes locked onto mine, daring me to deny him. To test him. To tell him no.
My lips parted slightly, and for a second, I thought about saying it—about digging my heels in, pushing him just to see what he'd do. But instead, something else came out. "I'm not a St. Jean."
My voice was softer than I meant for it to be, but the words carried weight. I wasn't one of them. Didn't belong to his world. Didn't belong to him. His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk. Like I had just told him something he knew wasn't true. Like the idea of me not belonging to him was laughable. Like it was only a matter of time before I stopped fighting what we both already felt. "You wearin' black,"
he murmured, voice smooth, certain.
Then, just as quick as he had closed in on me, he straightened, giving me one last glance before turning to walk out. I exhaled, realizing I had been holding my breath. What the hell was happening to me? Because I was starting to realize something...I wanted to defy him. Not just because I wanted control back. But because I wanted to see what he'd do about it. "They waitin' on you out front."
I looked up to see Juste standing in the doorway again, arms crossed, watching me with that unreadable expression.
I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my phone off the desk, and brushed past him without another word. He followed me to the front door, his presence behind me, but I ignored him, stepping outside where my chauffeurs were waiting. Noles and Pierre stood by the truck, looking like two bad-ass kids that had just been told to watch somebody's little sister. Pierre grinned when he saw me. "Look at you, finally comin' outside. We was startin' to think you liked bein' locked up in there."
I rolled my eyes. "Y'all ready to go or y'all wanna keep playin'?"
Noles yanked the door open. "Get in, trouble."
I climbed in the truck while they talked to Juste for a minute. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but whatever it was made both of them look irritated as hell when they finally slid into the front seats. I smirked. Juste must've given them some kind of don't let her out of your sight speech. Too bad I had other plans. The mall was my intended stop. But before that, I had to work my magic.
I leaned up between them in the truck, batting my lashes. "Sooo... I was thinking before we find a dress, I should get my nails and toes done."
Pierre cut his eyes at me. "What dis look like, a damn spa day?"
"I am going to an important event, am I not ? What kind of woman shows up to a formal event with her nails busted?"
Noles sighed like this was physically hurting him. "How long dis gon' take?"
"Not long,"
I promised, smiling sweetly. Pierre looked at me, then at Noles. "Man, fuck it. Let her get 'em done. If we say no, she just gon' complain the whole time."
I clapped my hands. "See? That's why I like y'all."
They groaned in unison, and I laughed all the way into the nail shop. An hour later, I stepped out with my nails freshly done—simple black tips on short nails, toes to match. Pierre glanced at my hands, unimpressed. "All that time and you just got that?"
I flipped him off. "It's called elegance, hood rat."
Noles snickered as Pierre sucked his teeth. "Man, come so we can go and find a dress before Juste start doin’ allat callin’."
We made it to a small boutique . I had gone through a few dress options, and as much as I hated to admit it, Noles and Pierre weren't the worst at giving feedback.
They mostly talked amongst themselves while I tried on dresses, cracking jokes, ranking outfits like they were damn fashion critics. But I hadn't found anything I loved until I slipped into this one. A seamless, long black Kelly dress. The thin straps were diamond-studded, delicate but eye-catching. The material hugged my curves in appreciation, sculpting my waist, resting just right on my hips. I turned, eyeing myself in the mirror, running my hands down the fabric. Yeah. This was the one. I stepped out of the dressing room and did a little spin for my bodyguards. "Okay boys, what about this one?"
Pierre damn near choked on his gum. "Whoa, no."
"That nigga is not gon' be feeling dat, Ms. Lady,"
Noles groaned, rubbing a hand down his face like he already saw the ass-whooping in his future. "Please pick somethin' else."
I smirked. Oh, now I had to get it.
Pierre shook his head, eyes wide. ". That nigga gon' blow his top. For your sake and ours, please pick a different dress."
I turned back to the mirror, tilting my head like I was deep in thought. Then I smiled. "Nah, I like this one. I have the perfect black YSL heels back at the house to match."
They shared a look—one of those knowing looks—and groaned at the same time. But neither of them said anything else. I grinned. Victory.
Noles let out a long, defeated sigh. "Man, get the damn dress so we can go."
Pierre just shook his head. I laughed, grabbing my phone. "Y'all are so dramatic."
I could still hear them grumbling behind me as I walked to the register.
