12. KAISEN LANDRY #2
I walked further into the house, keeping my movements casual. Syx didn’t even look up. He was too busy screaming at his controller, too busy with whatever virtual war he was fighting to notice that I was moving toward the back of the house.
“Bro, you see that?” Syx called out, still not looking at me. “That nigga just—nah, nah, nah, I’m about to?—”
His voice faded as I moved down the hallway.
Amai’s office was extra just like his ass. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, mahogany desk, leather chairs, the kind of space that screamed HNIC. Everything in its place. Everything precise.
And there, sitting on top of the desk like it was waiting for me, was a manila folder.
I stopped moving.
My heart was suddenly loud in my chest.
The folder was thick—maybe an inch of papers inside. And on the tab, written in Amai’s precise handwriting, was a single name:
Truth Renois
I didn’t open it. Didn’t reach for it. Just stood there staring at it like it might bite me.
Behind me, Syx was still screaming at his game. Still too locked in to notice that I’d found exactly what I came looking for.
And now I had to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with it.
I glanced back toward the hallway. Syx’s voice was still loud, still cursing out whoever was on the other end of his headset. I had maybe five minutes before he got bored or suspicious.
I picked up the folder.
Opened it.
The first thing I saw was her photograph.
And I stopped breathing.
Her eyes hit me first. Dark brown, almost black in the lighting of whatever DMV or clinic photo this was.
But it wasn’t the color that caught me—it was what lived behind them.
Peace. Intelligence. Something deeper than surface-level pretty.
The kind of eyes that said she’d seen some shit but hadn’t let it break her completely.
The kind that made you want to know what she was thinking, what she’d survived, what made her look at the camera like that—like she was daring it to see her for real.
Then I noticed the rest of her.
Damn.
Truth Renois was a curvy girl. Not in the way people said it to be polite or careful.
Thick in the way that made you look twice.
Full-figured. Curvy in places that made your hands itch to touch.
Thick thighs, wide hips, a softness to her body that looked like comfort and heat and everything a man wanted to sink into after a long day.
The kind of woman who filled space just by existing.
Who walked into a room and made people notice.
Amai had picked a BBW.
I didn’t know why that surprised me. Maybe because Amai usually went for the slim, polished type.
The kind of woman who looked good on his arm at business dinners.
But Truth? Truth looked like she belonged in somebody’s kitchen, laughing over a pot of gumbo, her body pressed against yours while she told you to stop distracting her.
I flipped to the next page.
Name: Truth Renois
Age: 27
Address: 1234 N. Dorgenois St., New Orleans, LA 70119 (Seventh Ward)
Occupation: Certified Nursing Assistant, Magnolia Gardens Nursing Home
Marital Status: Divorced (finalized two months prior)
Ex-Husband: Phillip Dimitry, 29, logistics coordinator
I kept reading.
The divorce had wrecked her. Phillip kept the house in Metairie, kept the car, kept everything that mattered. Truth walked away with debt and a credit score in the low 500s. No savings. No assets. Living with her mother, Delphine, in a shotgun house that had been paid off in 2014.
She had three sisters—Saroya, Raven, Honor. All of them still in New Orleans. All of them broke in that generational way where you survived on love and stubbornness and plates of food passed between houses.
I flipped to her medical history.
Clean bill of health. No major surgeries. No chronic conditions. But there were notes in the margins—Amai’s handwriting, precise and controlled:
“Hormone sensitivity—monitor closely.”
“Injection site reaction—sent Dr. Chen.”
“Emotional resilience—high. Practical. Asks the right questions.”
I stared at that last line.
Asks the right questions.
That’s what had caught Amai’s attention. Not just her body or her bloodwork or her ability to carry a baby. It was her mind. The way she didn’t flinch when he walked into a room probably.
I kept flipping.
There were psychological evaluation notes from the fertility clinic. Dr. Beaumont’s assessment:
“Patient demonstrates strong emotional regulation despite recent trauma (divorce, financial instability). Motivated by practical concerns (financial security, family support) rather than emotional attachment to pregnancy outcome. Low risk for boundary violations. Recommended for surrogacy arrangement.”
I read that line again.
Low risk for boundary violations.
Dr. Beaumont had been wrong.
Because if Amai was sending his personal physician to her mama’s house at midnight, if he was beating her ex-husband in the street, if he was hand-delivering contracts and giving her fifty thousand in cash—then the boundaries were already gone. It was all in his notes.
Amai just didn’t know it yet.
Or maybe he did. Maybe that’s why he was so careful. Why he kept her at arm’s length even while pulling her closer. My dad told me that before he dropped the bomb that my sperm would be used too.
I flipped to the next section—financial records.
Truth made $14.50 an hour at the nursing home.
Worked doubles when she could. Her bank account had little money in it the day she applied for the surrogacy.
Rent was $0 because she lived with her mama.
But she had credit card debt—$8,400 spread across three cards, all maxed out.
Medical bills from an ER visit last year—$2,100, sent to collections.
A car loan she’d co-signed with Phillip that he’d stopped paying after the divorce—$340/month that she couldn’t afford.
She was drowning.
And Amai had thrown her a lifeline worth $250,000.
But here’s what Amai missed:
Truth wasn’t just desperate for money. She was desperate for validation. For someone to see her as more than the woman Phillip had discarded. More than the CNA wiping down old people. More than the broke girl living in her mama’s house at twenty-seven.
Amai saw her resilience. Her strength. Her ability to survive.
But I saw the cracks.
Truth Renois wanted to be chosen.
And Amai had chosen her—but only as a surrogate. Only as a womb. Only as a means to an end.
That had to sting.
I closed the folder and set it back on the desk exactly where I’d found it.
My mind was already working.
Syx’s voice echoed from the living room—still loud, still distracted.
I had time.
I pulled out my phone and opened a new note.
Plan:
Find out where she goes. Magnolia Gardens is the obvious place, but that’s too direct. Too obvious. Amai would hear about it.
Use Syx? No. Syx talks too much. He’d tell Amai within a day, maybe less.
Orchestrate a “chance” meeting. Somewhere public. Somewhere she feels safe. Coffee shop? Grocery store? Somewhere she goes regularly but Amai doesn’t monitor.
Don’t come on too strong. She’s been burned by Phillip. She’ll be cautious. But she’s also lonely. Craving connection. Craving someone who sees her.
Be everything Amai isn’t. Warm. Open. Interested in her, not just what she can give me.
I stared at the list.
This wasn’t about the baby. Not really.
This was about proving that Amai didn’t have everything figured out. That the perfect son, the untouchable Demon, the man who controlled every variable—he’d missed something.
He’d missed her.
And maybe—just maybe—I could give Truth what she actually wanted.
Not a contract.
Not a transaction.
But a man who saw her. Who wanted her. Who chose her for reasons that had nothing to do with biology or legacy or empire-building.
I deleted the note.
Slipped my phone back into my pocket.
Walked out of Amai’s office and back down the hallway.
Syx was still on his game, still oblivious.
“Yo, I’m out,” I called.
“Aight, bro,” Syx said without looking up. “Tell Amai I said what’s good.”
“Will do.”
I walked out the front door and got into my car.
Sat there for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, staring at nothing.
Truth Renois.
Twenty-seven years old. Full-figured and beautiful. Broke and desperate and stronger than she knew.
She was about to carry my brother’s baby.
Or maybe mine.
I started the engine.
I didn’t have a plan yet. Not a full one.
But I had her name. Her face. Her story.
And that was enough to start.