Laurent Delacroix
“Pretty Girls Don’t Get Chosen, They Get Replaced.”
Delacroix Riviera… Marseille, France
Isat in my grandfather’s office in France, sprawled back in the leather chair, Armani suit on, staring at my thirty-thousand-dollar watch, trying to figure out the time on it. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Marcel didn’t invite me in tonight, but I came anyway. To stir things up in the family.
The video I was watching looped on my phone again. Lyric Banks slapping sexy ass Bianca Cole. Bianca dragging Lyric across the pavement like a rag dog.
I watched it for the tenth time and smirked. My little cousin, the so-called king of Los Angeles, was crowned by my grandfather as if he were some kind of savior. The Black face of the Delacroix family. And this was how he was leading? His empire was cracking.
I turned the volume up. Let the shouts, the curses, the crowd’s laughter echo through the office.
“Quel est ce bruit?” my grandfather barked from his desk without looking up.What’s that noise?
I stood, slow, dramatic, holding the phone toward him. “It’s Ares, Grand père,” I said, calling him grandfather in French. “Your nigger grandson. This is what he leaves behind when he runs here to France. Look at them. Women tearing each other apart in public. And all of Los Angeles is watching.”
Grand-père flicked his eyes toward the screen for a second, then back to his papers. In French, he muttered, “Des femmes se battent. Et alors?They are women. They fight. Most men in our family have too many. Stop calling him a nigger, too. That’s your blood.”
I wanted to frown but hid it behind a smile. “Oui, Grand-père. But it isn’t about the women. It’s about thename.Delacroix. If he is my blood, he doesn’t act like it.”
I stepped closer, lowering my voice so it curled like poison. “He’s too Americanized. Too flashy. He doesn’t understand discipline. His women don’t respect our name.”
Marcel lifted a hand, cutting me off. He didn’t argue. He didn’t dismiss me. He just stared at the video for a beat longer than he had to before going back to his desk.
That was enough.
The seed was planted.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket. Because while everyone else was laughing at the fight, I saw something else on that screen. Bianca. The way she fought. The fire in her eyes.
She didn’t belong to him.
One day, she’d see that.
And one day, Ares would regret ever being crowned king in my family.
CHAPTER 8
Naomi
ONE WEEK LATER…
“We Knew What We Signed Up For”
Ihadn’t planned on setting foot in no damn club tonight. Royal Fade had me drained, hands cramping from cutting fades back-to-back, but one of my girls swore I needed to let off steam. So here I was, in a dark VIP corner with a glass of Henny, watching diamonds and egos bounce under neon lights.
That’s when I noticed Amara Kevins.
The quiet one the blogs had been whispering about. The “Ms. Forbes Party Planner” everybody swore was new in Ares’ rotation. She didn’t look like a girlfriend to me, though. She looked like she belonged to the job. She had a clipboard in hand, headset tucked behind her ear, moving tables, adjusting candles, keeping the chaos in line without even breaking a sweat. Amara was cute, a face and dress code for a billionaire
She didn’t see me, but I was watching.
And so was Leona. I got up and moved to the bar where they were. I wanted to hear what Lenora would say to Amara.
Leona was drunk already, dripping in fake confidence, stumbling from one person to the next with her laugh too loud and her smile too sharp. Leona was very insecure, and it took Ares to pull out her confidence as a model and singer.
She spotted Amara and headed straight for her like a shark catching blood in the water, and so did I. Something told me to watch Amara like a big sister.
