Lyric appeared in the foyer, all smiles and perfectly beat makeup. Her face was done up like she was about to walk a runway—contoured cheekbones, dramatic lashes, lips glossed to perfection. She was wearing a silk robe that I had custom made from Japan, her long mermaid locs cascading down her back.
She looked good. She always looked good.
But lately, looking good was all she seemed to do.
“Hey,” I said, accepting the kiss she planted on my cheek. “You just get back from a shoot?”
“Mmhmm. It was for that new athleisure brand I told you about. They loved me, of course.” She did a little spin, the robe fanning out around her. “Said I might be the face of their spring campaign.”
“That’s what’s up.”
I moved past her into the living room and stopped dead in my tracks.
The place was a fucking disaster.
Dishes piled in the sink. Takeout containers on the coffee table. Clothes draped over the couch like she’d been using it as a closet. A half-empty wine bottle sitting next to a stack of unopened mail. The whole house smelled like stale perfume and neglect.
I turned to look at Lyric, who was already heading toward the stairs like she didn’t see the mess she was living in.
“You going somewhere?” I asked.
“Oh! Yes, there’s this rooftop party in the city. Bunch of influencers and some industry people. Great networking opportunity.” She was already halfway up the stairs. “I’ll probably be back late, don’t wait up!”
I stood there, briefcase in hand, looking around at the chaos.
This was what I came home to. Every fucking day.
I used to be so into Lyric. She was beautiful, ambitious, and killing it in her modeling and influencer shit. I supported those dreams, paid for her updated portfolio, introduced her to industry people, funded her lifestyle while she built her brand.
But somewhere along the way, she stopped building and started spending. The shoots got fewer, the parties got more frequent, and the only thing she seemed ambitious about was maxing out my black card.
I didn’t mind tricking on a woman. I was a Banks—generosity was in my blood. But there was supposed to be an exchange. A partnership. She was supposed to hold shit down at home while I held shit down at work. Instead, I came home to a dirty house and a woman who was always on her way out the door.
Meanwhile, Camille was the opposite. Driven. Focused. A damn good lawyer who was working her ass off to get Zainab acquitted. She didn’t need my money—she had her own. What she wanted from me was time, attention, partnership. The stuff that actually mattered.
At least, that’s what I thought.
I was pouring myself that bourbon when I heard the front door open again.
“Quest?”
Camille’s voice echoed through the foyer. I heard her heels clicking against the marble, then she appeared in the doorway of the living room, still dressed in her work clothes—a fitted navy suit that hugged her curves just right.
But something was off. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Her hands were shaking. She looked like she’d been crying in the car before she came in.
“We need to talk,” she said.
I took a sip of my bourbon, leaning against the bar. “So talk.”
She crossed the room slowly, like she was walking toward her own execution. Stopped a few feet away from me, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers twisting together nervously.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words hung in the air.
I let them sit there for a moment, swirling my bourbon, watching the liquid catch the light. Then I laughed—a short, sharp sound that made her flinch.
“That’s crazy,” I said. “Congratulations to you.”
