Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

1. AMAI

AMAI

The ceiling fan had been spinning for hours, the same lazy rotation that did nothing to cool the heat crawling under my skin.

I’d counted the rotations. Lost count. Started over.

My mind wouldn’t shut down, wouldn’t stop replaying the moment Yahmaria walked into my house like she still had keys.

That crazy ass bitch probably did. I never bothered to change the locks because I didn’t think I’d ever see her ass again.

Every private investigator I hired lost track of her.

Yaya was just as dangerous as she was beautiful.

Victor Baptiste, her dad, made sure of it.

I didn’t mention it to Truth because I was handling it.

When Yaya disappeared, I thought we were off the hook.

Now it looked like I’d been hiding this from Truth.

What we were building was already so fragile.

If I consumed her with the weight of what I felt she would crack under the pressure.

I had to ease her into this life or she wouldn’t stay.

I threw the sheets off and sat up, my feet hitting the plush carpet. The house was silent except for the hum of the AC and the distant sound of a car alarm going off somewhere in the Garden District. My jaw ached from clenching it all night.

Yahmaria showing up wasn’t random.

But nothing with my father was ever random. His fingerprints were all over this. As soon as I found a sliver of happiness, he managed to snuff it out.

I stood and walked to the bathroom, flipping on the light. The mirror showed a man who looked like he’d been in a fight—eyes bloodshot, jaw tight, shoulders carrying tension like armor. I turned on the shower. Made it cold. Stepped under the spray before it had time to warm up.

The shock of it hit my skin like a slap, but I didn’t move. Just stood there and let the cold water beat against my skull, my shoulders, my chest. Let it wake me up. Let it sharpen the edges of my thoughts until they were clean and precise.

Winston had sent her.

That was the only explanation that made sense. Yahmaria didn’t do anything without calculation, and she sure as hell didn’t show up at my house after months of silence just because she missed me. She was a message. A reminder.

You’re still tied to me. You’re still tied to him.

I pressed my palms against the tile and let the water run down my back.

The problem with Yahmaria wasn’t that I hated her.

Hate was easy. Hate was clean. The problem was that she was untouchable in ways that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with legacy.

Her father and mine had built empires together.

Blood oaths. Loyalty that went back decades.

Literally put muthafuckas in the dirt together.

They had so much shit on each other that the relationship was based more on self-preservation than anything else.

If I touched her, I touched that.

And if I touched that, I lost my father. We couldn’t stand each other, but he was still my dad. I could never take him from my mom. Not in her condition.

I hated being boxed in, and that’s exactly what was happening. My father was stripping away any hope I had of a life with Truth. A life I didn’t know I wanted until she walked into my office.

Truth was light, hope, strength, and stunning. She felt like home. Something I never really had growing up or even now. I’d just been existing. Killing. Building. Empty.

I’d tasted it, and now I craved it. Craved her.

I turned off the water and stepped out, grabbing a towel. Dried off with sharp, aggressive movements. My skin felt too tight, like I was wearing someone else’s body, and it didn’t fit right.

I walked back into the bedroom and opened my closet.

Stared at the rows of suits, the tailored shirts, the shoes that cost more than most people made in a month.

I pulled out a black suit—Tom Ford, three-piece, the kind that said I’m here to end a conversation, not start one.

Black shirt. No tie. I wanted my throat free.

Wanted to be able to breathe when this went sideways.

Because it was going to go sideways.

I dressed slowly, each button a decision, each movement deliberate. This wasn’t about looking good. This was about armor. This was about walking into my father’s house and making sure he understood that I wasn’t the son he could control anymore.

I checked my phone.

5:23 AM.

No messages from Truth. She was probably still asleep, the baby finally giving her a few hours of rest. I thought about texting her, telling her where I was going. But what would I say?

Going to confront my father about my estranged wife showing up at my house because he’s playing chess with my life, and I’m tired of being a piece on the board.

Yeah. That would go over well.

I couldn’t afford for her to believe that I was like her ex, but until I figured a way through this, I had no choice. Finding out I was married would taint her image of me forever.

