5. YAHMARIA BAPTISTE
YAHMARIA BAPTISTE
Isat on the edge of my father’s leather sofa, my legs crossed, my manicured nails tapping against my thigh in an anxious rhythm I couldn’t seem to stop.
The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that made you feel small. Exactly how my father made me feel.
“Daddy,” I said, my voice careful, measured. “I heard Amai speeding down the driveway at almost two in the morning. His tires were—”
“I don’t give a fuck,” Victor said flatly.
He didn’t even look up from his cigar. Just sat there in his leather wingback chair like a king on a throne, the smoke curling up around his face in lazy spirals.
I swallowed hard.
“I’m just saying, something’s going on. He seemed—”
“Yahmaria.” He finally turned to look at me, and the weight of his attention was suffocating. “You are there for one reason and one reason only. Do you understand me?”
I nodded slowly, even though I didn’t want to.
“To make sure the Landry-Baptiste alliance stays intact,” he continued, his voice dropping into that dangerous register that made my stomach clench. “That’s it. That’s your entire purpose right now.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the cigar still burning between his fingers.
“The Landrys have accrued ten times more wealth than us. Ten times more territory. Ten times more connections and businesses. Do you understand what that means?”
“Yes, but—”
“If you and Amai separate now,” he cut me off, his voice sharp as a blade, “the Baptiste empire doesn’t remain standing. We crumble. Everything we’ve built—everything I’ve built—falls apart because you don’t want to play house with a man who doesn’t want you.”
The words hit like a slap.
I stood up, my voice shaking. “I just want to live my life, Daddy. I want to be happy. I want—”
He moved so fast I didn’t see it coming.
One second, he was sitting in his chair. The next, his hand was wrapped around my upper arm, yanking me forward with a force that made my breath catch.
“This IS your fucking life,” he snarled, pulling me close enough that I could smell the bourbon and cigar smoke on his breath.
“Your life is what I say it is. Your happiness is irrelevant. Your wants are irrelevant. You are a tool, Yahmaria. A tool I’m using to keep the Baptiste name relevant in this city. ”
His grip tightened, and I felt my eyes start to water.
“You will go back to that house. You will make sure Amai knows you’re there. You will remind him that you are his wife—legally, publicly, permanently. And you will do whatever it takes to keep him from throwing away this alliance for some hood rat from the Seventh Ward.”
“Daddy, please—”
“Do you understand me?”
His fingers dug into my arm, and I nodded frantically, tears spilling over.
“Yes. Yes, I understand.”
He released me with a shove that sent me stumbling backward. I caught myself on the sofa, my heart hammering in my chest.
Victor settled back into his chair like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just reminded me that I was nothing more than a possession. A bargaining chip. A means to an end.
“Good,” he said, picking his cigar back up. “Now get out of my sight.”
I left without another word, my arm throbbing where his fingers had been, my mind already spinning with how I was going to convince Amai that I was worth keeping around.
Even though we both knew I wasn’t.
Even though we both knew this was just business.
Even though I’d stopped mattering the moment my father decided I was useful.
The drive back to Amai’s house was a blur.
I didn’t remember getting in the car. Didn’t remember pulling out of my father’s driveway or merging onto the highway. My hands moved on autopilot—turn signal, brake, accelerate—while my mind was somewhere else entirely.
Somewhere far away.
Thailand.
God, I missed Thailand.
Those three months after Amai and I split—before Daddy dragged me back—had been the freest I’d felt in years. Maybe ever.
No obligations. No empire I had to sell my soul for. No last name weighing me down like a fucking anchor.
Just fresh air. Sexy men who didn’t know who I was or what I represented. Great food that didn’t come with expectations. Views that stretched forever. Vibes that felt like breathing for the first time.
I’d woken up every morning in that little villa overlooking the ocean and felt light.
No Winston Landry watching my every move. No Victor Baptiste reminding me I was a tool, not a person. No Amai looking at me like I was the biggest mistake he’d ever made.
Just me.
Free.
Now I was back in New Orleans, suffocating under the weight of a marriage that had died a long time ago, trapped with a man who hated my guts as much as I hated his.
If I had to suffer, so would he.
I didn’t care what it cost. Didn’t care who got hurt in the process.
Amai Landry didn’t get a happy ending.
Not while I was still breathing.
I pulled up to the house. It was his. He’d bought it before we ever got married. But marriage made women like me useful in all kinds of ways, and my name had found its way onto enough paperwork to make me impossible to erase.
My face was wet.
I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying.
