Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Nia St. James sat across from me in one of The Nocturne’s private parlors with a notebook open, her dark hair swept back enough to show the gray streak near her temple. She was beautiful. Chocolate-brown eyes. A tailored black dress that made simplicity look expensive.
“This room is perfect for the preview,” I said, glancing toward the arched windows and the low stage tucked into the far corner. “Intimate without feeling small. The guests need to feel chosen, not gathered.”
Nia nodded. “The Nocturne does well when people feel as though they’ve stepped into something they were lucky to be invited into.”
“Exactly. Saint Aurelia cannot feel like it’s chasing attention here. It has to feel like the house opened its jewelry box for the women who already understood the value.”
“That sounds like you.”
I smiled. “It should. I’m very good.”
Nia laughed, and the sound loosened something in the room.
We had been discussing a potential partnership for almost an hour. A private Saint Aurelia showcase before the holiday season. Twenty-five to thirty women. Editors, executives, collectors, stylists, cultural patrons, and a few AWU alumnae with money and excellent taste.
Women who understood fine jewelry belonged beyond engagements, anniversaries, and apologies.
Nia leaned back in her chair. “We can build the evening around legacy and self-possession. Jewelry as inheritance, even when you are the one creating it.”
I pointed my pen at her. “That.”
“Use it?”
“I’m stealing it respectfully.”
“Then I’ll invoice you politely.”
“I respect that too.”
Her smile stayed for a moment before her gaze dropped to my bracelet.
“Laila Hart’s photos were gorgeous.”
“They were.”
“And Malibu?”
I knew that tone.
I looked up from my notes. “Which part of Malibu?”
“The professional part, of course.”
“Of course.”
“And maybe the part where Andre Jones rented a plane to make sure you got there.”
I sat back slowly. “Who told you that?”
“Pittsburgh.”
“That is not a person.”
“It behaves like one.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
“Dre helped with logistics.”
Nia gave me a look.
“What?”
“Helped with logistics is what you say when a man carries a folding table at a community event. He chartered a plane.”
“I did not ask him to do that.”
“I believe you.”
“But?”
“But he wanted to. Which is different.”
I sighed and looked toward the windows because pretending to study natural light felt safer than allowing my face to answer for me.
“And speaking of Andre Jones wanting to do things,” I said, turning back to her, “you helped him with that necklace.”
Nia’s lips pressed together.
“Ah,” she said.
“Ah?”
“He told you.”
“In detail.”
“How much detail?”
“He said you called him Mr. Jones three times in one sentence.”
Her eyes closed. “I recovered.”
“Eventually.”
“I was caught off guard. He walked in asking about a private commission like a regular person, as if he is not six-two, former NFL, and wealthy enough to speak softly while other people start looking for a chair.”
I laughed.
Nia opened her eyes and pointed her pen at me. “But I was professional.”
“Were you?”
“After forty-five seconds.”
“That sounds honest.”
“It is.” Her smile softened. “He knew what he wanted, though.”
My fingers brushed the bracelet on my wrist. “Diamonds that could stand beside his and not blink.”
“That was the line,” she said. “Your face when you saw it?”
I swallowed against the memory. “Embarrassing.”
“Beautiful,” she corrected. “And good for the house, by the way. A custom Saint Aurelia piece on the woman making Saint Aurelia visible? We could not have planned cleaner symbolism.”
“Please do not turn my personal life into strategy before lunch.”
“I waited until after coffee.”
“Nia.”
She laughed again, but the tease settled into something warmer. “So how is dating Dre?”
“What makes you think we’re dating?”
The look she gave me could have raised somebody’s auntie from across town.
“Girl, me and everybody else can see it a mile away.”
I laughed because denial was not going to survive that sentence.
“We’re dating,” I admitted. “And it’s good.”
Nia’s brow lifted.
“Very good.”
“That sounds closer to the truth.”
I looked down at my bracelet, then back at her. “He feels like Dre again. But grown. He listens more. Says what he means more. Still thinks most problems exist so he can personally intimidate them into order, but…” I smiled a little. “He sees me.”
Nia’s face softened.
“And he’s amazing?”
“He is amazing.”
“I can see that.”
A small, unreasonable twinge slipped through me before I could dress it up.
Nia saw it and immediately shook her head.
“Girl, I mean amazing for you.”
My cheeks warmed. “I did not say anything.”
“You did not have to. Your face got expensive and hostile.”
I laughed.
“And yes,” she continued, “did I try to hit on him once? Absolutely.”
My head snapped back. “Nia.”
“He is tall, handsome, and former NFL. I am composed, not deceased.”
