Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Los Angeles looked different when I wasn’t here for football.
No buses with police escorts. No equipment trucks. No hotel floors full of men pretending their bodies weren’t hurting before Sunday. No coaches walking around with tablets and tight mouths. No fans behind ropes yelling my name like ownership came with a jersey.
This time, I stood in the courtyard of Solara House with the Pacific throwing light across the edge of the property and watched Imani Bennett become the center of a room I was not meant to enter.
That suited me fine.
Mostly.
The estate sat above Malibu like somebody had poured money into the cliff and told it to behave. White stucco. Dark wood. Glass walls. Bougainvillea climbing over archways. Olive trees in stone planters. The ocean below, loud enough to remind everybody that even all this money did not own the view.
Laila Hart had rented the place for the week, which made sense the second we pulled through the gates. A woman like her did not borrow beauty.
She curated it.
Imani understood that before anybody said a word.
I watched her step out of the car in a cream sleeveless blouse tucked into wide-leg trousers the color of warm sand, gold hoops at her ears, braids pulled back from her face, Saint Aurelia’s diamond bracelet locked around her wrist. The jewelry case was in the hands of insured security, but somehow the whole courtyard moved like she carried the most valuable thing with her.
Because she did.
Herself.
Marisol Grant met us near the entrance in sunglasses, linen, and a face that said she had argued with six people before breakfast and won five of the conversations. Laila’s assistant hovered behind her with a phone in each hand.
“Imani Bennett,” Marisol said, reaching for both of Imani’s hands. “Finally.”
Imani smiled, and the courtyard warmed around it.
“We are grateful you made space for us.”
“No, darling. We are grateful you made it here. That bracelet has been haunting me since I saw it.”
“As it should.”
Marisol laughed.
Laila Hart appeared at the top of the shallow steps in a white robe, bare face, hair pinned up, skin glowing the way rich women somehow made exhaustion look intentional. She was smaller than she looked onscreen and stronger in person because she did not rush.
Everybody else adjusted to her pace.
Except Imani.
Imani simply smiled.
“Laila,” she said. “It’s an honor.”
Laila’s gaze dropped to the bracelet. “That is the one?”
“This is the one that made Marisol threaten people on both coasts.”
“I only threatened two,” Marisol said.
Laila laughed softly, then looked at Imani again. “Show me.”
That was where my part ended.
Officially.
Imani turned toward me before going inside. “You good?”
I looked at the people waiting for her. Marisol. Laila. The assistant. Security. The house manager. All of them ready to follow her lead even if they didn’t know it yet.
“I’m good.”
Her eyes softened for half a second, private enough that nobody else would have known what to do with it.
“Thank you.”
“You already thanked me.”
“Not for the plane.”
My hand rested at her lower back just long enough to feel her breath catch. “Then what?”
“For not making this yours.”
That hit harder than I expected.
I kept my voice low. “It’s yours, Mani.”
Her lips parted slightly, and for one second I wanted to kiss her in front of everybody just to see if the room could survive it.
I did not.
Growth.
She went inside with Marisol and Laila, and I stayed outside where I belonged.
The doors remained open to the courtyard, so I heard pieces when the wind moved right.
“No necklace with this neckline,” Imani said.
A pause.
“Because the wrist is the sentence. The earrings are punctuation. Anything at the throat makes the look explain itself twice.”
Then Laila laughed.
I smiled before I could help it.
For the next hour, I watched from a distance while Imani did what she had come to do.
Not every clasp, angle, wardrobe adjustment, or lighting conversation.
I didn’t need all that. What mattered was the way people kept turning toward her.
The photographer listened. Marisol stopped arguing and started nodding.
Laila held her wrist under the light, then looked at Imani like the diamonds had become personal.
The jewelry was beautiful. Expensive. Serious.
But Imani made it mean something.
When she finally stepped back into the courtyard, the ocean wind caught the loose pieces of hair near her temple. She looked calm, but I knew better now. The brightness in her eyes meant her mind was still moving too fast. The softness at her mouth meant the pressure had turned into satisfaction.
I stood as she approached.
“Well?”
Her smile came slowly. “She’s wearing them.”
