16. KAISEN #2
“I told you.” She glanced at me sideways, that hint of a smile playing at her lips again. “I don’t play about my money.”
We went back and forth like that for the next hour, pulling up charts, debating setups, challenging each other’s reads.
She was sharp—sharper than most traders I knew who’d been doing this for years.
She understood risk management, position sizing, and the psychology of the market.
And she wasn’t afraid to disagree with me when she thought I was wrong.
I liked that.
Liked the way she’d tilt her head when she was thinking, the way she’d bite her bottom lip when she was analyzing a pattern, the way she’d light up when a trade went her way.
“There,” she said, pointing at her screen. “That stock you told me to hold? Just broke through resistance.”
I looked. She was right. The momentum was building, volume surging.
“You still in?”
“Hell yeah, I’m still in.” She was grinning now, watching the price climb. “I’m letting it run.”
“Good. Don’t get greedy, though. Set a trailing stop.”
“Already did.” She showed me her exit strategy. Clean and disciplined. “I’m not trying to catch the whole move. Just my piece of it.”
“That’s the difference between traders who make it and traders who blow up,” I said. “Knowing when to take profit.”
She closed the position a few minutes later, locking in a clean gain. The satisfaction on her face was worth more than the money.
“See?” I said. “Told you to trust your read.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But she was smiling. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
A kid came by then, maybe ten years old, pushing a cooler on wheels. “Dixie Cups! Two dollars!”
Truth looked up, her expression softening. “What flavors you got?”
“Strawberry, grape, lemon, and wedding cake.”
“Wedding cake?” I raised an eyebrow.
The kid grinned. “It’s strawberry with sprinkles. My mama’s special.”
Truth laughed—that real laugh again—and reached for her purse. But I was already pulling out my wallet.
“Two strawberry,” I said, handing him a ten. “Keep the change.”
The kid’s eyes went wide. “For real?”
“For real.”
He handed us the cups and took off running, probably before I could change my mind.
Truth took hers, shaking her head. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” I peeled back the plastic lid and dug in with the little plastic spoon. The ice was sweet and cold, perfect for the heat. “But I wanted to.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a minute, watching the park move around us. Kids playing on the swings, couples walking dogs, an old man feeding pigeons by the fountain.
“So,” Truth finally said, licking strawberry ice off her spoon. “What do you do when you’re not giving unsolicited trading advice to strangers?”
“I work in the family business,” I said. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. “Operations, logistics, that kind of thing. What about you?”
She hesitated, and I saw something shift in her expression. Guarded again. Careful.
“I’m between things right now,” she said. “Figuring out my next move.”
“That’s fair.” I didn’t push. “Sometimes you gotta step back before you can step forward.”
“Yeah.” She looked down at her Dixie Cup. “Something like that.”
We talked for another hour after that—about New Orleans, about music, about the best places to get food in the city.
She told me about her mama’s cooking, about growing up in the Seventh Ward, about the way the city felt different after Katrina.
I told her about learning to trade, about the satisfaction of reading the market right, about wanting something that was mine and not tied to anyone else’s expectations.
I didn’t tell her my last name.
Didn’t tell her about Amai or Winston or the empire built on blood and territory.
Just let her see Kaisen—the man, not the legacy.
And she seemed to relax into that. Seemed to let her guard down just enough for me to see the woman underneath the armor.
By the time the sun started dropping lower in the sky, her laptop battery was dying, and she’d made more money than we’d expected.
“I should probably head out,” she said, closing her laptop. “Before it gets dark.”
“Let me take you to dinner first,” I said.
She looked at me, and I saw the conflict in her eyes. Interest. Hesitation.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “My life is complicated right now.”
“I’m not afraid of complicated.”
“Are you afraid of dating a woman who agreed to be a surrogate?”
The question hung in the air between us, sharp and honest. Testing me. Seeing if I’d flinch.
I didn’t.
“Depends on the why,” I said.
She studied me for a long moment, like she was trying to figure out if I meant it. Then, she exhaled slowly.
“I had some financial troubles after my divorce,” she said quietly. “It was a way out. A way to start over without drowning.”
“That’s brave,” I said, and I meant it. “A lot of people wouldn’t have the guts to do what you doing.”
