I pulled up to Sammie's and walked inside, the bell overhead chiming as the smell of fried shrimp, buttered biscuits, and strong-ass coffee filled the air. Sammie glanced up from behind the counter, smirking when he saw me. "Damn, boy. Ya out early. Who ya feedin'?" I just chuckled, shaking my head. "Let me get two shrimp n grits plates. Extra toast."
Sammie let out a low whistle. "Two plates, huh? Yeah, ya definitely feedin' a woman." I ignored him, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge while he bagged up my order. A few minutes later, I was back on the road, the scent of fresh breakfast filling the truck.
I got back to the house and set everything out on the kitchen table—two plates, two sets of utensils , extra napkins, and beside them, her phone and laptop, both fully charged. I didn't want her to think she was a damn prisoner. I made my way upstairs, unlocking the door to her room, stepping inside just as I heard the water shut off in the bathroom.
Then she walked out. Damp, glowing, skin still dewy from the steam, wrapped in a fluffy white towel that clung to her body. I stopped in my tracks, my eyes dragging over her before I could even think about stopping myself. Damn. She frowned the second she saw me, but she ain't say shit—just went straight to moving around the room, flipping through the two duffel bags of clothes Noles and Pierre had grabbed for her.
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching her. She sighed in frustration before finally pulling out a navy blue track suit, her expression tight, her lips pressed together like she was holding in everything she wanted to say. "You need something?" she finally asked, looking up at me with narrowed eyes. "I need to get dressed." I chuckled, dragging my gaze over her again. "You still got that funky ass attitude, I see," I muttered, smirking as my eyes lingered just a little too long. That towel was hugging her body perfectly, molding to the curve of her hips, her full thighs, the soft dip of her waist.
She lifted a brow. "You kidnapped me." Her tone was flat, but the way she crossed her arms over her chest let me know she was still heated. I tilted my head, watching her. "I like to call it a business decision." She scoffed, grabbing her clothes and turning toward the bathroom. But as she moved, something slipped from the pile in her arms—small, delicate. Black silk thongs hit the floor. I stepped forward before she even noticed, bending down and grabbing them between my fingers. She kept moving, mumbling under her breath. "Business decision my ass." She fumbled through her clothes in the bathroom. I smirked. "You looking for these?"
She froze for half a second, then turned, her eyes locking onto the fabric dangling from my fingers. Her lips pressed into a tight line before she let out a sharp exhale, stepping forward and snatching them from my grip. I chuckled low, shaking my head. "Relax. Ain't like I ain't seen—"
"Shut up," she muttered, rolling her eyes before slamming the bathroom door in my face. I laughed, the sound deep, full, carrying through the thick wooden door like I knew it was getting under her skin. If she thought that attitude was gonna make me change my mind, she had another thing coming.
I leaned in just a little, my palm flat against the doorframe, my voice smooth, low, just enough to let her know I meant what I said next. "Meet me downstairs when you finished," I murmured. "Don't keep me waitin', Baeeby . I'm not a patient man." I could almost feel her reaction on the other side—her irritation, her frustration, the way she was probably rolling those pretty ass brown eyes of hers. I smirked and pushed off the door, turning on my heel before heading back downstairs.
The scent of shrimp and grits still filled the kitchen, steam curling up from the plates on the table. I moved toward the counter, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a bottle of water, twisting the cap off as I leaned back against the marble. I wasn't used to waiting on anybody. People came when I called. They moved when I told them to. They fell in line, no questions asked. But Chiana was making me wait. Intentionally
I knew what she was doing—dragging this shit out on purpose, probably sitting in that bathroom debating how much of a fight she wanted to put up today. I smirked to myself, taking another sip of water. She could take her time all she wanted. She still had to come downstairs. And when she did? She was gon' sit across from me and eat the breakfast I went and got for her. She was gon' listen to what I had to say. And, eventually, she was gonna accept that this was her new reality.
Another five minutes passed before I heard her footsteps coming down the stairs. Slow. Deliberate. When she walked into the kitchen, she didn't look at me at first. Just pulled out the chair across from me and sat down, adjusting the navy-blue track suit she picked out. She moved like she wasn't locked in my house. Like she was still holding onto some form of control. I let her have that—for now.
I leaned back in my chair, watching her as she picked up her fork and grabbed the salt, steam rising up from her plate. She was beautiful. I had already known that, but seeing her now, with the sunlight spilling in through the windows, hitting her skin just right, making her glow—damn. Perfectly arched eyebrows. Big, expressive brown eyes, the kind that spoke before she did. Soft, full lips that I knew were just as sharp as they were pretty. She was a problem. A fine-ass, stubborn-ass problem.
I picked up my fork, finally digging into my own food, but my eyes never left her. She wasn't in a rush to eat, cutting small pieces, moving slow, like she was trying to ignore me. I smirked. "You aight ?" Her eyes flicked up to mine for half a second before shifting—toward the phone and laptop I sat next to her plate. Then she lifted an eyebrow, her expression flat. "You giving me my stuff ?"
"You'll need it for work," I said casually, taking another bite. Her jaw tightened, but she didn't respond. I wiped my mouth with a napkin before dropping the next bomb. "Oh yeah, I let Amina know you were in good hands and would be out the way for a while." Her whole body went still. Then, slow as hell, she placed her fork down, her gaze locking onto mine with something sharp. "You what?" I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, my smirk deepening. "Told her you were good. That you'd be occupied for a little while." Her nostrils flared. "You talked to Amina?"