“Of course she is.”
“You say that like you knew.”
“I saw you walk in.”
She rolled her eyes, but pleasure crossed her face before she could hide it. “It went well.”
“I heard.”
“You were eavesdropping?”
“You were speaking in a courtyard with open doors.”
“So eavesdropping.”
“Supporting from a distance.”
“That sounds like branding.”
“I know a marketing executive.”
Her laugh slipped free, and just like that, Malibu got better.
We gave Solara House another hour because Marisol wanted final notes, Laila wanted the story of the house, and Imani wanted every name, time, and security contact confirmed before she trusted anybody’s excitement.
What had started as a next-month Ellington placement had become a tomorrow problem with more eyes on it, and I watched her handle that shift without letting anyone hear the clock ticking in her voice.
I handled one call from Omar at North & Vine and told him changing the lamb supplier did not require my emotional presence.
“You’re in Malibu,” he said. “Why are you answering?”
“Because you called.”
“I thought you were loosening your grip.”
“I’m easing into it.”
“Terrible progress.”
“Make the decision, Omar.”
“That’s all I wanted to hear.”
He hung up before I could respond.
I stared at the phone.
Imani came out right as I slid it into my pocket. “Another intervention?”
“Restaurant.”
“Did you survive?”
“Barely.”
“You poor wealthy man.”
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“I see entirely too much of you.”
Her gaze dropped over me, slow enough to make the meaning clear, and my body remembered the night before. Her mouth near my ear. Her hand beneath the blanket. The quiet way she said my name while the cabin lights stayed low and the sky outside went dark around us.
I stepped closer.
“Careful.”
“With what?”
“Looking at me like that when your workday just ended.”
Her smile curved. “Then maybe you should feed me before I become a problem.”
“I planned to.”
“Of course you did.”
“Doting is part of the package.”
“Is that what this is?”
“With you?” I took her hand. “Absolutely.”
We spent the rest of the afternoon letting Malibu show off.
Lunch at a private table facing the water.
A slow drive along the coast with the windows cracked and ocean air moving through the car.
A stop near an overlook where Imani stood beside me, sunglasses on, face turned toward the sun, her hand tucked inside mine like peace was something we had finally learned how to hold.
For once, nobody bothered us.
I could work with that kind of quiet.
My phone buzzed once.
D.C.
Answer Price’s call when it comes.
The Forge Quarterback who passed me the ball my entire professional career rarely reached out unless something groundbreaking was about to happen.
I stared at the message longer than I meant to.
Imani glanced over but did not ask.
That was one of the things I loved about her. She saw everything, but she did not make every feeling report for duty.
I slipped the phone away.
Back at the hotel, she worked from the terrace while I took calls inside and tried not to think too hard about the call Darius told me was coming. By early evening, Laila Hart stepped into the press-preview dinner wearing Saint Aurelia like the brand had been waiting for her body to explain it.
The photos hit before dessert.
Not blurry paparazzi mess. Real images. Intentional. Laila in a black column gown, hair swept back, the pear drops catching light near her jaw, the bracelet at her wrist looking like it had always belonged there.
Then the posts started moving.
Fashion accounts first.
Then luxury pages.
Then women in the comments asking what bracelet that was, where the earrings came from, who styled her, and why nobody had told them about Saint Aurelia before tonight.
Imani stared at the phone without speaking.
First at the photos.
Then at the comments.
Then at the traffic screenshot Nina sent, like proof she needed before she let herself believe what she had done.
I gave her a second.
Then I moved behind her and kissed her bare shoulder.
“You did that.”
She shook her head. “We did.”
“No, Mani. I got you on a plane. You did that.”
Her hand covered her mouth, and I watched the moment land. The celebrity mattered, but it was bigger than that. She had stepped into a house still deciding how boldly it wanted to be seen and given people a reason to look closer.
“That launch is different now,” I said.
Her voice came quiet. “It is.”
“And tomorrow morning, everybody in that office is going to know why they trusted you with it.”
She turned then, eyes too bright, and kissed me with so much feeling I almost forgot the delivery waiting inside.
Almost.