I pocketed my phone and grabbed my keys.

The drive to Lakeview was quiet. The kind of quiet that let my thoughts get loud.

I took St. Charles, the streetcar tracks running parallel to my route, the old mansions looming on either side like monuments to old money and older secrets.

The sun was just starting to break over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange that felt too soft for what I was about to do.

My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary.

Yahmaria had walked into my house while Alexis was there. While Syx was there. While Layla was in the kitchen cooking dinner like it was just another night. She’d walked in and smiled like she owned the place.

And, technically, she did.

We were still married.

The divorce papers had been sitting unsigned for some time.

Every time I sent someone to serve her, she disappeared.

Every time I tried to corner her, she slipped through my fingers like smoke.

And my father—my father acted like it was all just a misunderstanding.

Like if I waited long enough, Yahmaria and I would work it out.

He knew the entire time they had no intention of releasing either of us from the prison they created for us.

I turned onto my parents’ street, and the houses got bigger.

Older. The kind of architecture that screamed generational wealth, and the kind of power that didn’t need to announce itself.

My father’s estate sat at the end of the block, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and oak trees that had been there longer than any of us.

I pulled into the circular driveway and put the car in park.

Sat there.

Stared at the front door.

The house was a monument. Greek Revival columns, double staircase leading to the entrance, windows that reflected the rising sun like they were made of gold.

This was where I’d grown up. Where I’d learned that power wasn’t given—it was taken.

Where I’d watched my father build an empire on the backs of men who thought they were his equals until they realized they weren’t.

Where I’d learned that love was conditional.

And control was everything.

I got out of the car and closed the door. The sound echoed in the early morning stillness. My shoes hit the pavers with sharp, deliberate clicks as I walked toward the entrance. The humidity was already thick, clinging to my skin, making my shirt stick to my back.

New Orleans in the summer. Even at dawn, the city was sweating.

I stopped at the door.

My hand hovered over the doorbell.

I could walk away. Get back in the car. Go to Truth and the baby and pretend this wasn’t happening. Pretend Yahmaria showing up was just a fluke. Pretend my father wasn’t tightening the leash.

But I’d never been good at pretending.

And I was done being brought to my knees by the balls.

I pressed the doorbell and heard it chime inside—deep, resonant, the kind of sound that announced arrivals and demanded attention.

Footsteps.

The door opened.

Winston stood there in slacks and a pressed shirt, a cup of coffee in his hand, looking like he’d been awake for hours. Like he’d been expecting me.

“Amai,” he said, his voice calm. “You’re up early.”

I didn’t smile.

Didn’t move.

Just looked at him with all the fury I’d been carrying since 4:47 AM.

“We need to talk,” I said.

Winston stepped aside.

“I thought you might say that,” he replied. “Come in.”

I stepped through the doorway into the foyer—marble floors, crystal chandelier, the kind of wealth that whispered instead of shouted. The house smelled like coffee, old money, and the faint trace of my mother’s perfume.

Winston closed the door behind me with a quiet click.

“Office?” he asked, already turning toward the hallway.

I nodded.

We walked in silence—his footsteps relaxed, mine tight with barely contained rage.

The hallway was lined with family portraits: Our parents on their wedding day, young and beautiful and full of promises neither of them kept.

Me and Kaisen as boys, dressed in matching suits we hated.

Elias and Silas frozen in time, forever seventeen, forever smiling.

I looked away from that one. We didn’t talk about the twins.

We were halfway down the hall when the scream tore through the house.

High-pitched. Agonized. The kind of sound that bypassed your brain and went straight to your spine.

“Odette!”

Daddy was already moving.

I was right behind him.

We took the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering against my ribs. The scream came again—louder this time, more desperate—and I felt something cold and sharp twist in my chest.

Not again.

Please, God, not again.

Daddy burst through the bedroom door, and I was right on his heels.

Mama was on the floor.

She’d collapsed between the bed and the bathroom, her silk nightgown twisted around her legs, one hand clutching the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world.

Her face was contorted in pain—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream that was somehow worse than the ones we’d heard.