“Saturday. 7 AM. I’ll be here to pick you both up.”
“I have a car,” I shot back, desperate to maintain some control.
“I don’t give a fuck if you got a private jet. I’ll be here Saturday at 7.” He walked toward the door, his movement fluid and predatory. “Don’t make me come looking for you.”
“Get out of my house,” I said, my voice hollow.
He paused at the door, those unnerving eyes sweeping over me one last time. “Feed your son something real, Zahara. He deserves better than sugar cereal and excuses. He’s old enough to cook for himself now,” he said, his hand on the doorknob. “You might want to get some actual ingredients though. Your son can’t live on cereal and pop tarts.”
Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that felt deafening in the sudden silence of my apartment.
I slid down the wall until I hit the floor, my legs finally giving out completely. The breath I’d been holding escaped in a long, shuddering exhale. My hands were trembling so bad I had to press them against the cool tile to steady them.
Who the fuck did he think he was? Coming into my house, judging my parenting, my food choices, my life? Prime Banks with his perfect body and those unsettling eyes that saw too much. Mr. High-and-Mighty is acting like he knew the first thing about raising a child on your own.
The world didn’t know—couldn’t possibly understand—how hard it was to keep a roof over your head, food on the table (even if it was just cereal), and a child safe and happy when you were doing it all alone. No family to fall back on. No child support. No safety net. And no education.
I pulled out my phone and sent my twin a text:You won’t believe what happened to me today! I’m being forced to take Yusef to see Meech in prison!
As soon as I hit send on my message, I got up and drank a glass of water. I sent Brandi a text telling her to let Yusef walk home when he’s ready. She replied saying they are still playing their game. I stood up and looked in my refrigerator and realized that Prime was right. There wasn’t really shit in here but cereal, milk, and ingredients for my zinnamon rolls. I had to do better, but how?
5
PRIME
I closed her door behind me and exhaled into the cool evening air. That woman was something else. Zahara. Even her name felt exotic on my tongue, like something I shouldn’t taste but wanted to anyway.
The hallway of her apartment building smelled like lemon Pine-Sol and somebody’s attempt at curry, but all I could think about was her scent—vanilla and something sweet I couldn’t place. And those eyes. Big, defiant, with just enough fear to make me feel like the monster I probably was.
“Fuck,” I muttered, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. Needed to work off this energy.
A week watching her every move, and she wasn’t what I expected. Rashid had made it sound like his nephew was mixed up with some gold-digging hood rat, but Miss Zahara Ali was… complicated. Professional. Smart as hell, too, judging by how quick she caught on to what I wasn’t saying.
Outside, the night air hit my face, cooling the heat that had been building since I stepped into her space. I slid into my 2025 Bentley Bentayga, gripping the steering wheel like it was her throat. Not that I wanted to hurt her. Just control whatever this was.
I’d been tracking her moves all week, learned her routine like a favorite song. Learned her work schedule and that she spent time in the library. No men coming around. No suspicious packages. No drama. Just a single mother grinding it out.
I fired up the engine, but didn’t pull off right away. Something about the way she stood her ground, chin tilted up despite being scared. The curve of her hips in those black pants. The flash of anger when I mentioned her son.
“She’s somebody else’s baby mama,” I reminded myself. “That ain’t the baggage I need.”
But even as I thought it, it felt wrong. Like I was trying to convince myself she fit a box she clearly didn’t. The way she’d been studying in that library all week—business plans, loan applications, recipe books. That wasn’t a woman looking for a handout. That was a woman trying to build something.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, breaking the spell. I ignored it, still trying to make sense of Zahara Ali. The phone buzzed again, more insistent this time.
“Damn it,” I muttered, fishing it out and glancing at the screen. Quest. Third time today.
I let it ring twice more before answering. “What?”
“What? WHAT? That’s how you answer after dodging my calls for a week?” My brother’s voice boomed through the speaker, that familiar mix of irritation and concern that only family could perfect.
I leaned my head back against the seat. “Working.”
“Working on what? ‘Cause it sure ain’t been the casino business. We got meetings with investors, paperwork that needs your signature, and timelines I need you to sign off on. You need to come in.” Quest wasn’t asking, and from his tone, he was done with my avoidance tactics.
“Not interested,” I cut him off.
“You haven’t even heard what I’m offering.”
