Crowned by Betrayal

Chapter One

Jayla Bennett

My grandmother left me three things when she died: a Brooklyn brownstone full of unfinished repairs, a custom-sneaker business that refused to turn a real profit, and enough anxiety to make me believe every unfamiliar sound meant somebody was coming to take both.

The pounding against my front door that morning proved me right about one of them.

“Auntie Jay! Somebody’s trying to break in!”

“They’re not breaking in, Zo?.”

My seven-year-old niece stood in the hallway wearing one sock, a princess nightgown, and a plastic tiara tangled in her braids.

“How do you know?”

“People breaking in don’t usually knock first.”

The pounding came again.

“Ms. Bennett! I know you’re home!”

I closed my eyes.

Unfortunately, I knew that voice.

My cousin Imani appeared behind Zo? dressed for work, her scrubs freshly pressed and her face already irritated.

“You didn’t pay Mr. Fletcher?”

“I paid him something.”

“How much is something?”

“Enough to demonstrate good faith.”

“Jayla.”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“Our rent is twenty-four hundred.”

“Then he should appreciate the percentage I managed to give him.”

Imani stared at me.

She was three years younger but had been born with the spirit of a forty-five-year-old accountant. She planned meals on Sundays, kept a color-coded calendar, and opened mail the same day it arrived.

I once hid an electricity bill inside the freezer because I panicked.

We balanced each other.

At least, that was what I told myself whenever she threatened to move out.

“I told you I would have the rest by Friday,” I whispered.

“It is Friday.”

“Already?”

“God knew what He was doing when He made you creative because organization was never going to pay your bills.”

Mr. Fletcher knocked again.

“Your mother didn’t leave you this house so you could turn it into a boarding home!” he yelled.

That irritated me enough to open the door.

First, the brownstone had belonged to my grandmother, not my mother. Second, Mr. Fletcher didn’t own it. He managed the property for the bank while Grandma Evelyn’s estate remained tangled in probate.

Third, it was too early for anybody to be hollering through my door.

I pulled it open.

Mr. Fletcher stood on the stoop with an envelope in his hand and disappointment across his face.

“You’re avoiding my calls.”

“I’ve been working.”

“You’ve also been promising payment for three weeks.”

“I sent two hundred dollars.”

“That doesn’t cover the late fees.”

“It demonstrates good faith.”

Imani groaned behind me.

Mr. Fletcher handed me the envelope.

“This is the final notice. If the balance isn’t paid by Monday, the bank begins formal proceedings.”

The words punched through my humor.

“This was my grandmother’s home.”

“And the loan against it didn’t disappear when she passed.”

“I know that.”

“Then start acting like it.”

He left before I could defend myself.

I closed the door and stared at the envelope.

Grandma Evelyn had taken out a second mortgage to help me open Bennett Originals. She never told me how far behind she had fallen while undergoing cancer treatments. By the time I discovered the truth, she was gone and the bank wanted everything.

Losing her was already unbearable.

Losing the house where she had raised me felt like burying her twice.

“How much?” Imani asked quietly.

“Almost six thousand.”

“We can use my savings.”

“No.”

“Jay—”

“That money is for Zo?.”

“And this is her home.”

I shoved the notice beneath a stack of unopened mail.

Imani immediately pulled it back out.

“Hiding it doesn’t make it disappear.”

“It makes it stop looking at me.”

“It’s paper.”

“Judgmental paper.”

My phone chimed before she could lecture me.

A payment notification filled the screen.

$12,000 received.

I blinked.

Imani leaned over my shoulder.

“Who sent you twelve thousand dollars?”

The sender’s name was a corporation I had never heard of.

Bishop Consulting Group.

Before I could answer, my best friend called.

Kenzie’s face appeared on the screen wearing oversized sunglasses and a white fur coat.

“Check your account,” she sang.

“I’m looking at it. Why did somebody send me twelve thousand dollars?”

“Because your talent is finally being appreciated.”

“What did you do?”

“Why does everyone assume I did something?”

“Because you usually did.”

Kenzie pushed her sunglasses on top of her head.

“I found you a client. He wants a custom pair, and he pays well.”

“What kind of shoes cost twelve thousand dollars?”