“Or the desperation.” Her smile was sad. “But yeah. That’s where I’m at. So, dinner probably isn’t?—”
“Then let me have your number instead,” I said. “No pressure. No expectations. Just… let me check on you sometimes. Make sure you’re good.”
She looked at me again, and I saw the moment she decided to trust me. Just a little. Just enough.
“Okay,” she said softly.
We exchanged phones, typed in our numbers, and handed them back. I sent her a text immediately, so she’d have mine saved.
It’s Kaisen. The guy who can’t mind his business about your trades.
She laughed when she read it.
“I got some bad news the other day,” she said, slipping her phone back into her purse. “So I wouldn’t be good company right now, anyway. But maybe… maybe when things settle down.”
“I’ll be here,” I said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
She stood, slinging her laptop bag over her shoulder. I stood, too, not ready for this to end but knowing it had to.
“Thanks for today,” she said. “For the trading talk. For the Dixie Cup. For not being weird about the surrogate thing.”
“Thanks for letting me sit,” I said. “And for not telling me to fuck off when I interrupted your trade.”
She smiled—really smiled—and it hit me all over again how beautiful she was. Not just physically, but in the way she carried herself. In the intelligence behind her eyes. In the strength it took to survive what she’d survived and still show up.
“See you around, Kaisen,” she said.
“See you around, Truth.”
I watched her walk away, her natural hair catching the late afternoon sun, her steps confident even though I knew she was carrying weight I couldn’t see.
And I knew—absolutely knew—that this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
I let her get about half a block before I moved. Gave her enough space that it didn’t look like I was chasing, but not so much that she’d disappear into the neighborhood before I caught up.
“Truth,” I called out.
She turned, surprised. “You forget something?”
“Nah.” I jogged the last few steps to close the distance between us. “I was just thinking—can I walk you home?”
She raised an eyebrow, that hint of a smile playing at her lips again. “You might be a serial killer.”
“I’m not,” I said, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “I promise.”
She studied me for a long moment, like she was weighing the risk against whatever she saw in my face. Then, she laughed—soft, genuine—and adjusted her laptop bag on her shoulder.
“Okay,” she said. “But if you try anything, I know how to fight.”
“I believe you.” I fell into step beside her, matching her pace. “After watching you trade all afternoon, I’m pretty sure you could take me.”
“Damn right I could.”
We walked in comfortable silence for a block as the late afternoon heat settled around us like a blanket.
Kids were playing in the street, music drifted from open windows, and somewhere nearby, someone was grilling.
The Seventh Ward had its own rhythm, its own heartbeat, and Truth moved through it like she belonged to every inch of it.
“So, what got you into day trading?” I asked.
“Desperation,” she said, then laughed at my expression.
“I’m serious. After my divorce, I needed to figure out how to make money that didn’t involve working myself to death.
I started watching YouTube videos, reading books from the library, paper trading until I understood what I was doing.
Then, I put in a hundred dollars and told myself if I lost it, I’d stop. ”
“But you didn’t lose it.”
“No.” She glanced at me sideways. “I turned it into three hundred in two weeks. Then I knew I could do it for real.”
“That’s impressive,” I said, and I meant it. “Most people blow up their accounts in the first month.”
“I’m not most people.”
“I’m starting to see that.”
We turned onto her street, and the energy shifted immediately.
A group of women were sitting in the yard, playing spades, their voices loud and animated, trash talk flying.
Music was coming from somewhere—old school R&B mixed with bounce.
And in the front yard of a shotgun house halfway down the block, I saw a woman standing over a propane burner with a massive pot, steam rising into the air.
Fish fry.
Truth’s steps slowed slightly as we got closer, and I realized why. The woman at the fryer was her mother. Had to be. Same bone structure, same way of holding herself—proud, unbothered, like she owned every inch of ground she stood on.
“That’s my mama,” Truth said quietly, confirming what I already knew. “And her friends. They’re… a lot.”
“I can handle a lot.”
“We’ll see.”
As we approached, Delphine looked up from the fish she was frying. Her eyes landed on me, and I watched her do a double-take—subtle, but there. Her gaze sharpened, traveled from my face down to my shoes and back up again, taking inventory.
Shit.
“Hey, Mama,” Truth said, her voice deliberately casual.
“Baby.” Delphine’s eyes were still on me, assessing. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is Kaisen. We met at the park. He walked me home.”