Chapter 23
Ares
“I Don’t Sign Without Control”
Merceille looked like a postcard to tourists. From where I stood, it looked like a cage with a view.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Mountains cutting into the sea. Light dancing on money.
I was supposed to be impressed.
Instead, I paced with cognac in my hand, half a bottle sweating on Enzo’s expensive table.
My knee wouldn’t stop bouncing. My head wouldn’t shut up.
Undiagnosed ADHD on ten.
Patience on zero.
Everything inside me wired tight.
Naomi had been ducking me since the last time I had my face buried between her thighs. No calls. No texts. I knew she was alive because I had people watching, and I knew she had a man now. She cut me off like it was my karma.
Part of me respected it.
The rest wanted to put my fist through the glass.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the rug, grandson,” my grandmother, Jezare Delacroix, said to me.
She sat beside my mother on the leather sofa, both dressed as if this were church and war at the same time. Pearls. Perfect posture. Quiet worry.
Across from them, Nico lounged. “Relax,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fine,” my mother said, her accent heavier when she worried. “You have not slept. Sit down, bébé.”
“I’ll sit when my grandfather gets here.”
“This meeting was supposed to happen last week,” Nico said, checking his watch. “The bride buying you extra time should’ve made you grateful.”
“I don’t thank anybody for putting my life on hold.”
The bride.
That was all they called her.
Not Yuna. Not a woman. A position.
The door opened.
My uncle Adrian stepped in first, expression sharp.
“Where are Marcel and Yuna?”
“Ils arrivent,” he said. They’re arriving.
I rolled my shoulders back. “Good.”
My grandmother folded her hands tighter around her rosary.
I finally sat. Lawyers already lined the table with contracts. Two stacks. Delacroix et Laveau.
The door opened again.
Everybody stood except me.
Marcel walked in with his cane and that same heavy presence that made people straighten without thinking. His body looked weaker, his suit hanging looser, but power still poured off him.
Behind him came the Laveaus.
Money. Legacy. Predators dressed in elegance.
Then Yuna.
All black.
Long black fur slipping off her shoulders. Pencil dress hugging a body I remembered too well. Curly hair moistened since she was off the streets.
Dark veil covering her face.
For a second, the room blurred. Flashbacks of Vegas hit me.
My fingers tightened around the glass.
Marcel kissed my mother and grandmother. Hugged me quickly.
“Tu as mauvaise mine,” he murmured. You look exhausted.
“Je le suis,” I answered. I am.
Introductions were given in French and English.
Devon Laveau, Yuna’s father. A Louisiana Creole man who taught all his kids to speak Kori-Vini.
It was Creole French, but we understood each other enough.
Then they introduced Madam Shayla Laveau, her mother.
A full-blooded Romanian beauty with ice in her posture.
I knew both of them through Zay. All this time, we had been friends and sat at his dinner table, and I didn’t know they were the infamous Laveaus that nobody knew for real.
“And their daughter,” Marcel said. “Yuna Laveau.”
She lifted the veil. A slow smile pulled at my mouth before I could stop it.
“Well,” I said quietly, leaning back. “Look at you, ma belle.”
Her mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile.
Madame Laveau gripped her arm. “My daughter will not be speaking today. She is here to listen.”
I held Yuna’s gaze anyway.
“She knows me,” I said. “And she knows I’ll treat her right. Shall I say more?”
Marcel cleared his throat.
“Bon. Let us begin.”
We moved to the table.
Yuna sat across from me, sunglasses hiding her eyes now. Her mother stayed close, whispering.
She was crying behind those glasses.
I hated seeing it.
The lawyer started reading.
Marriage within eight months.
Public unity.
No scandals.
Shared assets in the United States and France.
Children expected within three years.
Everything written like a business merger instead of a life.
I watched Yuna stay perfectly still, as if she moved, she’d shatter.
Nico leaned toward me. “Could be worse.”
I ignored him.
Eventually, the papers slid toward us.
Marcel’s eyes found mine.
“Le temps des garcons est fini.” The time of boys is over.
“Je sais.”
I picked up the pen.
Stopped.
“I’m not signing until we address the elephant in the room.”
The room froze.
Marcel slammed his hand down. “Ares.”
“Listen.” I sat forward, voice calm. Controlled. “You want me to front this union, then we do it right. It’s no secret she isn’t well. So… she stays with me. Here. She gets clean and real help. No forcing her into this before she’s ready.”
Eyes snapped toward Yuna.
Yuna stood suddenly. “I’m not staying here.”
“Yuna, sit down,” her mother snapped.
I stood too.
“Nah. Let her talk. She’s not a prop.”
I stepped closer, slower this time.
She didn’t move away.
I lifted her veil gently and took off her glasses.
Surprised, she let me.
“?a va?” I asked. Are you okay?
She laughed under her breath. Bitter.
“No,” she answered. “Je ne vais pas bien.” I’m not okay.
“I don’t want this,” she whispered.
“I know.” My voice dropped lower. “Stay. Let me help you. Fuck all these people. Zay and I got you.”
Her breathing shook. “You don’t even like me, and I for sure don’t like you.”
I smirked faintly. “I liked you enough in Vegas, and you liked me too.”
Her eyes flashed.
For a second, the fight in her softened.
Then it came back.
“You don’t get to decide my life.”
“I already know that. But I’m not letting you drown either.”
She looked at me for a long time.
Finally, she sat back down. “Let’s get this meeting over with,” she demanded.
The lawyers resumed.
I signed first.
Ink drying like a sentence.
Yuna stared at the paper forever before signing, sharp and angry.
It was done.
Outside, everything exploded.
She fought the moment we stepped toward the car.
“No. I’m not going with him! Let me go!”
She twisted, screamed, panic flooding her body.
Security moved in, but I lifted a hand.
“Nobody touch her,” I said, and then looked at Yuna.
She backed away, shaking.
“You’re putting me in a cage!” she cried out.
“No,” I said. “I’m keeping you alive.”
She started crying louder, words turning into frantic broken French and English mixed together.
I stepped closer.
“You’re not being locked away. I got doctors waiting. Not punishment.”
She fought again when we guided her toward the car, feet dragging, breath breaking apart like her mind was splitting open.
I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t soften my grip when I finally caught her wrists.
“Look at me,” I demanded.
Her eyes found mine.
Wild.
Lost.
“Je te protège.” You’re safe with me.
For a second, just one, the fight left her body.
Enough for us to get her into the car.
The door shut.
Her sobs echoed through the glass as the convoy pulled away toward the estate I had prepared.
Not a cage.
A promise.
And God help me, I was already planning how to keep it.