Chapter 9 #2
The convoy brought me straight to Obsidian Records, the empire my father left me, the one I built into something nobody could touch when I was nineteen years old.
The building rose sharply against the Los Angeles skyline, dark-tinted glass walls catching the California sun.
It wasn’t just a label… it was a fortress.
The first floor was music studios in motion twenty-four hours.
Women in and out, some begging for their shot, others already signed to my name.
Walls lined with plaques, every surface buzzing with ambition.
All I signed were women of all races and genres of music.
I even had a couple of heavy metal girls topping the charts.
The second floor was mafia business. Contracts, PR, finance, lawyers…
all of it ran through here. And on the top floor, my office.
My throne room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
Black marble desk. Velvet couches. A boardroom big enough for twenty of my enemies…
or lovers… to sit and be reminded who was in charge.
I walked in like I never left. My assistant, Darius Braxton, who was on the phone, already had my itinerary waiting, his voice sliding smoothly through the speakerphone.
“Welcome back, boss. France treat you right?”
I dropped into my chair, loosening my tie. “Why didn’t you tell me my women were out here acting like animals for three weeks?”
There was silence on the line for half a beat.
“Because you told me not to disturb you when you’re on family business. Your words.”
“Family business doesn’t mean I want to wake up to videos of them fighting like hood rats. Next time, you call me.”
“Understood.”
“Good.” I leaned back. “Now text them. Individually. Tell them to meet me for dinner. Nine o’clock. My boardroom.”
“Yes, sir. Any particular arrangements?”
“Have the chef cook their favorite meals, and a dozen roses.”
Darius didn’t hesitate. “On it.”
“Thanks, brother.”
I hung up, tossed the phone on the desk, and stood. I walked to my office bathroom, gleaming in polished marble, steam already waiting. I stripped down, stepped under the shower, and let the hot water cut through the jet lag.
I thought about my upcoming meeting with my ladies.
They thought they had me figured out, thought I was comfortable with them doing whatever they wanted.
But they forgot something: I didn’t chase women.
I didn’t need them. I let them orbit me because it amused me.
Because it was convenient. Because I liked to watch.
It was selfish, yeah, but I was young and living life… I guess they were, too.
But tonight, the game changed.
I stepped out, water dripping down my chest, and dried off. My reflection stared back at me. Brown skin, wavy fade on point, jawline cut like a blade, deep ass dimples that people saw as a weakness. My father’s ghost, my mother’s light brown eyes. The Delacroix name stamped across my chain.
I pulled on something casual. Black designer sweats, fitted tee, diamond watch. No suit. I didn’t need armor to tell them what I had to say.
This wasn’t going to be a dinner. It was going to be a funeral for what I was about to do.
A funeral for the version of me that let five women drag my name through the dirt without consequence.
By the time the clock hit eight-thirty, the boardroom smelled like a restaurant.
My chef had outdone himself. He brought in filet mignon for Bianca, jerk lamb for Lyric, roasted sea bass for Amara, Cuban sliders for Naomi, and a tray of buttered lobster tails for Leona.
Five different meals for five different women.
They didn’t know it yet, but this was their last supper.
I poured myself a drink and sat at the head of the long glass table, lights dimmed. Downtown L.A. glowed at my back like a crown.
At eight-forty-five, the elevator opened.
Amara was first, just like I knew she would be, because she was all about timing and planning.
White silk blouse, high-waisted pants, a diamond necklace I got her.
She smiled when she saw me, but her eyes searched me like she was bracing for something.
I let her kiss my cheek, then pointed at her chair without a word.
“Thank you for inviting me,” she said softly.
I didn’t answer. I just sipped my cognac.
At eight-fifty, Bianca walked in. Pencil skirt, blazer like she just left the office, hair slicked into a high bun, edges laid.
She scanned the table like it was a deposition, then met my eyes and nodded once.
She didn’t kiss me. She never did in public.
