The Valmont Gala was exactly what I expected.
Too much white marble. Too many fake smiles. Too many rich devils in tuxedos pretending the money on their wrists came from clean hands.
I adjusted the cuff of my black Tom Ford jacket and stepped out of the Rolls with Darius on one side and security trailing behind us. Cameras flashed the second my shoes touched the pavement.
That was the game.
They loved a billionaire from Compton as long as I looked polished enough to make them comfortable.
I gave them what they wanted.
A calm face.
A quiet nod.
One hand buttoning my jacket while the other stayed loose at my side.
The kind of body language that let everybody know I wasn’t there to impress them.
I was there because men like me had to keep showing up in rooms built for men who thought we never would.
Inside, the ballroom was full of politics, jealousy, and old money trying to look important.
Crystal glasses.
Black gowns.
Diamond earrings.
Men who built their empires on other people’s blood but liked to call it philanthropy.
I moved through the room.
People shook my hand.
Congratulated me on Forbes.
Told me my growth was inspiring.
All that fake shit.
I let them talk.
That was the easiest part of power. Smiling at people you could bury with one phone call.
I started glancing around the room and saw Lyric.
She was across the room by the bar in a black dress that hugged every damn thought I didn’t need to be having. Hair down. Makeup soft. Face set like she wasn’t there to enjoy herself.
She looked alone.
For a second, I almost respected that.
I didn’t stop walking. Didn’t let my eyes sit on her too long. Just kept moving, greeting a mayor on my left, some tech investor on my right, a judge who owed me a favor somewhere near the center of the room.
But I watched her anyway.
That was the problem with history. It didn’t disappear just because you needed it to.
