The Rolls-Royce purred low as we pulled away from the estate, the French countryside stretching dark and endless. I leaned back, head against the leather, eyes closed. My grandfather’s words echoed like gunfire. This nigga was dying and leaving me everything…
Eight months. An arranged marriage. Or nothing.
I could still see Laurent’s smug ass smirk in the corner, like he thought this was his win. Like I couldn’t let every woman go to get what’s mine.
“Va te faire foutre,” I muttered under my breath, tasting the venom.Fuck him. Fuck the whole room.
The car ride back to Aix-en-Provence was silent. That’s when I decided I couldn’t stay another night here.
I went back to my hotel and got my things.
The convoy cut straight through the city to the Delacroix runway. Not a commercial airport. Those were for civilians. The Delacroix’s owned strips of concrete across France, across the States, across countries most people couldn’t find on a map. Our family didn’t wait in TSA lines. We built our own gates.
The runway glowed under floodlights, private jets lined like silver sharks. Men with rifles stood in shadows. Every one of them carried our crest, every one of them would bleed if I told them to.
My jet waited at the far end, matte black with the Delacroix insignia etched near the tail. Inside, it was darker than a morgue, leather seats stitched with gold thread, bottles of Cristal chilling on ice. A bed in the back. Two guards were already seated, cleaning weapons.
I stepped inside, the air-conditioned chill biting against my skin.
For a moment, I just stood there, looking out the window at the runway.
This was supposed to be peace. France. My escape. Instead, it was another reminder that even kings got leashes.
Marcel thought he could corner me with ultimatums because he was dying. Laurent thought he could kiss Marcel’s ass to steal my spot.
They both forgot one thing.
I wasn’t an heir. I was a conqueror.
I sat down, pulled out my phone, and finally scrolled. I wasn’t a social media nigga, even though I was everywhere. The only time I hopped on was during flights or when I was needed.
The first headline hit me in the face.
“Billionaire Ares Delacroix-Jackson’s Girlfriends Brawl in Beverly Hills Over A Lawsuit for Negligence.”
The second one wasn’t any better.
“Bottle-Swinging Chaos: Model/Singer Leona Vega and Celebrity Barber Naomi Carter Trade Blows at LA Club, Event Planner And Newest Fling Amara Caught in the Middle. Sources Say Leona Had An Abortion?”
Videos. Photos. Memes already circulating. My women trending for all the wrong reasons, and they were arguing with each other in comments, telling all of our business. I kept them separate, never had threesomes. I treated them like they were the only one, and yet they still found a way to hate each other.
I smirked. The kind of smirk that meant blood was about to spill.
Let them laugh. Let them gossip. Let the world think I was weak.
By the time I landed in LA, they’d remember.
“Fermez la porte,” I told my guard, voice flat.Shut the door.
The jet engines roared to life, the ground trembling beneath us.
I leaned back in the leather seat, pulled out my iPad, and started plotting what I had for my women. I dozed off mid-flight, and my last thought was…
Eight months or not…this game was still mine.
$$$$$
Ten hours in the air had passed like nothing. I stretched out in my leather seat, blacked-out windows, silk blanket over me, and slept like I didn’t have five different attitudes to deal with. When I opened my eyes, I was in Los Angeles again.
