His money was polished.
Mine had dirt on it with more weight.
That difference always bothered him.
Lyric had every right to hate me.
To be angry.
To feel played.
But standing beside one of my biggest enemies in a room like this?
That was a choice, not heartbreak.
Darius appeared beside me like he could smell the shift in my mood.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
I smoothed the front of my jacket. “Perfect.”
“You don’t look perfect.”
“I didn’t ask what I look like.”
He let out a quiet breath and adjusted his own cuff. “Your donation speech is in ten.”
“Good. I’m ready to get the fuck out of here.”
I headed toward the front of the ballroom without looking back at Lyric again.
Because if I looked too soon, I might leave this gala with a body count, and tonight wasn’t built for that.
Tonight was built for image.
And I wore mine better than anybody in the room.
By the time I got on stage, the room was quiet.
That always amused me.
Men with more degrees than street sense.
Women married to monsters.
Families who’d kill for influence.
All of them still knew when to shut the fuck up.
I stood behind the podium, one hand in my pocket, the other resting near the mic.
“I won’t keep y’all long,” I said.
A few light laughs.
“I know events like this like to make it seem like money changes the world overnight. It doesn’t. People do. Discipline does. Access does.”
I glanced out across the room.
