“For real.”
He handed us the cups and took off running, probably before I could change my mind.
Truth took hers, shaking her head. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” I peeled back the plastic lid and dug in with the little plastic spoon. The ice was sweet and cold, perfect for the heat. “But I wanted to.”
We ate in comfortable silence for a minute, watching the park move around us. Kids playing on the swings, couples walking dogs, an old man feeding pigeons by the fountain.
“So,” Truth finally said, licking strawberry ice off her spoon. “What do you do when you’re not giving unsolicited trading advice to strangers?”
“I work in the family business,” I said. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. “Operations, logistics, that kind of thing. What about you?”
She hesitated, and I saw something shift in her expression. Guarded again. Careful.
“I’m between things right now,” she said. “Figuring out my next move.”
“That’s fair.” I didn’t push. “Sometimes you gotta step back before you can step forward.”
“Yeah.” She looked down at her Dixie Cup. “Something like that.”
We talked for another hour after that—about New Orleans, about music, about the best places to get food in the city. She told me about her mama’s cooking, about growing up in the Seventh Ward, about the way the city felt different after Katrina. I told her about learning to trade, about the satisfaction of reading the market right, about wanting something that was mine and not tied to anyone else’s expectations.
I didn’t tell her my last name.
Didn’t tell her about Amai or Winston or the empire built on blood and territory.
Just let her see Kaisen—the man, not the legacy.
And she seemed to relax into that. Seemed to let her guard down just enough for me to see the woman underneath the armor.
By the time the sun started dropping lower in the sky, her laptop battery was dying, and she’d made more money than we’d expected.
“I should probably head out,” she said, closing her laptop. “Before it gets dark.”
“Let me take you to dinner first,” I said.
She looked at me, and I saw the conflict in her eyes. Interest. Hesitation.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “My life is complicated right now.”
“I’m not afraid of complicated.”
“Are you afraid of dating a woman who agreed to be a surrogate?”
The question hung in the air between us, sharp and honest. Testing me. Seeing if I’d flinch.
I didn’t.
“Depends on the why,” I said.
She studied me for a long moment, like she was trying to figure out if I meant it. Then, she exhaled slowly.
“I had some financial troubles after my divorce,” she said quietly. “It was a way out. A way to start over without drowning.”
“That’s brave,” I said, and I meant it. “A lot of people wouldn’t have the guts to do what you doing.”
“Or the desperation.” Her smile was sad. “But yeah. That’s where I’m at. So, dinner probably isn’t?—”