I laughed harder than I meant to, picturing it too easily. Dre standing there with that polite public smile, broad shoulders, beard, calm eyes, giving her absolutely nothing.
Nia smiled. “He stiff-armed me emotionally. Very respectful. Very humiliating.”
“That sounds like him.”
“It was effective.” Her humor softened. “And honestly, I was glad he did.”
That caught my attention.
“At the time, I was upset over something. Looking for a distraction with shoulders.” She lifted one shoulder. “Andre declined to be one.”
Her gaze moved across the room, and mine followed.
A large black-and-white family portrait hung above the marble fireplace.
I had noticed it when I came in but had not studied it closely.
An old Nocturne family, dressed in Black elegance that made wealth look inherited through discipline instead of noise.
Satin. Pearls. Dark suits. Watch chains.
Faces patient enough to make history behave.
Then I saw Saint Baptiste in the portrait, tall and dark beside the St. James family, his expression unreadable beneath the formal pose. Nia was staring too. Not openly, but enough.
“Seems you have your own amazing man,” I said.
Her face changed before she could stop it.
Sadness passed through her eyes so quickly someone less practiced might have missed it.
“No,” she said, turning back with a small smile that did not reach far. “No amazing man for me.”
“Nia—”
“But enough about me.” She picked up her pen and tapped the notebook. “Let’s talk about these diamonds and how The Nocturne can showcase them.”
I let her have the escape.
Women like us understood the mercy of not forcing a door open just because we had noticed the lock.
“For the preview,” I said, opening my notebook again, “I want the pieces shown on women first. Not trays. Not pedestals. We let guests see the jewelry alive before we let them touch it.”
Nia nodded, grateful I had followed her back to safer ground. “Models?”
“No. Women with presence. A professor. A dancer. A retired judge. Someone young and stylish who knows how to wear diamonds with denim and make it feel inevitable.”
“Now that sounds like The Nocturne.”
“And Saint Aurelia.”
We worked for another forty minutes and left with the bones of a night that felt like legacy, privacy, and desire had agreed to sit at the same table.
When I walked out, I had a partnership outline, three room options, and a feeling about Nia St. James staring at that portrait like history had pressed a hand to her chest.
My cherry-red Porsche Macan GTS waited near the valet circle, freshly washed because I liked my things taken care of and because red looked better when it had the nerve to shine.
I slid inside, adjusted my sunglasses, and pulled away from The Nocturne with Dre’s address already loaded even though I knew the way now.
He had called earlier and asked me to come over.
Asked.
Not commanded.
And still, Andre Jones managed to make a request sound like it had shoulders.
I had barely cleared downtown traffic when Jabari called.
I answered through the car. “Yes, brother?”
“Why you answer like I owe you money?”
“You usually do.”
“I am literally calling about money.”
“For me?”
“For Mom and Dad’s Christmas gift.”
I merged onto Bigelow, already tired of him. “Jabari, you are a cybersecurity consultant who bills corporations terrifying money to tell them their systems are unsafe. Why do I have to organize the gift and invoice you like a client?”
“Because you care about presentation.”
“And you care about doing as little as possible while receiving equal child credit.”
“That is family teamwork.”
“That is fraud.”
“Call it what you want. I’m sending my half.”
“You don’t even know what we’re buying yet.”
“Exactly why I’m sending my half to the person who does.”
I shook my head. “You are older than me in absolutely no meaningful way.”
“I am emotionally efficient.”
“You are lazy with direct deposit.”
“But I have direct deposit. Growth.”
“Barely.”
He laughed. “What are we getting them?”
“That weekend cabin Mom mentioned near Deep Creek. Three nights. Fireplace. Lake view. And a private chef for one dinner so Daddy can pretend he doesn’t like people fussing over him.”
Jabari got quiet for a second.
“That’s actually nice.”
“I know.”
“They’ll love that.”
“I know that too.”
“See? This is why you buy it.”
“You’re paying sixty percent.”
“Why sixty?”
“Because you annoyed me during the planning stage.”
“I was not part of the planning stage.”
“Exactly.”
He groaned. “Fine. Send me the number.”
“I will.”
A pause moved through the car, softer than our usual foolishness.
“You sound good,” he said.
I glanced at the road.
“I am good.”
“With him?”
I should have been annoyed that he knew who him was.
I was not.
“With myself,” I said. “And yes. With him too.”
Jabari exhaled. “Good.”
“Do not get emotional while I’m driving.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were close.”
“I was not close.”
“You were near the neighborhood.”
“Whatever.” He cleared his throat. “I heard some rumors.”
“That happens when people are bored and underemployed.”
“About Dre taking a coaching job with the Forge.”
My fingers tightened on the wheel.
“Maybe.”