9. AMAI
AMAI
The next morning, I couldn’t sit still.
My phone sat on the coffee table.
Silent.
Dr. Chen had called me at 12:47 AM after she left Truth’s house. Brief. Professional. Mild allergic reaction to the hormone injections. Completely normal. I showed her proper technique and left antihistamine cream. She’ll be fine.
Fine.
That word had been sitting in my chest for hours, heavy and insufficient.
I wanted details.
I wanted to know exactly what Truth’s injection site looked like when she got there, what her vitals were, whether she’d been scared when Dr. Chen examined her, and whether Delphine had asked questions that Truth couldn’t answer.
I wanted to know if Truth was sleeping now or if she was lying awake in that shotgun house, thinking about the fact that I’d sent a physician to her door at midnight like it was nothing.
Because it was nothing.
Sending Dr. Chen was the easiest decision I’d made in months.
And that was the problem.
I stopped pacing.
Stood in front of the windows, hands in my pockets, staring out at the city waking up below me.
A woman in the Seventh Ward had called me at 11:00 PM because she was scared.
And I’d answered on the first ring like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like I’d been waiting for her call.
Like hearing her voice—shaky, nervous, apologetic—was something I needed.
I didn’t want to examine what that meant.
I didn’t want to think about the fact that I’d been in the middle of reviewing territory reports when her name lit up my phone, and I’d dropped everything without hesitation.
I didn’t want to think about the fact that I’d called Dr. Chen before Truth even finished explaining what was wrong.
This was supposed to be a contract. All this extra shit I was doing fucked with me.
But somewhere between the interview and last night, the lines had blurred.
And I didn’t know how to draw them back.
The sound of the front door opening pulled me out of my thoughts.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Then Priest appeared in the doorway, holding a coffee and a folder.
He stopped when he saw me.
Looked at me standing by the window.
Looked at the phone on the coffee table.
Looked back at me.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Fine.”
Priest didn’t move. Just stood there, studying me with that sharp, assessing gaze that missed nothing.
“You sure about that?”
“I said I’m fine.”
He didn’t believe me.
I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes flicked to the phone again.
But he didn’t push.
“Dock reports are in the folder,” he finally said. “Rahsaan’s people backed off after last week. No movement.”
“Good.”
“Anything else you need?”
“No.”
Priest nodded slowly. Set the folder on the side table.
Then, he left.
The silence settled back over the room like a weight.
I picked up my phone.
Stared at the screen.
No messages.
No missed calls.
Nothing.
I set it back down.
Resumed pacing.
I was halfway across the room when I heard the front door again.
Heavier footsteps this time.
Familiar.
My jaw tightened.
Winston Landry walked into my living room like he owned it.
Expensive suit. Polished shoes. That expression on his face—the one that said he was here to remind me of something I’d forgotten.
“Amai,” he said. “We need to talk.”
I didn’t respond.
Just stood there, hands in my pockets, waiting.
“I heard you sent a physician to some woman’s house last night,” Winston continued. “In the Seventh Ward.”
Of course he’d heard.
Dr. Chen was on his payroll too.
“That’s right,” I said.
“The surrogate.”
“Yes.”
Winston’s expression didn’t change. “You’re getting attached.”
“I’m making sure my investment is protected.”
“Your investment.” He said the word like it tasted bad. “Is that what you’re calling her?”
I didn’t answer.
Winston stepped closer. “You needed outside help to produce an heir, Amai. That’s not something to be proud of. That’s not something to get emotional about.”
The words landed like a slap.
I felt my hands curl into fists in my pockets.
“Careful,” I said quietly.
“Careful?” Winston laughed—short, sharp, dismissive. “You’re the one who needs to be careful. You’re crossing lines you shouldn’t be crossing. Getting involved with a woman who’s being paid to do a job. That’s weakness, son. And weakness gets you killed in our world.”
“She’s not just a woman being paid to do a job.”
The words came out before I could stop them.
Winston’s eyes narrowed. “Then what is she?”
“She’s mine.”
Silence.
Winston stared at me.
I stared back.
“Yours,” he repeated slowly.
“That’s right.”
“You’ve known her for what—two weeks? And you’re already claiming her like she’s?—”
“Like she’s what?” I stepped forward. “Like she’s important? Like she’s going to carry my child and deserves to be protected? Like she’s more than just a fucking transaction?”
Winston’s jaw tightened. “You’re making a mistake.”
“The only mistake I made was letting you and Mama baby Kaisen for years while he fucked up everything he touched.”