When she pulled back, I brushed my thumb along her jaw. “Come here.”
“Where?”
“Inside.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Because something came for you.”
“For me?”
I took her hand and led her into the suite.
The black Saint Aurelia box waited on the table near the window, the house name stamped in gold across the lid. Imani stopped when she saw it.
“Why is there a Saint Aurelia delivery in your suite?”
“Open it.”
“What are you up to, Andre Malik?”
“Open it, Mani.”
Her fingers moved over the lid slowly. When she lifted it, the room light caught all those diamonds at once.
For the first time all day, Imani Bennett had no words.
That alone almost made the price too low.
The necklace rested against black velvet, all brilliant-cut diamonds and clean, grown lines, the stones graduated toward the center with enough fire to rival the ones I wore myself.
It was not delicate. It did not ask permission to be expensive.
It looked like something made for a woman who could walk into a room, change the value of everything inside it, and still make people wonder if they had understood luxury before she arrived.
Her hand hovered above it without touching.
“Andre.”
“I worked with your people.”
Her eyes came to mine. “My people?”
“Saint Aurelia.”
Confusion moved across her face. “When?”
“A week ago. I was waiting for you to finish a call, and Nia came through the front area.”
“Nia?”
“She recognized me, tried to pretend she didn’t, called me Mr. Jones three times in one sentence, then pulled herself together like a professional.” My mouth curved. “Poor girl was starstruck for about forty-five seconds, but she recovered.”
Imani’s lips twitched despite the emotion gathering in her eyes.
“She connected me with the atelier director and the master jeweler. I told them what I wanted.”
“What did you want?”
“Something for you.” I stepped closer. “Diamonds that could stand beside mine and not shrink.”
“Baby…”
“Beautiful. Rare. Expensive. Made with care. Worth the trouble.” My voice lowered. “Like you.”
She looked down at the necklace again.
“This is too much.”
“For who?”
Her eyes lifted.
I held them.
“You spend all day helping women see themselves in beautiful things. I wanted you to have something from the house you’re helping build. Something nobody else picked off a wall because it looked nice under glass. This was made for you.”
Her hand touched the center stone then, careful as a prayer.
“You had Saint Aurelia make me a necklace?”
“Yeah.”
“And you did this without telling me?”
“You would’ve argued.”
“I am about to argue now.”
“I know.” I took the necklace from the box. “Turn around.”
She gave me a look. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”
“I’m about to be.”
She turned, and I brought the necklace around her throat slowly. The diamonds brushed the top of her chest before I settled them against her skin.
Her breath changed.
I heard it.
Felt it too, in the soft lift of her shoulders, the stillness that moved through her while my fingers found the clasp at the back of her neck.
I fastened it, then let my hands stay there for a second.
The back of her neck was warm beneath my fingers.
Her perfume rose from her skin, soft and sweet under the salt coming through the balcony doors.
Outside, the sun was sliding lower, turning the Pacific gold.
Inside, those diamonds lit against her brown skin like Saint Aurelia had been waiting for her throat to finish the design.
I looked at her reflection in the glass.
“You see why I had to?”
Her hand rose to the necklace.
“This is…” She swallowed. “Dre.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know what I was going to say.”
“I know enough.”
She laughed under her breath, but her eyes stayed wet.
I bent and kissed the slope of her neck, right beneath the necklace.
Her skin was warm there. Softer than any velvet in that box.
Her pulse moved against my mouth, and when my hands slid around her waist, she leaned back into me like her body had already decided what her pride was still pretending to consider.
“Proud of you,” I said.
Her hand covered mine where it rested low on her stomach.
“I know.”
I kissed her again, lower this time, letting my mouth follow the line where diamonds met skin.
She went quiet.
That quiet told me enough.
The rest of the evening softened around us.
Sunset turned the room amber. The balcony doors stayed open.
The ocean kept moving below. I took my time with her because the day had asked so much, because her body still held the thrill of what she had pulled off, because I wanted every kiss, every touch, every slow sound she made to feel like celebration instead of escape.
When the sun disappeared, she was loose and quiet against me, her cheek on my chest, one hand still touching the necklace like she could not stop checking that it was real.