Chapter 9
Ares “Lil Ghost” Delacroix-Jackson
“Five Women, No Attachments”
Marseille was where I came to breathe. Where I didn’t have to think about my women, or the streets, or the vultures back in Los Angeles trying to keep me in the blogs like I was a celebrity.
I was a businessman, and a leader, not a nigga dying for attention.
But when you had a bunch of popular women like I had, it was almost impossible not to be seen.
Don’t get me wrong—I loved my women. I chose them. Every one of them had a place in me.
Whenever I touched down here, I never stayed at my grandfather’s estate like the rest of the Delacroix clan.
I kept my distance two hours away, checking into my own suite, Penthouse 17, at the La Couronne, windows opening out over Aix-en-Provence.
Cognac on ice. Room service women who smiled too long. Peace.
Peace I didn’t get in California.
But France wasn’t safer. The mafia wars here ran deeper than colors back home. Names, generations, grudges carved into marble. A black man in the middle of it should’ve been dead already. But I’d been crowned. I wasn’t just Ares. I was Delacroix.
The call came in while I was finishing a glass of cognac, shirt open, fresh from a meeting.
Maman. My mother.
“You need to come to the estate,” she said, not asking.
So I closed my laptop and put my suit back on because my grandfather hated casual clothing.
I went outside and signaled my driver, letting him roll the bulletproof Rolls-Royce through streets older than my bloodline.
Guns tucked in every corner. Eyes in every alley.
France wasn’t my sanctuary… it was my battlefield.
The estate glowed against the night like a museum, all marble pillars and golden gates. Security swarmed.
Inside, it smelled like cigars, leather, and old money.
Marcel sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his cane lying beside him, in a sharp midnight blue suit. His eyes burned the same way they always had, like he could see the sins still wet on my hands.
Laurent, my lame ass cousin, sat in the corner, slim-cut suit, smug face. Smirking like a little bitch but knowing better than to look me directly in the eye.
The meeting wasn’t about contracts or shipments. I knew before a word left his mouth.
Marcel spoke in French, low and deliberate. “Tu as grandi en un homme impressionnant, Ares. You built the label. You made Forbes. You are a Black man carrying the Delacroix name through a racist world. I commend it all.”
His gaze sharpened. “But even kings have flaws. And flaws that remain uncorrected destroy empires.”
I leaned back, Calm. Unbothered. “What flaw are we talking about?”
His lips tightened. “The women.”
I almost laughed. “It’s in my blood, Grand père. You said it yourself once. French men always had mistresses.”
“Pas toi,” he snapped, cane striking the floor. “Not like this. You are too sloppy. Too visible. A king doesn’t have mistresses. A king has a wife. And if he is strong, he doesn’t need mistresses at all.”
My smirk didn’t falter. “That sounds like a sermon, not strategy. Where is this coming from anyway?”
“It is strategy, and don’t worry about where this is coming from. Just know, they are tainting your name online from what I have been hearing. They have no ties to anything; they don’t bring value or strength to this family.”
I smirked. “So this is about the internet? You nor I don’t even be on there. The internet isn’t real anyway.”
His eyes cut colder. “Cut the shit and listen without talking back to me. I never cheated your grandmother, Ares. That weakness came from your father’s side. And it cursed you. If you want to keep our name, you will break that curse.”
The room went silent. Even Laurent stopped smirking for a second.
Marcel leaned forward. “You will have a wife who serves you and the Delacroix name. A woman from the Laveau family. They want to work a deal with us, worth billions of generational wealth, and it can only work through an arranged marriage. I will arrange the meeting for you and your future wife.”
“What?! I told you years ago I’m not into arranged marriage.” I frowned.
“I don’t care what you are into. I will arrange everything, since you don’t know how to handle matters like a man in power.
Make the world believe you are untouchable.
Or I take the Delacroix name back. I erase you from my will.
And I give everything to Laurent, including a wife that will serve him purpose. ”
Laurent smirked again, slow and poisonous.
“Va te faire foutre, Laurent.” Fuck Laurent.
Laurent finally glared at me, but still didn’t challenge me.
Nobody in the room missed it. Our beef wasn’t a secret either. Laurent thought he could compete with me because I was a Black boy from Compton, but I had been proving him wrong for years.
Marcel slammed his cane down again. “Test me if you want, Ares. I will snatch it all. Eight months; a wedding happens.”