_
By the time we made it back to the house, I was done for the day. Shopping, dealing with Noles and Pierre's dramatics, Yeah, I needed a break. The second I stepped inside, I went straight upstairs to shower. The hot water relaxed my muscles, washing away the weight of the day, but it did nothing to wash away the tension I'd been feeling every time Juste got too close. The tension I shouldn't be feeling. I tried to shake it off as I stepped out, drying off before slipping into a cheetah print pajama set—loose shorts, a fitted tank, comfortable but still cute. I didn't think twice about it as I made my way back downstairs, already knowing what I needed. A drink.
I moved through the kitchen, scanning the cabinets for wine, but of course, this man didn't have a single damn bottle. I sighed, grabbing what I could find to make myself a margarita instead. The sound of keys jingling at the front door caught my attention, and I looked up just as Juste stepped inside. His eyes landed on me immediately, sweeping over my body before he set the bags on the marble table. "I brought you jambalaya from Lucy's,"
he said, like it was nothing, like it was normal.
I raised a brow but didn't question it. Instead, I walked over, opening the plate, inhaling the spicy scent of the food before sitting down. It smelled good as hell, and I was hungry. I dug into my plate, taking slow, satisfying bites as I sipped my margarita, barely noticing Juste had fixed himself a drink—something dark, probably whiskey. He was watching me. I felt it before I looked up, his gaze lingering, steady, curious. "You drinkin'?"
he questioned, his voice smooth, slow, like he was studying me.
I glanced up from my plate, meeting his eyes. There was something there—something like intrigue, like he wanted to know me. "I prefer wine,"
I said, shrugging. "But you don't have any of that, soooo... I made due."
I took another sip, then raised a brow. "Is that against the rules?"
Juste smirked, shaking his head slightly before taking a sip of his own drink. "That smart-ass mouth gon' fuck around and get you bent over."
His voice was low, teasing, but with an edge. A chill ran through me, but I kept my expression neutral, tilting my head as I stirred my drink with my straw. "If you want wine,"
he continued, "I can get you wine."
I lifted a brow. "Oh, so now you take requests?"
He chuckled, taking another sip, shaking his head. "You find somethin' to wear?"
I smirked, nodding.
He nodded back, his gaze flicking over me before he leaned against the counter, relaxed, but still watching me too closely. "Good."
He let the word settle before adding, "I'm stayin' home tomorrow. Wanna see what you got done so far, go over a few things before this party."
I made a noncommittal sound, sipping from my drink, not missing the way his eyes stayed on me. Then I sat my cup down, fixing him with a look.
"Look, if I'ma do this,"
I started, tapping my nails against the counter, "and I don't have a choice—"
I gave him a pointed look, "—then I need my own office. I cannot keep working out of that mess you have in there."
His lips twitched like he was fighting back another smirk. "Your own office?"
he repeated, amused. I nodded, sipping my drink again. "Yup."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "I hear you."
But something about the way he said it—smooth, easy, like he was entertained—made me feel like he wasn't taking me seriously.
So I leaned forward, locking eyes with him, my tone even. "No, you listening."
That smirk finally cracked, just a little. Then, without looking away, he lifted his glass to his lips, took a slow sip, and said, "Mmhmm."
I rolled my eyes, pushing my plate back slightly.
_
The next morning, after breakfast, I expected to go back to his cluttered-ass office, where I had been forced to work since he pulled me into this mess. But instead, Juste led me down the hall, his pace slow, unhurried, like he already knew he was about to catch me off guard. I stepped inside the room, my feet pausing at the threshold as my eyes looked over the space. I blinked. Then blinked again. A whole damn office. A desk. My laptop. My paperwork, neatly stacked. The same setup I had in my office, down to the details—except it was in his house now. He had bought everything to resemble my space..
I turned, my eyes finally landing on him as he walked inside, hands in his pockets, his smirk as lazy as ever. He pulled out the chair next to mine, lowering himself into it like this was his idea of fun. "The office you asked for,"
he said smoothly, stretching his legs out, watching my reaction like I was a puzzle he was piecing together.
Juste St. Jean was showing me his hand. Plain as day. He listened. He paid attention. He had power. And he wasn't just throwing it around recklessly—he was using it to get what he wanted, piece by piece, move by move. I exhaled, running my fingers lightly over the desk before finally looking back at him. "Thank you,"
I said softly, my voice steady, but the words still felt foreign coming out of my mouth. His dark eyes lingered on mine, something flickering behind them—something unreadable, but heavy.
