Stopped.
Looked back at me over her shoulder.
“I hope she’s worth it, Prime,” she said softly.
She walked away, heels echoing down the corridor.
The way she said that, didn’t sit well with me. But Farah wasn’t a real threat. She was a sheltered daddy’s girl. Her father was the problem. And not just him individually. It was all of hissons. But Farah wasn’t dumb. She knew better than to start a war.
Farah had always been a mild annoyance. A woman who wanted something I wasn’t willing to give.
But that look in her eyes just now?
That wasn’t a woman accepting rejection.
That was a woman planning revenge.
I was gonna have to watch her. Make sure she didn’t try anything stupid.
Because if she came for Zahara—if she even thought about hurting what was mine—I’d bury her.
Rashid’s daughter or not.
The gala kicked off at seven.
The ballroom transformed from empty elegance to packed chaos in under an hour. DC’s elite pouring through the doors in their designer gowns and tailored suits. Diamonds catching the chandelier light. Expensive perfume mixing with expensive cologne until the air was thick with wealth and ambition.
I posted up near the bar, nursing a glass of Banks Reserve I had no intention of finishing. Watching. Waiting.
This wasn’t my scene. Never had been. I preferred shadows to spotlights. Preferred handling business in private rather than performing for crowds.
But tonight I was here for Zahara.
I found her across the room, stationed behind her dessert table. The trays of cinnamon rolls were arranged perfectly—red velvet on one tier, peach cobbler on another, bourbon pecan on a third. A small sign read “Sweet Zin” in elegant script.
She was talking to an older white woman dripping in pearls, explaining something about her baking process. The woman took a bite of a roll, and I watched her face transform. Eyes going wide. That performative politeness shifting into genuine surprise.
She called over her friends. They tried the rolls. Same reaction.
Within minutes, a crowd had formed around Zahara’s table.
That’s my girl.
Pride swelled in my chest watching her work. Watching her smile. Watching her hand out business cards and answer questions and live her fucking dream.
I did that. Helped her get here. And seeing her shine like this?
Worth every body I’d disposed of. Every secret I was keeping. Every risk I was taking.
“Ladies and gentlemen!”
Vivica stood on the small stage at the front of the room, microphone in hand, spotlight making her silver hair glow like a halo.
She didn’t deserve a halo. But she sure knew how to fake one.
“Thank you all for being here tonight,” she said, her politician voice carrying through the room. “Your support means the world to me and to this great city we all love.”
Applause. Polite. Practiced.
