I stepped closer to the bed.
“Yeah, you’re passing it down,” I said calmly. “If I marry a fucking crackhead.”
His face changed instantly.
“Excuse me?”
“I know who I’m marrying,” I said. “And she’s a drug addict. Deranged. Living in an alley while y’all calling her an heiress.”
He frowned.
“You want peace with the Laveaus so bad you’d hand me a broken bride? You told me that having multiple girlfriends made the family look weak. But marrying an addict makes sense?”
I stepped closer to his bed.
“You don’t want to look like a racist old man who won’t pass the throne to his Black grandson, so you think marrying me off to a mess fixes your image?”
His eyes flashed.
“Watch how you speak to me.”
“Watch how you move with my life.”
We stared at each other.
Generational ego meeting generational ego.
“You think because I’m sick you can come in here yelling?” he asked quietly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I exhaled slowly.
Calmed down on purpose.
“The Laveaus,” I said. “Their son is my right hand. His sister is the heiress. She’s on drugs. Did you know?”
“No,” he said firmly. “And if she is tainted, the deal is off.”
I paced once in front of his bed.
Then I stopped.
“No,” I said.
His brow lifted.
“We’re not calling it off.”
He studied me.
“You just came in here screaming.”
“You said you didn’t know,” I replied. “That makes them liars. That makes them weak.”
I leaned in slightly.
“But I’ll play their game.”
His eyes narrowed.