Then, with a small smirk, he threw his hands out like he was giving me the floor. "Aight, tell me about the numbers. What we lookin' like so far?"
I exhaled, leaning back in my chair, crossing my legs as I studied him. "This shit is a mess, Juste. But I'm sure you knew that."
He nodded, rubbing his chin, his expression unreadable. "Yeah, I knew."
I watched the way his fingers dragged down his jaw, slow, thoughtful, like he was already figuring out his next move. Then his eyes flicked back to mine. "I'm about to make it worse."
I frowned, sitting up a little. "What the hell does that mean?"
"This party tonight,"
he started, pausing just long enough for effect. "We closing a deal."
I felt my stomach tighten. "How much of a damn deal?"
My voice was sharp now, my hands pressing into the arms of the chair. He ran a hand down his face, exhaling like he was already preparing for my reaction. "Three million."
My entire body went still. Then my eyes narrowed, heat rising in my chest. "Three mil?! Are you fucking serious?"
I damn near pushed up from my seat. "You're a fucking idiot, Juste."
His dark eyes flashed, that warning look crossing his face, his jaw flexing. I didn't care. He had lost his damn mind. Three million dollars meant my job just got three times harder. The problem wasn't just growing—it was getting completely out of control. He tilted his head slightly, his tone dropping lower. "Come on now, baeeby,"
he said, voice smooth but firm. "Watch that mouth."
I folded my arms. "Or what?"
His lips twitched, like he wanted to smirk but was trying to keep his composure. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. "Keep talkin' like dat, and you gon' find out,"
he murmured. The way he said it made something tighten in my stomach. But I wasn't about to back down.
I inhaled sharply, exhaling through my nose, willing myself to stay focused. "Where do we even start on fixing this?"
he asked, watching me like he was enjoying how worked up I was getting. I dragged a hand down my face, my mind already running through possible solutions. "Shit... a chain of strip clubs,"
I muttered, shaking my head. "That's probably our best bet. But even then, that's just the surface."
I watched him lean back in his seat, nodding slowly, his hand resting on his chin, that sharp mind of his already turning over the information. I hated how fine he looked when he was serious like this. How the weight of his power, his control, was so effortless, so natural. How this tension between us was thick enough to cut with a knife. I had to remind myself to breathe. Because if I wasn't careful...I was gonna start wanting things I had no business wanting.
The tension in the room was thick, heavy, the kind that settled between two people when too much had already been left unsaid. Juste was still leaning back in his chair, his hand resting against his chin, eyes locked onto mine with that slow, unreadable gaze of his. Then, in that low, smooth voice, he said, "Tonight, I'm not askin' you not to speak. Just askin' you to follow my lead."
He let the words settle, his tone calm, but I wasn't stupid—there was a layer of expectation underneath that. Not a request. A demand. "The family will be there,"
he continued, his dark eyes watching me closely. "They know you the accountant... but they don't know—"
he paused, tilting his head slightly, "—our arrangement."
I let out a slow breath, tilting my head as I gave him a dry look. "You mean, you kidnapping me? But okay, understood."
His lips twitched. Like he wanted to smirk. Like he enjoyed that I still had the nerve to talk shit, even sitting across from him in his house, working his numbers, playing his game. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk, closing some of the space between us. "You still mad about that?"
I scoffed. "Are you serious right now?"
He chuckled low, shaking his head. "You eatin' good. Got your own office. Nobody put hands on you. Nobody pimpin' ya pussy. Coulda been worse."
I folded my arms, my eyes narrowing. "So what, I'm supposed to be grateful?"
His gaze dropped to my lips for a half-second before dragging back up to meet my eyes. "Nah,"
he murmured, voice smooth as silk. "I like you just like this—mad as hell."
My stomach clenched, and I hated how my body reacted to his words.
I swallowed, straightening my back, keeping my expression blank. "If you want me to follow your lead tonight, you better make sure you give me something worth following."
He smirked then, slow and knowing. "Don't worry, baeeby."
He stood up, his movements easy, controlled, like a man who always got his way. "By the time tonight is over, you gon' see exactly who you followin'."
I held his stare, my fingers curling against the armrest of my chair.