“Don’t bring your brother into this.”
“Why not?” My voice was rising now. “If Kaisen hadn’t been such a fuck up, I wouldn’t be in this situation. If he hadn’t been drunk that night—if he’d done his fucking job—I wouldn’t need a surrogate at all.”
“That was an accident?—”
“It wasn’t an accident.” I was in his face now.
“It was negligence. It was Kaisen being high and careless and thinking the rules didn’t apply to him because you and Mama spent his entire life telling him he was special.
Telling him he was worth something despite every failure.
Making excuses for him. Protecting him.”
Winston’s face was stone. “We did what we had to do to keep this family together.”
“You broke him. And now you want to do the same thing to Truth—intrude, judge, make her feel small for being part of this arrangement. But I won’t let you.”
“You won’t let me?” Winston’s voice dropped to something dangerous. “You forget who you’re talking to, boy.”
“I know exactly who I’m talking to.” I didn’t back down. “I’m talking to a man who thinks control is the same thing as love. Who thinks fear is the same thing as respect. Who thinks he can walk into my house and tell me how to handle my business.”
“Your business?” Winston stepped closer. “Everything you have, I gave you. Every connection. Every territory. Every lesson. You think you built this empire on your own?”
“I think I built it despite you.”
His hand moved.
Fast.
But I was faster.
I caught his wrist before his fist connected with my jaw.
We stood there, locked together, breathing hard.
“Don’t,” I said quietly. “Don’t make me do something we’ll both regret.”
Winston’s eyes were cold. Furious.
But he pulled his hand back.
Stepped away.
“You’re making a mistake,” he said again. “And when it blows up in your face, don’t come crying to me.”
“I won’t.”
Winston stared at me for a long moment.
Then he turned and walked out.
The front door slammed behind him.
I stood there in the silence, my heart pounding, my hands still clenched into fists.
I’d just openly challenged my father.
Over a woman who was supposed to be temporary.
A woman I’d known for two weeks.
A woman who was being paid $250,000 to carry my child and then walk away.
I’d crossed a line.
And I knew it.
But I couldn’t take it back.
And worse?—
I didn’t want to.
I needed to fix this.
Now.
I stood in my living room for ten minutes after Winston left, staring at nothing, my pulse still hammering in my chest.
I’d defended Truth like she was mine.
Like she was more than a contract.
Like she was something I couldn’t afford to lose.
That was the problem.
I was catching feelings for a woman who was supposed to be temporary. A woman who was being paid to carry my child and then disappear from my life. A woman who lived in the Seventh Ward with her alcoholic mother and worked double shifts at a nursing home.
A woman who had no place in my world.
And I’d just told my father—Winston Landry—that she was mine.
I needed to shut this down.
I needed control back.
I needed to compartmentalize Truth Renois back into what she was supposed to be: a surrogate. A professional arrangement. Nothing more.
I pulled out my phone.
Scrolled to Alexis St. John’s number.
Stared at it.
Alexis was safe.
Alexis was respectable.
Alexis was a professor at Loyola, went to church with my mother, had a master’s degree and a retirement plan and probably never set foot in the Seventh Ward in her life.
Alexis was everything Truth wasn’t.
Alexis was the logical choice.
The smart choice.
The choice that didn’t risk everything I’d built.
I hit call before I could talk myself out of it.
She answered on the second ring.
“Amai?” Her voice was warm, surprised. “Hi.”
“Alexis.” I kept my tone easy, charming. The version of myself I used at the jewelry shop. “I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“Not at all. I was just grading papers. What’s up?”
“I wanted to take you up on that gallery opening,” I said. “If the offer’s still on the table.”
“Of course it is.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “I’d love that.”
“Good.” I paused. “Actually, I was thinking—what if I picked you up at five-thirty instead of seven? We could grab dinner first. Make a night of it.”
“Oh.” She sounded delighted. “That sounds even better.”
“Perfect. I’ll text you the details.”
“I’m looking forward to it, Amai.”
“Me too.”
I hung up.
Stood there in the silence.
Told myself I’d just made the right decision.
Told myself this was me taking control back.
Told myself Alexis was the answer—the boundary I needed between my professional arrangement with Truth and my personal life.
Told myself I could do this.
I could take Alexis to dinner. I could take her to the gallery. I could be charming and attentive and normal. I could pursue something safe and respectable and appropriate.
I could keep Truth exactly where she belonged: in a contract, in a clinic, in a role that had clear boundaries and an expiration date.