“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 notgrown 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.
