Chapter 32 Prime
PRIME
Zahara’s kitchen was organized chaos.
The commercial space I’d secured for her was finally being put to work. Stainless steel counters covered with trays of cinnamon rolls—red velvet, peach cobbler, bourbon pecan—all lined up and ready to be loaded into carriers.
Tonight was the night. The mayor’s gala. My girl’s big break.
“Careful with those,” Zahara ordered, moving through the space like the queen she was. “They need to stay level or the icing gonna smear.”
She looked good as fuck. Professional. Black dress shirt tucked into black pants, her natural hair pulled back with deep waves showing through, all business. Made me want to bend her over one of these counters and mess up that perfect little bun.
But that would have to wait.
Yusef and Nigel were there too, dressed the same—black shirts, black pants. Little soldiers helping box up rolls, label containers, stack carriers.
I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Yusef work.
Lil man looked better. The new glasses I’d copped him sat right on his face.
He’d filled out some too—arms and shoulders thickening up from eating more and working out.
We’d only had three sessions at Pharaoh’s gym and I could see the difference.
His stance was tighter. Reflexes quicker.
He wasn’t flinching as much when someone came at him.
I’d even paid for that music camp he’d been stressing about. The one that got him closer to that Kennedy Center opportunity. Wasn’t shit to me, but the way his face lit up when Zahara told him? That hit different.
But something was still off with him.
Nigga moved through the kitchen like he didn’t want to be there. Did what he was told. Didn’t talk much. Kept his head down.
That heaviness I’d noticed weeks ago? It hadn’t lifted. If anything, it had gotten worse.
Something wasn’t right. And it had to do with more than just some random bullies at school.
I was gonna have to pull him aside soon. Get in his head. Figure out what the fuck was going on.
Because that boy was carrying something heavy.
I knew because that used to be me. I remember what it felt like to not feel like I could talk to anyone about what the fuck I was going through.
Vivica was so abusive and then my school situation was painful.
I felt like a bitch for complaining to my brothers, so I kept it all bottled up.
“Prime, grab that last tray from the rack,” Zahara called out.
“I got you.”
I pushed off the counter and moved to help. But my eyes stayed on Yusef.
On the way he avoided everyone’s gaze. On the tension locked in his shoulders.
On whatever secret he was keeping that had him walking around like a kid with the weight of the world on his back.
I was gonna find out what it was.
Wasn’t a question of if.
Just when.
We loaded up the van and I drove them all to the Mayflower Hotel.
DC traffic was light for once, the city settling into that Saturday night rhythm where everybody who mattered was already where they needed to be.
The streetlights cast orange glows across the windshield as I navigated through downtown, past the monuments lit up like beacons, past the restaurants spilling fancy people onto sidewalks.
Zahara sat in the passenger seat, quiet but wired. I could feel the nervous energy radiating off her. She kept smoothing her pants. Checking her phone. Turning around to make sure the carriers were still stacked right in the back.
“You good?” I asked, glancing over at her.
“Yeah. Just…” She exhaled slowly. “This is big, Prime. These are important people. Politicians. Donors. If I mess this up—”
“You won’t.”
“But if I do—”
“Zahara.” I reached over and gripped her thigh. Firm. Possessive. Made her look at me. “You won’t. You been working your ass off for this moment. You earned this shit. These people about to lose their damn minds over your cinnamon rolls. Watch.”
She stared at me for a second, then nodded. That tension in her shoulders easing just a little.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything. The kitchen. The recommendation. All of it.”
“Stop thanking me. I’m tired of hearing it.” But I squeezed her thigh again so she knew I wasn’t really mad. “Just go in there and show these bougie muhfuckas what you got.”
She smiled. Small but real. The kind of smile that made me want to pull this van over and put my mouth on her.
But that would have to wait.
In the backseat, Yusef and Nigel were quiet. I caught Yusef’s reflection in the rearview mirror—staring out the window, jaw tight, hands balled in his lap. Nigel was scrolling on his phone, oblivious.
The Mayflower Hotel rose up out of the DC skyline like a monument to old money and older secrets.
Marble columns. Crystal chandeliers visible through the windows. Valets in crisp uniforms rushing to open doors for people who’d never opened their own door in their life.
This was the world Vivica lived in. The world she’d clawed her way into while leaving her sons behind like baggage she didn’t want to carry.
