11. AMAI #2
Alexis was still sitting where I’d left her, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone with the kind of casual elegance that came naturally to women like her.
She looked up when I entered, her face brightening immediately.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, forcing my voice into something warm. “Just had to handle something in the kitchen.”
“Mm.” She set her phone on the table. “Smells amazing in here.”
“Layla’s a good chef.”
“Layla,” Alexis repeated, testing the name on her tongue. “That’s your cook?”
“Yeah.”
“She lives here?”
“No. She comes in when I need her.”
Alexis nodded slowly, her eyes scanning the room—the high ceilings, the chandelier, the expensive art on the walls.
“This house is beautiful,” she said. “I didn’t get to see much of it last time.”
I didn’t respond, just gestured toward the formal dining room down the hall.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s sit in there. More appropriate.”
She stood, smoothing her dress over her hips, and followed me.
The formal dining room was one of my favorite spaces in the house—long mahogany table, seating for twelve, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden.
I pulled out a chair for Alexis at the table.
She sat, crossing her legs again, and looked up at me with a smile that was equal parts gratitude and ready to fuck.
I took the seat beside her.
A moment later, Layla appeared in the doorway.
She was carrying a place setting—plate, silverware, glass—and her face was a mask of professional neutrality.
But I knew her well enough to see the anger simmering beneath the surface.
She walked to the table.
Set the plate down in front of Alexis.
And slammed the silverware down so hard the fork bounced.
The sound echoed through the room like a gunshot.
Alexis flinched.
I didn’t.
From somewhere behind Layla, I heard Syx’s voice—loud, delighted, unrestrained.
“Oh shit!”
He appeared in the doorway a second later, still grinning, his eyes bright with amusement.
“Layla,” he said, his voice full of laughter. “You still joining us for dinner?”
Layla turned to look at him.
Then at me.
Her expression didn’t change.
“Of course,” she said smoothly.
I opened my mouth to object, but Layla was already walking back toward the kitchen, her hips swaying, and her head held high.
I exhaled slowly.
Fuuuuck.
This was about to be a disaster.
Alexis was staring at the silverware in front of her, her brow furrowed slightly.
Then she looked up at me.
“Wow,” she said, her voice light but pointed. “I’m shocked you let the help eat with you.”
She smiled.
“That’s really sweet.”
The words hung in the air.
Sweet.
Like I was some benevolent employer allowing the staff to sit at the table from the kindness of my heart.
Before I could respond, Layla’s voice cut through the room like a blade.
“Help?”
She was standing in the doorway again, holding a bottle of wine, her eyes locked on Alexis.
“Bitch, find something safe to do,” Layla said, her voice calm but deadly.
Alexis’s mouth fell open.
Her eyes went wide.
She turned to me, her expression a mixture of shock and disbelief.
“Amai,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “Are you going to let her talk to me like that?”
From across the room, Syx burst out laughing.
“Worldstarrr!” he shouted, throwing his hands up like he was recording a fight on his phone.
I turned my head slowly and looked at him.
“Shut the fuck up,” I said.
Syx held up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning.
“My bad, my bad,” he said. “I’m just saying—this is entertainment.”
I turned back to Alexis.
She was still staring at me, waiting for me to defend her.
To put Layla in her place.
To remind everyone in this room who was in charge.
But I didn’t.
Because Layla wasn’t wrong.
And Alexis had crossed a line she didn’t even realize existed.
“Layla’s not the help,” I said evenly. “She’s family.”
Alexis blinked.
“Family?”
“Yeah.”
“But she—she cooks for you. She works for you.”
“She cooks because she’s good at it,” I said. “Not because she’s staff.”
It was a smaller lie. Layla was staff, but she was also more than that when I needed it.
Alexis’s expression shifted.
Softened.
She turned toward Layla, her hands folded in her lap, her voice suddenly apologetic.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean any harm. I just—I didn’t realize.”
Her tone was sweet.
Sincere.
Perfectly calibrated to sound genuine.
But I saw through it.
Saw the way her eyes flicked toward me to gauge my reaction.
Saw the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.
She’d said it on purpose.
Testing boundaries.
Seeing how far she could push.
Seeing if I’d choose her over Layla.
And now that she knew the answer, she was backtracking.
Playing the role of the gracious guest who’d made an innocent mistake.
I didn’t call her on it.
Didn’t correct her.
Just nodded once and turned my attention back to the table.
Layla set the wine bottle down with a quiet thunk and walked back toward the kitchen without another word.
