19. KAISEN
KAISEN
Ipulled up to my father’s house in Lakeview with my chest tight and my mind racing.
The transfer had worked. Truth was carrying a baby—possibly mine, possibly Amai’s—and nobody knew except the people who needed to know.
I’d spent the last two hours trying to figure out how to feel about it, how to process the fact that I might be a father without being able to claim it.
The circular driveway was empty except for my father’s Mercedes. Good. I didn’t want an audience for this conversation.
I knocked twice and let myself in. The house smelled like expensive cigars and old money, the kind of scent that reminded you who held the power in this family.
My father was in his study, sitting behind his mahogany desk like a king on a throne, reading glasses perched on his nose while he reviewed some document I couldn’t see from the doorway.
“Kaisen,” he said without looking up. “What brings you by?”
I closed the door behind me and moved into the room, my hands shoved in my pockets to keep them from fidgeting. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Then talk.”
I hesitated, trying to find the right words. My father didn’t have patience for rambling or uncertainty. He wanted facts, delivered cleanly, with no emotional baggage attached. But I couldn’t help the excitement that crept into my voice when I finally asked, “Dad, did you know Truth was pregnant?”
He looked up then, his expression unreadable behind those reading glasses. “Of course. Dr. Beaumont keeps me informed on everything.”
Of course, he knew. Winston Landry knew everything that happened in this family before anyone else did. I should have expected that. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, trying to keep my voice steady. “Whose sperm did she use?”
“Both.” He said it like he was discussing the weather, like it was the most natural thing in the world to hedge your bets with two sons’ genetic material.
My stomach dropped. “Both?”
“You heard me.”
I swallowed hard, my mind spinning with the implications. “So how will they know if the baby is his or mine?”
My father set down the document he’d been reading and removed his glasses with deliberate slowness.
When he looked at me, his eyes were cold and sharp, the kind of look that had made grown men confess to things they hadn’t done just to make it stop.
“It doesn’t fucking matter whose sperm it is. Amai is the father. Period.”
The words hit me like a slap. I opened my mouth to respond, to argue, to say something, but nothing came out. My father leaned back in his chair, studying me with the kind of scrutiny that made my skin crawl.
“Why are you asking so many damn questions?” he said, his voice dropping into that dangerous register that meant I was on thin ice. “And why the fuck are you excited like you about to be a daddy or some shit?”
I froze. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
I wanted to tell him about the park, about the way Truth had looked at me when we talked about day trading, about the connection I’d felt every time we talked or spent time together.
But I couldn’t. Because my father would see it for what it was—a threat to Amai’s arrangement, a complication that could unravel everything.
So, I just stood there, silent, my hands still shoved in my pockets, my jaw tight.
My father’s expression darkened. He stood up slowly, his full height and presence filling the room in a way that made me feel like a child again, like the fuck-up little brother who’d caused the injury that stole Amai’s fertility, who’d been too drunk to handle the pickup that got our twin brothers killed.
“Let me make something very clear to you, Kaisen. You better not ruin this. You hear me? You don’t say shit to Amai.
You don’t get involved. You don’t do anything that jeopardizes what we’ve built here. ”
“Dad—”
“I’m not finished.” His voice was ice. “That baby is Amai’s.
That woman is Amai’s. The arrangement is Amai’s.
You are a backup plan, nothing more. A biological insurance policy in case his sperm didn’t take.
But as far as this family is concerned, as far as the world is concerned, that child belongs to your brother. Do you understand me?”
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
“If you fuck this up,” my father continued, moving around the desk to stand directly in front of me, “if you say one word to Amai, if you do anything that makes him question this arrangement, it’s your ass.
And I’m not fucking around, Kaisen. I will cut you out of this family so fast you won’t know what hit you. ”
The threat hung in the air between us, heavy and absolute. My father didn’t make empty promises. He’d built an empire on following through, on making sure people understood that crossing him came with consequences that couldn’t be undone.
“I understand,” I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Good.” He stepped back, his expression softening just slightly, though the warning remained in his eyes. “Now get out of my house. And Kaisen? Stay away from that woman. Whatever you’re thinking, whatever you’re feeling—kill it. Before it kills you.”
I turned and walked out of the study, my legs unsteady, my mind reeling. By the time I made it to my car, my hands were shaking. I sat in the driver’s seat for a long moment, staring at the steering wheel, trying to process what had just happened.
My father had just told me I might be a father without being allowed to claim it. That Truth was off-limits. That the connection I’d felt in the park, the chemistry that had sparked between us over Dixie Cups and day trading, meant nothing in the face of family politics and Amai’s claim.
I started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, my chest tight with grief, rage, and helplessness all tangled together.
Truth was pregnant.
And I had to pretend I didn’t care, but they all had me fucked up.
I called her.