I flipped down the visor and stared at myself in the mirror.
Mascara streaked down my cheeks. Eyes red and swollen. Lips trembling.
I looked broken.
And maybe I was.
But I’d be damned if I let anyone see it.
I grabbed a makeup wipe from my purse and cleaned my face with sharp, angry strokes. Fixed my foundation. Reapplied my lipstick. Smoothed down my hair.
By the time I was done, I looked like myself again.
Polished. Put together. In control.
Even if I was falling apart inside.
I grabbed my purse, got out of the car, and walked to the front door.
The house was quiet when I stepped inside.
Then I heard it—music coming from the kitchen. Something low and sultry, the kind of shit Amai liked to play when he was in a good mood.
I walked toward the sound.
And stopped in the doorway.
Layla was at the stove, her back to me, wearing a tight two-piece Alo set that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Sports bra. High-waisted leggings that clung to every curve.
Her ass was fat.
And she knew it.
I felt something hot and vicious twist in my chest.
This was the type of shit Amai let her wear. The type of shit he liked her wearing.
Because of course he did.
I set my purse down on the counter with a sharp thud.
Layla turned, spatula in hand, and her expression shifted the moment she saw me.
“Oh,” she said flatly. “You’re back.”
“I am.” I crossed my arms. “And we need to talk about your uniform.”
She blinked. “My what?”
“The uniform I provided when I hired you,” I said, my voice cold and clipped. “You need to start wearing it. Or you won’t have a job.”
Layla stared at me for a long moment.
Then she laughed.
“Girl, I don’t work for you,” she said, turning back to the stove. “I work for Amai.”
“My name is still on the deed to this house,” I shot back.
Layla glanced over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“That’s a damn lie,” she said. “Amai had this house way before you. You just mad you can’t kick me out.”
My jaw clenched.
“Either way,” I said, my voice shaking now, “I’m back. And clearly, it’s for the best.”
Layla turned fully to face me, spatula still in hand, her expression hard.
“You need to fuck off,” she said slowly, deliberately, “before you get your ass beat.”
Then she turned back to the stove.
Dismissed me.
Like I was nothing.
Something inside me snapped. Too many people were playing in my damn face, and she’d be the last one today.
I didn’t think.
Didn’t plan.
I just moved.
My hand closed around the handle of the cast-iron skillet on the counter—the one Layla had been using earlier, still warm from the stove.
I lifted it.
And swung.
The sound it made when it connected with the back of Layla’s head was sickening.
A dull, wet thud that echoed in the kitchen.
Layla dropped like a stone.
The spatula clattered to the floor. Her body crumpled, hitting the tile hard, her locs spilling around her face.
She didn’t move.
Her chest didn’t rise.
I watched for it. Waited for some sign that I hadn’t gone as far as I thought I had.
Nothing.
I stood there, breathing hard, the skillet still in my hand.
My arm was shaking.
I set the skillet on the counter.
Stepped over Layla’s body like she was a piece of furniture.
Walked to the wine fridge and pulled out a bottle of pinot grigio—Amai’s favorite, the expensive kind he kept for special occasions.
I poured myself a glass.
Took a long, slow sip.
Then I turned back to the stove, where the food Layla had been cooking was still simmering.
Shrimp étouffée. Amai’s favorite.
I picked up the spatula, rinsed it off in the sink, and stirred the pot.
Added a little more seasoning.
Tasted it.
Perfect.
Behind me, Layla was still on the floor, unconscious, a thin line of blood trickling from her hairline onto the tile. She wasn’t breathing anymore.
I just kept cooking.
Kept sipping my wine.
Kept moving through the motions like nothing had happened.
Because if I stopped—
If I let myself feel what I’d just done—
I’d fall apart completely.
And I couldn’t afford that.
Not now.
Not ever.
The wine was good. Expensive. The kind of wine that tasted like money and didn’t apologize for it. My type of shit. One thing I never had to compromise on being with Amai is the finer things in life. You represent him and Amai hates for his aesthetic to the world to be… subpar.
I took another sip and scrolled through Instagram without really seeing anything. Just needed something to do with my hands. Something to keep my mind from the body on the floor.
I didn’t look at it. Didn’t need to. I already knew what I’d done, and I was barely keeping the nausea at bay.
The skillet had been heavy. Cast iron. The kind Mama used to cook with back in the day before she decided to do too much and die. Everything went to shit immediately after.
The impact had been satisfying.
That was the part I wasn’t supposed to think about. The part that made me feel like something was broken inside me that couldn’t be fixed.
I took another sip of wine.