Vivica worked the room like the pro she was. Shaking hands. Kissing cheeks. Laughing at jokes that weren’t funny. Posing for photos with donors and dignitaries.
And right beside her, clipboard in hand, tablet tucked under her arm—Indya Coleman.
Her assistant. The woman whose thighs Vivica had been buried between when I walked in on them weeks ago.
Indya looked every bit the professional tonight. Navy dress. Hair pulled back. Playing her role perfectly.
But when her eyes met mine across the room, that professional mask cracked.
I saw the raw undeniable shame all over her face.
She looked away immediately. Dropped her gaze to her tablet like it held the secrets of the universe. Wouldn’t look at me again even when Vivica turned in my direction.
She knew I knew. Knew I’d seen her in her most vulnerable moment. Knew I had ammunition that could destroy both of them.
And she was terrified I’d use it.
Then Vivica’s eyes found me.
Even from across the room, I felt it. That predatory focus. That calculating gaze.
She made her way toward me, the crowd parting like she was Moses and they were the Red Sea. Indya followed two steps behind, eyes down, trying to make herself invisible.
“Prentice.” She reached me, her smile bright and toxic. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Vivica.”
“It’s Madam Mayor tonight, sweetheart.” She hooked her arm through mine before I could react. “Come. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
“I’m good.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
Her grip tightened on my arm. Nails digging in through my suit jacket.
I let her lead me toward a group of donors. Campaign people. The kind of rich folks who wrote checks and expected favors in return.
“Everyone, this is my son Prentice,” Vivica announced, pulling me into the circle. “My youngest. And my biggest success story.”
Success story. Like I was some project she’d completed.
“Prentice has overcome so much,” she continued, her voice dripping with false pride. “He made some mistakes when he was younger. Ended up in prison. But look at him now.” She patted my arm like I was a trained dog performing tricks. “He’s rebuilt his life. Joined the family business. Hasn’t been back to prison once. I’m just so proud of the man he’s become.”
The donors murmured their approval. Nodding. Smiling. Eating up the redemption narrative like it was one of Zahara’s cinnamon rolls.
A photographer appeared. “Madam Mayor, can we get a photo?”
“Of course!” Vivica pulled me closer, angling us toward the camera. “Smile, Prentice.”
“Vivica—”
“Smile.”
I ain’t smile. The camera flashed and inside I was burning.
She’d just announced to a room full of DC’s most powerful people that I was an ex-con. Put my business out there like it was some cute little campaign story. Used my past—my pain—to make herself look good.
This woman gave birth to me but she’d never been my mother. And moments like this reminded me exactly why.