I’d been thinking about her constantly since the park—the way she’d smiled when a trade went her way, the intelligence in her eyes, the fact that she was carrying a baby that might be mine, and I couldn’t say a goddamn word about it.
My father’s warning echoed in my head every time I picked up my phone, but I couldn’t stop myself from dialing her number.
She answered on the fourth ring, her voice rough and exhausted. “Hello?”
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound casual. “It’s Kaisen. Just wanted to check on you, see how you’re doing.”
There was a pause, then a weak laugh that turned into a cough. “I’ve been better.”
“You sound terrible.”
“Thanks,” she said dryly. “That’s exactly what every woman wants to hear.”
“I’m serious, Truth. What’s going on?”
She sighed, and I could hear the exhaustion in it. “Morning sickness. Except it’s not just morning—it’s all day, all night. I can’t keep anything down. Crackers, ginger ale, toast, nothing works. I’m just… tired.”
My chest tightened. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“The man I’m pregnant by sent his personal physician over with anti-nausea medication and IV fluids. I was dehydrated.” She paused. “He’s been really supportive, actually. More than I expected.”
The mention of Amai—though she didn’t say his name—made something twist in my gut. My brother was taking care of her. Of course he was. That’s what Amai did when something belonged to him. He protected it with everything he had.
“That’s good,” I said, forcing the words out. “I’m glad you’re getting help. But are you eating at all?”
“Not really. Everything makes me nauseous just thinking about it.”
I made a decision right then. “I’m gonna let you rest. But call me if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay,” she said softly. “Thanks for checking on me, Kaisen.”
I hung up and sat there for a moment, staring at my phone.
My mother’s chicken soup recipe was written on a stained index card that I kept in a kitchen drawer.
She’d made it for us when we were kids—when Amai got sick, when the twins had the flu, when I scraped my knee and needed comfort more than a bandaid.
It was the one thing she’d taught me to make before she got too sick to stand in the kitchen anymore.
I pulled out the card and started gathering ingredients. Chicken thighs, onions, celery, carrots, garlic. Fresh ginger root—that was the key. Mama always said ginger settled the stomach better than anything else.
I worked methodically, chopping vegetables and browning the chicken, letting the familiar motions calm the chaos in my head.
The broth simmered on the stove, filling my kitchen with the smell of home and memory.
I added the ginger last, grating it fresh the way Mama had shown me and watched it dissolve into the golden liquid.
Two hours later, I had a container of soup that looked exactly like the ones Mama used to make. I packed it carefully, grabbed my keys, and headed to the Seventh Ward.
Delphine was on the porch when I pulled up, sitting in a lawn chair with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of something amber in the other. She watched me get out of the car with the kind of sharp attention that made me feel like I was being x-rayed.
“Can I help you?” she called out as I approached with the container of soup.
“I’m here to see Truth,” I said, my voice coming out slightly unsteady. “I brought her something.”
Delphine’s eyes narrowed. She took a long drag of her cigarette, studying me. “You the one from the park?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She stood up slowly, still watching me like I was a puzzle she was trying to solve. “Truth!” she called toward the house. “You got company!”
A moment later, Truth appeared in the doorway wearing sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She looked exhausted but surprised. “Kaisen? What are you doing here?”
I held up the container. “I made you soup. Chicken soup with ginger. My mama’s recipe. Thought it might help with the nausea.”
Her eyes went soft. “You made me soup?”
“From scratch,” I said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I know you said you couldn’t keep anything down, so I figured?—”
“That’s really sweet.” She came down the steps and took the container from me, her fingers brushing mine. “Thank you.”
Delphine was still watching us, her expression unreadable. Then she muttered under her breath, “Nah, what type of shit is going on here?” She gave Truth a long, pointed side-eye before turning and walking back into the house, the screen door slamming behind her.
Truth winced. “Sorry about that. She’s just protective.”
“She should be,” I said. “You’re carrying something precious.”
Truth looked down at the container in her hands, then back up at me. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know. I wanted to.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, suddenly aware of how close we were standing. “I know you’re tired, so I’m not trying to stay. I just wanted you to know I care. That I’m thinking about you.”
She set the container down on the porch railing and stepped closer. “Kaisen?—”
Before I could say anything else, she kissed me. It was soft and brief, her lips warm against mine, tasting faintly of mint. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
I nodded, not trusting my voice. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure she could hear it. “Get some rest, okay? And eat the soup while it’s still warm.”
“I will.”
I turned and walked back to my car, feeling her eyes on me the whole way. When I pulled away from the curb, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her still standing on the porch, holding the container of soup like it was something precious.
My father’s warning echoed in my head: Stay away from that woman. Kill whatever you’re feeling before it kills you.
But as I drove home through the darkening streets of New Orleans, I knew it was already too late for that.