Chapter 2
Leona Vega
“I was the one he built from the ground up…”
The camera loved me. But not like he did.
Flashes went off in every direction, the photographer barking orders, stylists adjusting my hair, someone oiling down my legs to make me “glisten.” I wore a red, silk Versace slip that barely covered anything, red stilettos, and a diamond choker Ares had bought me last month.
My truth, he had saved me long before the blogs started calling me “Obsidian’s First Lady.”
Before him, I was just a girl trying to sing my pain out in a hole-in-the-wall club, half-drunk most nights, running from things I never spoke about.
I left home at sixteen and never looked back.
My stepfather’s hands still haunted me. His voice still lived in my nightmares.
I swore nobody would ever have power over me again.
And then Ares walked in.
That night, I was on stage with a busted mic and an old head crowd that wasn’t listening.
He didn’t clap. He didn’t smile. He just stood there, watching, like he was stripping me bare with his eyes.
After the set, he told me, “You have a voice the world would pay for, but only if you let me own it first.”
I should’ve been offended. I should’ve walked away.
But instead, I followed him out of the club.
He gave me a contract, two million in advance money, a stylist, and a platform. He gave me a name people finally wanted to say. And somewhere between the studio nights and red carpets, he gave me himself.
That was the thing about Ares. He didn’t just make women fall for him; he rewrote their lives. He branded them. And no matter how many girlfriends he had, no matter how many names the blogs threw around, I knew I was stamped in ways the others weren’t.
Because the camera might’ve loved me.
But it was his gaze I lived for.
And when he walked onto set, the whole room shifted.
Even the lights seemed to bend toward him.
Black designer jeans, gold chain with a diamond MJ charm. He had a black Tom Ford t-shirt hugging his chest, and designer shoes. His eyes slanted and almond-shaped, and his mouth curved in that dangerous smirk. The billionaire from Compton that they couldn’t stop writing about.
And mine.
I straightened my spine, arching my back just enough to make him notice. He always noticed.
“Take five,” he said to the crew, not asking.
Commanding.
They scattered like roaches. My heart raced.
“You’re late,” I said, smirking even though I wanted to melt.
He stepped close, towering over me, voice low.
“I don’t show up on anyone’s time but mine. You know that, Leona.”
“I know, but I thought you would be here to clap for me.” I pouted.
He grabbed my chin, tilting my face up. His eyes roamed like he was inspecting property he owned.
“The world claps for you,” he said, thumb brushing my lower lip. “But you don’t belong to them. You belong to me. You already got my approval.”
I rolled my eyes, pretending I wasn’t trembling. “Do I?”
His laugh was deep, dark, cruel.
“Yeah. You do. Let me remind you.”
He dragged me into the dressing room, closing the door behind us, and pressing me against the wall before I could breathe. His mouth crashed onto mine. Our kiss was rough, consuming, the kind of kiss that stole everything.
I clawed at his shirt, his chain hitting my collarbone as he shoved his thigh between my legs. My moan slipped out too easily. He smirked against my lips.
“You love me?” he asked, voice arrogant.
“I hate you,” I whispered, lying through my teeth.
“Nah, baby,” he growled, sliding his hand up my thigh, fingers pushing my panties aside. “You love me. You love it when I fuck you in public.”
His fingers slid inside me, deep and merciless, while his other hand gripped my throat. My head fell back, lips parting as he fingered me and rubbed my clit, making me gasp for him.
His leg pressed against mine, and I moaned without shame. He pulled back just enough to smirk.
“Déjà mouillée pour moi?” (Already wet for me?)
The way it rolled off his tongue made me shiver. I didn’t need a dictionary to know what he meant.
“Dis-le, (say it,)” he demanded, voice sharp. “Whose pussy is this?”
“Y-yours,” I moaned, my voice cracking.
He pressed harder on my throat.
“Louder.”
“YOURS!”
He chuckled, pulling his fingers out and shoving them into my mouth.
“Bonne fille.” (Good girl.)
I sucked his lips without thinking, eyes glazed, as he freed himself and flipped me around.
My palms slammed against the vanity mirror, lights buzzing hot around us.
Every thrust was brutal, pounding me into my own reflection.
Tears messed up my mascara, and lipstick smeared across my cheek.
His hand yanked my hair, forcing my head up.
“Tu vois ca?” (You see that?) he whispered, eyes locked with mine in the glass. “Tout ca m’appartient.” (All of that belongs to me.)
My body shattered around him, trembling and clenching, but he didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, grinning darkly at the sight of me falling apart.
“Cry for me,” he demanded, biting my neck. “Make it pretty.”
And I did.
“Et n’oublie jamais… je suis ton roi.” (And never forget… I’m your king.)
After he left me in the dressing room, the room felt empty.
I got myself together and stepped out with no shame.
Everyone scrambled back into motion like he hadn’t just stopped the world in its tracks.
My makeup artist redid my face, still flushed, still trembling, the taste of him lingering on my tongue.
That was the thing about Ares… he didn’t linger. He came in, wrecked everything, and walked out like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just reminded me who I belonged to.
After my set, I sat in my car, smoking a joint. I was scrolling through my phone when the headline hit. The photos from Ares’ party a week ago.
Thirty-three-year-old Ares Delacroix-Jackson Celebrates Billionaire Status at Private Rooftop Gala.
The photos spread everywhere… and on his arm, a woman we’d all heard about.
Amara Kevins. Event planner. Elegant. Quiet. The blogs called her his “newest mystery girlfriend.”
My lips curved into a smirk I didn’t feel. Of course, he was with someone new. Of course, the blogs were eating it up. That was Ares… he didn’t hide us. He never lied about the fact there were others.
But still… that picture burned.
Out of all the women, I wanted that moment. The Forbes one. The official one. The kind of moment that told the world I wasn’t just his artist, his model, his fuck. I was his.
I set my phone down, still smirking. But deep inside, jealousy slid sharply through me.
Because even though the camera loved me…
tonight, it loved Amara more.