"More like texted," I corrected, my tone easy. "Didn't want her worryin', blowin' up your phone, makin' this more complicated than it needed to be." She sat back in her chair, crossing her arms, her jaw tight. "You had no right. Who the fuck do you think you are ?" I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. "Juste St. Jean. And See, that's where we disagree."
Her eyes blazed, lips parting like she had more to say, but I cut her off before she could get started. "Eat," I murmured, my voice dropping lower, more serious. "Your food is gettin' cold." She stared at me, lips pressed tight, her breathing slow and controlled. She wanted to argue. Wanted to throw that sharp-ass mouth at me. But she knew better than to push too far. So, after another tense minute, she picked up her fork and took another bite. I just sat there, watching her.
I set my fork down, lacing my fingers together as I studied her. She was still sitting across from me with that stubborn-ass look on her face like she had a say in what was happening. She didn't. "I need you to let all your personal clients know you'll be on vacation for the next month." My voice was calm, smooth, but full of authority. "I need your focus on this." I leaned back in my chair, dragging my gaze over her, waiting for the reaction I knew was coming.
Chiana froze mid-bite, her fork hovering over her plate. She didn't look up at me right away, like she needed a second to process what I just said. I smirked to myself. She heard me. She was just trying to decide how she wanted to react. She finally set her fork down with a soft clink, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and sat back in her chair. Crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head slightly. That attitude was coming. "What the hell do you mean ? And after that?" Her tone was sharp, like she was testing me.
I smirked. There she go. "Afta' a month, you can start back up," I said, my voice steady, unwavering. "But workin' from the house." That's when I saw it—the moment the fire in her eyes flared up, the moment she realized she wasn't just caught up in this temporarily. She wasn't going back to her old life. Not in the way she thought.
Her arms tightened over her chest, her back pressing against the chair like she was bracing herself. "When can I go home ? " I exhaled slowly, dragging my tongue over my teeth. Then I stood up. Slow. Deliberate. She tensed, her body going rigid as I walked around the table, the weight of my presence filling the space between us. She tried to play it cool, but I saw it—the way her breath caught in her throat, the way her fingers curled just a little tighter around her arms.
I stopped beside her chair, looking down at her, my voice low, controlled. "You can't " I murmured, "This is home. " She inhaled sharply but kept her face neutral. I smirked, tilting my head slightly. "I told you," I continued, reaching down, gripping the arm of her chair, leaning just a little closer, "We doin this my way now . "
Her jaw clenched, her brown eyes locked on mine. I saw the fight in her. Felt it in the tension rolling off her body. She wanted to argue. Wanted to swing on me, curse me out, something. I leaned in just enough for my breath to brush against her ear. "I own you now, Chiana." My voice was deep, slow, lethal. "Ain't shit movin' without my say-so. The quicker you get that shit through ya head , the smoother this shit will go."
She sucked in a breath, but she ain't move, ain't blink, just sat there, gripping onto that last little piece of control like it meant something. "Disrespectfully , Fuck you ." She said crossing her arms over her chest . I chuckled . "Grab your shit let me show you to the office . I need to be outta here in a lil bit ."
Chiana
Three days. Three long-ass days since Juste St. Jean had kidnapped me and thrown me into his world like it was a perfectly normal thing to do. And somehow..I had fallen into a routine. Every morning, we had breakfast together. It wasn't a request, and I learned fast that Juste didn't like repeating himself. If I didn't come downstairs on my own, he'd come get me, and I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of dragging me out of my room like I was some disobedient child. So, I came. Sat across from him at that damn marble table while he ate like we were just two regular people having a normal-ass start to our day. But nothing about this was normal.
He'd sip his black coffee, calm as hell, barely saying much, just watching me eat like he was waiting for me to start running my mouth. I never gave him that satisfaction. After breakfast, he'd disappear out the door, and I'd head to his office, combing through numbers and sifting through the absolute mess that he had the nerve to call bookkeeping. His shit was way messier than he let on.
Laundering the money wouldn't be easy. It wasn't just stacks of bills waiting to be cleaned—it was businesses, offshore accounts, assets that had to be moved carefully. The deeper I dug, the more I realized Juste was sitting on an empire. And whether I liked it or not, he had put me in charge of making sure it didn't crumble. The crazy part? I wasn't even mad at the work itself. It was a challenge. I had always been good at numbers, at making shit fit where it needed to, at making things look right even when they weren't. It was what made me good at my job, what made me successful.
And now, I was using those same skills to keep a crime family from getting caught up by the Feds. Fucking ironic. But that wasn't the part that was fucking me up the most. The part that had me tossing and turning at night, staring up at the ceiling, my body tense for reasons I didn't want to admit? It was him. Juste. His presence, his scent, the way he moved around the house like he owned everything—including me. I hated it. And yet...I didn't.
I should've hated sitting across from him at breakfast, watching the way his jaw flexed when he chewed, the way his tattoos peeked out from under his shirt sleeves, the way he smelled—rich, expensive, and dark, like he bathed in power. I should've hated the way his deep, lazy drawl slid through the air whenever he spoke, the way he looked at me with those sharp, dark eyes, like he was already two steps ahead of me. I should've hated the way my body reacted whenever he was too close. The way my breath caught whenever he leaned in, whenever his fingers brushed against mine by accident, whenever he let his gaze drag too slow over me, like he was imagining shit he had no business thinking about.
