Chapter Twenty-Three Xalori Carson
There was a stillness in the penthouse that felt earned. Like the kind of peace that didn’t just happen, it had to be fought for, bled for, and protected like sacred ground.
I leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window, arms crossed over my chest, watching Ginger and Nasir play on the rug like the world hadn’t tried to break us just days ago.
Ginger was in her own world, twirling in one of Eason’s oversized t-shirts, while Nasir built a fortress out of blocks, telling her it was to keep the monsters out. She giggled like she believed him.
And maybe, I did too.
My heart clenched. Not in pain this time but in that fragile, unfamiliar place where healing starts to take root. Where grief doesn’t disappear, but it stops swallowing you whole.
I never thought I’d feel this safe, needed, wanted, and loved again. I had two babies in front of me—one born of my body, the other born of circumstance—and they were smiling. They were happy. And for the first time in what felt like forever, so was I.
But peace don’t come without a price. And mine was knowing it could all be snatched away if I wasn’t ready for what came next.
Prime was still out there, and Harmony was still lurking. And I was still one woman with a past soaked in loss, trying to protect a future built on shaky ground.
But as I watched my babies laugh, wrapped in sunlight and joy, I made a silent promise that I would burn this whole damn city to the ground before I let anyone take this from me.
The sound of my phone ringing pulled me out of my thoughts, slicing through the peace like a hot knife.
I glanced down, and the second I saw Eason’s name flash across the screen, a slow smile crept across my face—one of those messy, stupid grins I didn’t even try to hide anymore. I picked up on the first ring.
“Yes sir? How can I help you today?” I teased, already knowing that shit was gonna poke at his nerves.
A loud huff came through the receiver, followed by some muffled mumbling that sounded a lot like curses he didn’t want me to hear.
“Stop fuckin’ playin’ with me, Muffin,” he growled. “Before I come home and choke your fine ass out.”
The threat made my thighs press together on instinct.
“And for the record,” he continued, voice dropping lower, slicker, “why the hell you standin’ there watching my kids like a damn creep? Got your arms folded and your lip poked out like you the bouncer of a damn daycare.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I damn near saw my childhood.
“I’m the creep?” I scoffed. “You the one watching me on a hidden camera like Joe from You, and I’m the fuckin’ problem?”
Eason chuckled low through the line. “I pay for that camera feed, baby. That’s my right. That view? That’s my peace offering. You look too damn good standing there barefoot in my shirt like you mine.”
“You wish.” I whispered, even though we both knew the truth lived in the way I hadn’t stopped smiling since the call came through.
He caught it too.
“Keep actin’ like I won’t leave this whole-ass gym full of grown men mid-lift and come home to bend you over the arm of that damn couch you standing behind.”
I bit my lip, glancing at the kids—both still playing, still smiling—and laughed quietly.
“You so damn unhinged.”
“And you love it.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Before I could get another smart-ass word out, a sharp beep echoed in my ear, signaling another incoming call.
“Babe, lemme call you right back,” I said, eyeing the unfamiliar number flashing across my screen. “Somebody’s calling me. I don’t know who it is but I’m just gon’ click over and see—”
“Don’t you click over that fuckin’ phone, Xalori.”
The way he said my name made my entire spine lock up. Not Muffin. Not baby. Xalori. And when that man used my government, it was never good.
I poked my bottom lip out, ready to argue.
“And I don’t give a fuck ‘bout that pout,” he growled, his voice low and dark. “You hang up this phone, and I’ma give you a real reason to have a fat lip.”
I sucked my teeth, stomping into the living room like that would somehow soften the blow. “But the call could be important,” I muttered, plopping down on the couch. The kids were still coloring on the floor, blissfully unaware that their mama was tryna reason with a damn lunatic.
“How?” he barked. “How the fuck could it be important, Muffin? The kids are in front of you, one is inside you, and I’m on the fuckin’ phone with you. So who the hell else important enough to be calling you right now?”
I opened my mouth.
“I—”
“Nah. Don’t even finish that sentence,” he snapped. “Whoever it was left a voicemail. I’m listening to it right now.”
I blinked, confusion pulling my brows together. “How do you know they left a voicemail?”
“I got your phone mirrored to mine, duh.”
I froze.
“Eason.”
“What?” he said like it was normal.
I dragged my hand down my face, shaking my head. “You know what? Never mind. Nothing you do surprises me anymore.”
“Cool. Now shut up. I’m ‘bout to play the voicemail.”
I leaned forward instinctively, elbows on knees, heart ticking a little faster than before. Something about the way his tone flattened had my stomach tightening.
There was a short pause then a scratchy hiss of static, followed by a distorted and warped voice.
“You’re not fit to be a mother. You couldn’t even keep your first child alive… what makes you think you’ll do better with the next one?”
My blood ran cold. The voice was mangled, but I’d know that cadence anywhere. The sick satisfaction in it. The way it slid beneath your skin like a razor blade.
“Tick tock, Xalori. I’m getting my son back. And once I do, you can keep that replacement baby and that nigga’s bastard daughter. Just remember… this time, when you lose something, it’s gon’ be permanent.”
The voicemail cut off and silence swallowed the room. My throat closed up like it was rejecting oxygen, like my body knew what was coming before I could process it.
Eason didn’t say shit for a long time. Then I heard it—this low, guttural sound in his throat. Not a growl. Not a threat, but a promise.
“I’m gon’ kill that nigga,” he said, slow and deliberate, like he was already visualizing how. “Not hurt. Not scare. Kill.”
“Eason—”
“Nah. Don’t try to calm me down, Muffin,” he growled. “He threatened you. He said your name. Brought up Aaliyah. My daughter. And then he mentioned Nasir like he still has rights. That bitch been dead, but now? I’m digging the grave myself.”
My hands were trembling.
“What do we do?” I asked quietly.
“We stay calm,” he said, voice clipped. “We don’t let the kids pick up on anything. And you don’t leave that penthouse until I get home.”
“And then what?”
“Then I handle it.”
His voice dipped into something darker and colder.
“And I swear to God, Xalori after this, there won’t be a next time.”