Syx slid into the seat across from Alexis, still grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
“This is gonna be a fun dinner,” he said.
I didn’t respond.
Just sat there, staring at the empty plate in front of me, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on my shoulders like a physical thing.
Truth was recovering from egg retrieval.
Alexis was sitting at my table, playing games I didn’t have the energy for.
Layla was pissed.
Syx was entertained.
And I was already exhausted by all this bullshit.
Layla returned with the first course—roasted oysters with garlic butter and parmesan, plated like art.
She set them in front of each of us without a word.
Her movements were precise, professional, but I could feel the tension radiating off her like heat.
“This looks amazing,” Alexis said, her voice bright and warm. “Thank you so much.”
Layla didn’t respond.
Just walked back to the kitchen.
Alexis picked up her fork and took a bite, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation.
“Oh my God,” she said. “This is incredible.”
Syx was already halfway through his plate, grinning like a man who’d stumbled into free entertainment and good food on the same night.
I ate slowly, methodically, trying to focus on the food instead of the disaster unfolding around me.
“So,” Alexis said, setting her fork down and dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “I was thinking we could talk about something interesting tonight. Something cultural.”
I looked at her.
“Like what?”
“African American culture in New Orleans,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “The history, the traditions, the way it’s shaped the city. I teach a course on it at Loyola, and I just think it’s so fascinating how?—”
“You teach African American studies?” Layla’s voice cut through from the doorway.
She was standing there, her expression unreadable.
“I do,” Alexis said, turning to face her with a smile. “It’s one of my passions. The intersection of race, culture, and identity in the South—it’s such rich material.”
Layla walked over and took her seat.
“That’s interesting,” Layla said, her tone neutral. “What’s your focus?”
“Post-Reconstruction through the Civil Rights Movement,” Alexis said. “But I also cover contemporary issues—gentrification, cultural appropriation, the commodification of Black culture in tourist spaces.”
Layla nodded slowly.
“Sounds like you know your shit.”
“I try,” Alexis said, laughing lightly. “It’s important work.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Layla went back to the kitchen to grab the main course.
Alexis turned to me, her smile still in place.
“She seems… intense.”
“She is,” I said.
“But sweet,” Alexis added quickly. “I mean, anyone who can cook like this clearly has a gift.”
Syx snorted.
I shot him a look.
He held up his hands in surrender, still grinning.
Layla returned with the main course—blackened redfish, roasted vegetables, and dirty rice that smelled like heaven.
She set the plates down in front of us with the same precise movements.
“This is beautiful,” Alexis said, looking up at Layla. “You’re so talented.”
“Thank you,” Layla said, her voice flat.
“How long have you been cooking professionally?”
“Long enough.”
Alexis blinked.
“Well, I’m sure Amai is lucky to have you. It must be so fulfilling to do what you love.”
Layla’s jaw tightened.
She set the last plate down in front of Syx and straightened, her eyes locking on Alexis.
“You act like you shocked I know what I’m doing,” Layla said, her voice calm but sharp. “Like you surprised I’m educated in my craft.”
Alexis’s smile faltered.
“I-I didn’t mean?—”
“Don’t let my passion for cooking fool you,” Layla continued, her tone cutting through the room like a blade. “I got multiple streams of income. I’m educated in a number of areas. I ain’t just some chef you can pat on the head and dismiss.”
The air in the room shifted.
Alexis’s face flushed.
“I wasn’t dismissing you,” she said quickly, her voice rising slightly. “I was complimenting you. I think it’s wonderful that you?—”
“That I what?” Layla interrupted. “That I can cook and think at the same time?”
“Layla,” I said quietly.
She looked at me.
Held my gaze for a long moment.
Then turned and walked back into the kitchen without another word.
Alexis sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her expression a mixture of shock and embarrassment.
“I didn’t mean to offend her,” she said softly. “I was just trying to be nice.”
Syx laughed.
Loud.
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “You wasn’t being nice. You was being shady as fuck.”
Alexis turned to him, her eyes wide.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” Syx said, leaning back in his chair. “You been throwing little digs at Layla since you sat down. Acting all innocent like you don’t know what you doing.”
“I have not?—”
“You called her the help,” Syx said, his grin widening. “Then you acted all surprised she got a brain. Now you tryna play it off like you was just being polite.”
“Syx,” I said, my voice low and sharp. “Shut the fuck up.”
He looked at me.
Grinned wider.