“The kind somebody needs immediately.”

My eyes narrowed.

“How immediately?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Jayla, please. I already told him you would do it.”

“Then you lied to him.”

“He paid six thousand for the commission. The other six is a rush fee.”

I looked at the final notice.

Imani saw me looking and shook her head.

“Don’t do it,” she whispered.

“Who is the client?” I asked.

Kenzie hesitated.

“Darius.”

“Your mysterious boyfriend?”

“He isn’t mysterious.”

“We have been friends for two years, and I have never seen his face.”

“He’s private.”

“He’s imaginary.”

“His money looks real.”

It looked real enough to save my grandmother’s house.

“What does he want?” I asked.

Kenzie’s smile widened.

“I’m sending the design.”

A file arrived.

The concept called for black Italian leather with a gold Brooklyn skyline painted around the soles. Constellations covered the upper panels, and strange symbols were woven between the stars.

It was beautiful.

It was also far too detailed to finish in twenty-four hours.

“What are those symbols?”

“Something connected to his family.”

“They look like coordinates.”

“They’re probably rich-people nonsense. Can you do it?”

“Not by tomorrow.”

“Then when?”

“Sunday night if I don’t sleep.”

“Perfect. We leave Monday.”

I stared at her.

“Leave for where?”

“Saint Lucia.”

Imani snatched the phone.

“My cousin isn’t going anywhere with you.”

Kenzie’s smile tightened.

“Good morning to you too, Imani.”

“Why are you sending suspicious money into Jayla’s account?”

“It’s payment for her work.”

“Why does the company name say Bishop Consulting?”

“Because that’s the client’s company.”

“You said Darius was the client.”

“He works with them.”

Imani looked at me as if the lies should be obvious.

They were.

Unfortunately, so was the six-thousand-dollar notice sitting on the table.

“Give me my phone,” I said.

Imani handed it back reluctantly.

“What does Saint Lucia have to do with the shoes?”

Kenzie leaned closer to the camera.

“Darius is hosting a private event. He wants the shoes delivered personally, and he invited us to stay at his villa afterward. Flights, food, shopping—everything is covered.”

“I have a business.”

“You have an assistant.”

“Raven comes to work when Mercury is in retrograde.”

“You need this trip, Jay.”

“I need money.”

“You have both.”

Kenzie’s voice softened.

“It has been almost a year since Grandma Evelyn died. You’ve done nothing except work, worry, and lock yourself inside that house. Come breathe somewhere new.”

The mention of my grandmother weakened me.

Kenzie knew it would.

“I’ll think about it.”

“The flight leaves Monday morning. Send me your passport information.”

She ended the call.

Imani folded her arms.

“No.”

“You aren’t my mother.”

“No, because if Aunt Rochelle behaved like one, Grandma wouldn’t have had to raise you.”

“Damn.”

“You know I’m right.”

My mother had moved to Los Angeles when I was six because she needed to “find herself.”

Apparently, herself lived three thousand miles away from her only child.

“What if this commission saves the house?” I asked.

“What if it puts you in danger?”

“It’s a pair of shoes.”

“It’s twelve thousand dollars, a secret boyfriend, a strange corporation, and an international delivery.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

“It is bad.”

Zo? wandered into the kitchen carrying her other sock.

“Auntie Jay, are you going to the island?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go. You always look tired.”

Imani looked at her daughter.

“Whose side are you on?”

“The island’s.”

I laughed despite myself.

My niece hugged my leg.

“You can bring me a seashell.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That means yes,” Imani muttered.

It didn’t.

At least, it shouldn’t have.

But by noon, the mortgage balance was paid. By three, I had ordered the leather. And by six, Kenzie had sent me first-class flight confirmation.

The final message came while I was locking my studio.

Kenzie: Don’t tell anybody about the shoes. Darius wants them to be a surprise.

Across the street, a dark sedan sat at the curb with its engine running.

The windows were tinted, but I could feel someone watching me.

I hugged the shoe box against my chest and hurried toward home.

Grandma Evelyn had always warned me that desperation could make danger resemble deliverance.

Twelve thousand dollars had arrived exactly when I needed it.

That should have felt like a blessing.

Instead, it felt like bait.