Chapter Twenty-Four Harmony Winters
I should’ve turned the fucking TV off, should’ve changed the channel and thrown the remote, anything but sat here with this cheap-ass red wine staining my teeth and the sound of his voice filling up my apartment like he lived here.
But I couldn’t look away. There he was. Eason Fucking Storm.
Standing in a tailored suit, his voice smooth and steady, cameras flashing, reporters leaning in like he was about to drop some divine gospel.
His new gym’s banner hung behind him, all polished branding and curated smiles. But that’s not what made my heart drop.
It was what he said.
“Ginger Storm has one mother. Her name is Xalori Carson.”
And just like that, it was like I never carried her. Like I never bled for her. Like I was just some vessel who got discarded once my usefulness dried the fuck up.
My stomach twisted as my hands shook around the glass. And the fake-ass smile I painted on for weeks cracked right down the middle. He was erasing me publicly and boldly, like I was nothing.
And that bitch had the nerve to stand beside him looking soft and maternal and safe, like she ain’t been fucking the man I fought blood, sweat, and tears to secure.
Tossing my wine glass at the television, I didn’t even flinch when it shattered, shards spraying across the floor like confetti at a funeral. My chest heaved, breath ragged as I sat there in the ruins of my living room—mad, bitter, and embarrassed as fuck.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
I had a plan. I had him. Or at least, I thought I did.
I should’ve never listened to Prime. I should’ve played my position like I always did—quiet, calculated, leaning into Eason’s soft spots instead of weaponizing them.
But no, I let my ego write checks I couldn’t cash, thinking a fake restraining order and a few well-placed lies would pull him back in.
I was wrong.
I should’ve reminded him who helped build him. Who held him down when nobody else would. Who carried his child while he chased legacy. But instead, I tried to hurt him. And all I did was make him hate me more.
“That’s supposed to be me standing next to him!
” I screamed, my voice cracking as I paced in front of the broken screen.
“I’m supposed to be the one photographed and worshipped!
Me! Not that bitch! That’s my last name I’m supposed to be wearing.
My daughter he’s parading around like she came from her. ”
The words burned on my tongue. Because no matter how much I tried to twist the narrative in my head, reality slapped me dead in the face every time. Eason didn’t just replace me. He erased me. And that was a wound too deep for wine, ego, or denial to heal.
I dropped onto the couch, legs crossed, heart pounding, my hand trembling as I reached for my phone to call Prime.
I hesitated for half a second since I hated that nigga.
Hated the way he talked to me like I was just another pawn.
Hated the way he only hit my line when he needed something. But right now, I needed him.
The phone rang twice before his deep voice slid through the speaker like oil on fire.
“You watch the press conference?” He asked, like he already knew I had.
My jaw locked. “Fuck you think?”
He chuckled, low and humorless. “Told you that nigga was gonna choose her. Xalori had the power to make even the strongest man weak.”
“Don’t act like you didn’t hype me up for this shit,” I snapped, standing back up and pacing. “You said it would work. Said if we played it right, they’d fold. Instead, he’s parading that bitch like she’s Mother fucking Teresa.”
“Because you came at him emotional,” Prime growled, suddenly irritated. “You let that shit get personal when it was supposed to be strategic. You think I told you to fake a restraining order to get revenge?”
“I did what you said!” I shouted.
“No, you did what you felt,” he snapped. “I told you to rattle him, not send him into protective mode. Eason’s dangerous when he thinks somebody fucking with his peace. You should’ve crept in, not kicked the front door down.”
My throat tightened. “So, what now, Prime? You got all the answers, right? What the fuck we supposed to do now?”
“We make her look like the threat.”
I blinked, slowly sinking back into the couch. “What?”
“You want Ginger back. I want my family back. But that won’t happen unless we make that bitch crumble. We play it smarter this time. Quiet and controlled, ya dig?”
I clenched my teeth. “You’re talking about a setup.”
“I’m talking about strategy. You want your family back, right? You want that spotlight again?”
My breathing hitched.
“I’ll do my part,” he continued. “But you need to be ready. No more tantrums. No more cameras. We hit ‘em where it hurts. And we do it right.”
The call ended before I could respond.
I stared down at my phone, still trembling, my reflection warped in the shattered TV screen across from me. No more tantrums. No more cameras. This time, I’d take everything back the right way. Even if it meant becoming the bitch they already believed I was.
The silence in the room after Prime hung up rang louder than the shattering of that wine glass. I sat there for a long minute, chest heaving, trying to decide if I wanted to cry or burn this whole city to ash. His words kept replaying in my head.
That was the plan. That was the smart thing to do.
But smart left the building the moment I saw Eason on that damn screen, standing next to her with that proud, possessive look in his eyes.
He never looked at me like I was the beginning and the end of his whole fucking world.
He always looked at me like I never existed.
And now he’d erased me. And for what? Some bitch with a dead baby and a struggling past?
My hand trembled as I poured another drink. Something dark. Something strong enough to burn. I downed it in one gulp, then another. Ignoring the way the room started to tilt around me.
Fuck Prime. Fuck his rules and slow-ass plan. This wasn’t about strategy anymore. This was personal.
I grabbed my keys, staggered a little as I pulled on my heels and my coat. My heart was racing. My vision blurred, but I knew exactly where I was going. Knew exactly what I was about to do.
I arrived at Xalori’s old apartment, The one with the peeling paint and the busted porch light. The one Eason probably had her thinking she was too good for now. Bet she thought she’d leveled up, got herself a man with money and muscle, and forgot where the fuck she came from.
But I didn’t. And tonight, I was gonna remind her.
I stumbled out of my car, still holding the half-empty bottle of Rémy in one hand, my purse clutched tight in the other. The street was quiet. Like it was holding its breath, waiting to see what I’d do.
My heels clicked against the cracked concrete as I made my way up the porch. My fingers fumbled in my bag until I found a black Sharpie and a crumpled napkin from the passenger seat.
I leaned against the door and scribbled the words, hand shaking.
You don’t belong here. And soon, you won’t belong anywhere.
Then I stuck the note to the door with a piece of gum from my purse, pressed it flat and smoothed it out before walking away satisfied.
I was halfway down the steps when the porch light flicked on. And I spotted a tiny red light blinked from above the door attached to a security camera.
My stomach dropped. The realization came in waves, crashing slow and hard as I stood frozen in place. That blinking light was a fucking witness. Recording every step, every breath, and every ounce of delusion that had dragged me to this moment.
I staggered back to my car, suddenly aware of how drunk I was and how reckless I’d just been.
I gripped the steering wheel, eyes wide, throat closing.
That camera saw me. And I didn’t even wanna think about when Eason found out.
But one thing was clear, I had just crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. And whatever came next, I deserved it.