Everything in her life had always been a fighting match…but this?
Waking up to a man fightingforher instead of asking her to fightwithhim?
It felt unfamiliar…uncomfortably beautiful.
Like a fairytale with dirt under its nails and a heartbeat.
She pressed a palm to her chest.
It wasn’t fear this time…it was possibility…it was love.
Her phone buzzed beside her, lighting up the nightstand with Tia’s name.
Meadow exhaled a shaky breath and answered. “Tia,” she whispered.
“Bitch.” Tia’s voice came through so loud Meadow had to pull the phone back. “I been waiting for you to wake up. You alive?!”
Meadow finally laughed a wet, broken, needed laugh. “I’m alive.”
“You sound like you been through war,” Tia hissed, “start talking.”
Meadow curled her knees to her chest and leaned back against the headboard, the first true smile forming on her face.
“Girl…you have no idea.”
“Well give me an idea…” Tia laughed.
The kitchen lookedlike a war room and Zaire was the king. Once a knight so he wanted to do more than call the shots.
There were papers spread across the table. Blueprints, land maps, tax breakdowns, printouts of Ertan’s bitter interviews, screenshots of reporters trespassing, notes scribbled in hurried handwriting and a whiteboard leaning crooked against the pantry that somebody dragged in from the shed.
Zaire stood in the middle of it all with his arms crossed.
The muscle in his jaw twitched every few seconds, just enough to tell anybody paying close attention that he was two heartbeats away from losing every ounce of patience he had left.
True was on the phone, pacing tight circles like he was negotiating a hostage situation.
Lesha sat at the counter with her legs crossed, arms folded, judging the entire PR team like she wished one of them would say something sideways so she could throw a skillet. She was still a little hesitant about them. Rightfully so, after the shit show Ertan’s people brought into their lives with promises of making Zaire a star.
Ray leaned against the fridge quietly, his presence grounding the room every time Zaire’s anger rose too fast.
The all-Black PR team of two women, one man looked sharp and ready.
Blazers, tablets, and calm expressions hiding the urgency thrumming through the room.
“Alright,” the lead PR woman, Kendra, said, sliding a folder toward Zaire. “This is the current public sentiment. Word is spreading fast. Reporters didn’t just come because of the land. Someone tipped them.”
Zaire didn’t blink when he said. “Ertan.” His fingers jumped because niggas like Ertan should’ve been handled a different way. The way Crescent Park had taught him before he knew anything about winning million-dollar golf tournaments.
Kendra nodded. “The timing lines up. His interview dropped thirty-eight minutes before the first car pulled into your driveway.”
Lesha clicked her tongue. “He woke up mad and wanted company.”
Ray chuckled under his breath.
Zaire pinched his nose, his anger already rising to its boiling point. “What that nigga say?”
Kendra hesitated. Not because she feared him or anything like that, simply because she respected him. Working with him had become a privilege. “You sure you wanna hear it from me?”