I stood, cool and deliberate, buttoning my suit jacket. “Then test me.”
I turned and walked out, the silence behind me louder than gunfire.
Outside, my momma was waiting, wrapped in her black shawl. She grabbed my arm before I could step into the car.
“Listen to him, Ares,” she hissed. “The Delacroix name is worth more than money. You can’t spit on it because of your pride.
You know your Nanno is sick and that eight months is when he will die.
You know he isn’t the type to just say it, but he is dying, son.
You get everything, don’t let Laurent take that from you. ”
I kissed her cheek. “I hear you, Maman. But hearing and listening ain’t the same thing. I’m not marrying some random bitch.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be foolish. Remember how I taught you to play the game.”
I stepped into the Rolls-Royce, closing the door with a calm finality. The driver looked at me in the mirror, waiting.
The Rolls-Royce purred low as we pulled away from the estate, the French countryside stretching dark and endless. I leaned back, head against the leather, eyes closed. My grandfather’s words echoed like gunfire. This nigga was dying and leaving me everything…
Eight months. An arranged marriage. Or nothing.
I could still see Laurent’s smug ass smirk in the corner, like he thought this was his win. Like I couldn’t let every woman go to get what’s mine.
“Va te faire foutre,” I muttered under my breath, tasting the venom. Fuck him. Fuck the whole room.
The car ride back to Aix-en-Provence was silent. That’s when I decided I couldn’t stay another night here.
I went back to my hotel and got my things.
The convoy cut straight through the city to the Delacroix runway.
Not a commercial airport. Those were for civilians.
The Delacroix’s owned strips of concrete across France, across the States, across countries most people couldn’t find on a map.
Our family didn’t wait in TSA lines. We built our own gates.
The runway glowed under floodlights, private jets lined like silver sharks. Men with rifles stood in shadows. Every one of them carried our crest, every one of them would bleed if I told them to.
My jet waited at the far end, matte black with the Delacroix insignia etched near the tail. Inside, it was darker than a morgue, leather seats stitched with gold thread, bottles of Cristal chilling on ice. A bed in the back. Two guards were already seated, cleaning weapons.
I stepped inside, the air-conditioned chill biting against my skin.
For a moment, I just stood there, looking out the window at the runway.
This was supposed to be peace. France. My escape. Instead, it was another reminder that even kings got leashes.
Marcel thought he could corner me with ultimatums because he was dying. Laurent thought he could kiss Marcel’s ass to steal my spot.
They both forgot one thing.
I wasn’t an heir. I was a conqueror.
I sat down, pulled out my phone, and finally scrolled. I wasn’t a social media nigga, even though I was everywhere. The only time I hopped on was during flights or when I was needed.
The first headline hit me in the face.
“Billionaire Ares Delacroix-Jackson’s Girlfriends Brawl in Beverly Hills Over A Lawsuit for Negligence.”
The second one wasn’t any better.
“Bottle-Swinging Chaos: Model/Singer Leona Vega and Celebrity Barber Naomi Carter Trade Blows at LA Club, Event Planner And Newest Fling Amara Caught in the Middle. Sources Say Leona Had An Abortion?”
Videos. Photos. Memes already circulating.
My women trending for all the wrong reasons, and they were arguing with each other in comments, telling all of our business.
I kept them separate, never had threesomes.
I treated them like they were the only one, and yet they still found a way to hate each other.
I smirked. The kind of smirk that meant blood was about to spill.
Let them laugh. Let them gossip. Let the world think I was weak.
By the time I landed in LA, they’d remember.
“Fermez la porte,” I told my guard, voice flat. Shut the door.
The jet engines roared to life, the ground trembling beneath us.
I leaned back in the leather seat, pulled out my iPad, and started plotting what I had for my women. I dozed off mid-flight, and my last thought was…
Eight months or not… this game was still mine.
$$$$$
Ten hours in the air had passed like nothing. I stretched out in my leather seat, blacked-out windows, silk blanket over me, and slept like I didn’t have five different attitudes to deal with. When I opened my eyes, I was in Los Angeles again.
By the time my jet touched down on the Delacroix runway carved into the mountains outside of Prince Valley, California, the women had already been on my mind. Not because I missed them. Not because I worried.
But because they embarrassed me, and now I had every right to say fuck them all.