I pulled the van around to the service entrance. No valet for us. We were the help tonight.
That thought should’ve bothered me. But watching Zahara’s face as she took in the building—the determination mixed with awe—I didn’t give a fuck about any of it.
She was about to show these people who she was.
And I was gonna be right there watching.
We unloaded the van in the service corridor. Industrial concrete. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The smell of cleaning supplies and commercial kitchen grease. A different world from the glittering ballroom upstairs.
Yusef and Nigel stacked the carriers onto a rolling cart while Zahara double-checked everything. Counted trays. Made sure the icing hadn’t smeared. Adjusted containers that didn’t need adjusting.
“Alright,” she said finally. “Let’s do this.”
We pushed through the service doors and into the ballroom.
The contrast hit like a slap.
Crystal chandeliers dripping light onto tables draped in white linen.
Flower arrangements made of exotic flowers not grown in the USA.
A string quartet playing soft classical music in the corner.
Staff moving quickly, setting up glasses, adjusting silverware, making everything perfect for the rich folks who’d be arriving soon.
And in the middle of it all, clipboard in hand, earpiece in ear, dressed in a deep burgundy gown that hugged every curve—was Farah.
She spotted us immediately.
I watched her face cycle through emotions in real time. Surprise. Recognition. Then something darker settling behind her eyes as they landed on Zahara.
Jealousy.
Raw. Ugly. Barely contained.
She fixed that professional smile on her face and walked toward us, heels clicking against the marble floor.
“Zahara?! You made it.” Her voice was sugar-coated poison. “The dessert table is over there, near the ice sculpture. You and your little helpers can set up whenever you’re ready.”
Little helpers. The way she said it, dismissive and condescending, made my jaw tighten.
But Zahara didn’t catch it. Or if she did, she didn’t show it.
“Thank you so much for this opportunity,” she said, genuine as always. “I really appreciate you taking a chance on me.”
“Of course.” Farah’s eyes slid to me, then back to Zahara. “Prime spoke very highly of you. He was very… insistent that I hire you. You must be extremely talented.”
The emphasis on “insistent” wasn’t subtle. Neither was the way her gaze traveled over Zahara, sizing her up, finding her lacking.
Zahara just smiled and directed the boys toward the dessert table.
Once she was out of earshot, Farah turned to me.
“Can I speak with you?” Her voice dropped the professional sweetness. “Alone.”
I followed her to a service corridor off the main ballroom. Industrial. Private. Away from prying eyes and ears.
The second we were alone, that mask cracked.
“You played me,” she said, whirling on me. “You fucking played me, Prime.”
“How you figure?”
“You recommended her. Pushed me to hire her. And you didn’t think to mention she was your girlfriend?” Her voice rose, echoing off the concrete walls. “You used me to help your little side piece and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me?”
“Side piece?” I stepped closer, my voice dropping low. Dangerous. “Yo, watch your fuckin’ mouth, Farah.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll watch it for you.”
Something flickered in her eyes. Fear. Excitement. That sick combination that told me she liked this—liked pushing my buttons, liked seeing me react.
“Everyone’s winning here,” I said, forcing my voice back to calm. “She got a gig. You got quality desserts for your event. The mayor’s happy. What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“My problem is that I’ve been waiting for you for years, Prime.
Years. I’ve been there for you. Made myself available to you.
I did your interior design for free! And this whole time, you’ve been fucking some random bitch who makes cinnamon rolls? ”
I had her against the wall before I even realized I’d moved.
My hand around her throat. With just enough squeeze to send fear down her spine.
“I told you to watch your mouth,” I said quietly. “That’s my woman you’re talking about. And if I ever hear you disrespect her again—Rashid’s daughter or not—we’re gonna have a problem you don’t want.”
Her eyes went wide. Pulse hammering against my palm. But she didn’t look scared.
She looked turned on.
“Prime…” she breathed.
I released her and stepped back, disgusted. With her. With myself for letting her get under my skin.
“Let me be clear,” I said. “Nothing is ever gonna happen between us. Not now. Not ever. I never led you on. Never made you promises. Never gave you any reason to think we’d be more than what we are.”
“And what are we?”
“You’re Rashid’s daughter. That’s it. He’s like a father to me and you’re like a little sister. And I’ll pay you for your services, right now. I’ll Venmo you.”