She just took her seat and crossed her legs, already reaching for her water glass.
Eight-fifty-five. Lyric strolled in, sweats on like she had just left her gym and didn’t think to change, midriff showing, diamond belly chain.
She had a smug look, like she wanted to test me in front of everybody.
“Damn, you really feeding us like queens tonight,” she said, dropping into her chair.
I smirked back. “Queens don’t brawl in parking lots.”
Her smile cracked. Good.
Nine sharp, Naomi entered. Black leather dress, burgundy lipstick, calm as a Sunday sermon. She hugged me quick, sat near Amara, and said nothing. She was always the watcher.
Last was Leona. Always late. Always loud. Red bodycon dress. She blew me a kiss from the door. “Baby, you know I had to look good for you,” she said, sliding into her seat with a laugh that was a little too bright.
The table was set.
Five women. Five meals. One irritated me.
I let the silence hang. Picked up my fork, cut into my steak, chewed slowly while their eyes flicked from me to each other and back.
Finally, I leaned back, drink in hand, voice calm enough to scare them.
“You know why you’re here.”
Nobody answered. Not yet.
I let my gaze slide from Amara to Bianca, from Lyric to Naomi, then to Leona.
“You embarrassed me. All of you. Out there fighting, dragging my name through blogs, letting the world laugh at me like I’m some clown-ass nigga running a circus.”
Leona shifted in her seat, lips parting. “It wasn’t even—”
“Shut up.” My voice cracked like a whip. She shut up.
I picked up the bouquet of roses and stood. “I built an empire on blood. Off a name men have killed and died for. You think I’m about to let it crumble because y’all want to act like a bunch of jealous birds?”
Amara lowered her eyes. Lyric rolled hers. Bianca didn’t move, didn’t blink.
I frowned. “It’s over. I’m not doing five girlfriends anymore. That shit’s dead.”
Gasps, protests, curses, each one different.
Bianca whispered, “Finally.”
I took another sip of my drink.
“But let me make something clear. I don’t beg women. I don’t explain myself. I decide who stays and who goes. And tonight, I don’t want none of y’all.”
The silence stretched, heavy and sour, like they were waiting for me to laugh and say I was joking.
I didn’t joke.
I let my gaze move around the table, one by one.
“You all think you’re different. And you are.
I give each of you something nobody else gets.
Amara, I let you breathe. B, I give you power you couldn’t buy in ten lifetimes.
Lyric, I let you taste my life and call it yours.
Leona, I give you access to rooms you’d never touch without me.
Nae…” I paused, locking eyes with her. “I let you see me when the rest only see the crown.”
Their faces shifted. I could tell they were hurt, pride, and angered—all of it.
“But all that ended when y’all dragged me into the blogs. Made me look sloppy. Like I don’t run my world with precision. Like I’m some weak nigga drowning in pussy.”
I let the words hang.
“No more.”
I stood, circling the table slow, dropping a single rose in front of them. “Here’s what’s happening. Listen carefully, don’t dare talk.”
“You walk away with no feelings. You take a package with money, security, NDAs, your reputation intact, and your businesses. You’ll leave with enough to keep your name shining, but you’ll never see me again. Ever.”
I stopped behind Bianca, close enough for her to feel my breath. “Don’t fight this. Take the money. You know who you are.”
I moved to Lyric, a smirk tugging at my mouth. “So, leave and don’t let it get ugly.”
Leona tried to laugh it off, but it came out brittle. Amara stared at her lap. Naomi held my gaze.
I walked back to my seat, sat down, and poured another drink like nothing had happened.
I raised my glass, mocking, daring. “I know it hurts. Pray about it. See a therapist… do what the fuck you gotta do. May your lives be good without me. Now, eat up. Drink up. Then you are dismissed. I will be in touch about those packages, and no running to the internet, unless you want your package to go towards your funeral.”
Not a single one of them raised their glass back.
Good.
Fear tasted better than wine.