Page 27 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 3

She was just mad.

I could work with mad.

Mad was temporary. Mad was emotional. Mad could be soothed, smoothed over, redirected.

Mad wasn’t the same as gone.

If she were truly done—if she’d really cut me out of her life—she wouldn’t have used the card. She would’ve refused to touch anything connected to me. She would’ve gone to her sisters, her mother, anyone else for help.

But she hadn’t.

She’d used my card.

And that told me everything I needed to know.

She was still mine.

She just didn’t know it yet.

I leaned back in the driver’s seat. The rage was still there—burning, consuming, demanding retribution for the empty vault and the dead staff and Winston’s betrayal.

But beneath it, I had hope now.

Twisted, obsessive, probably unhealthy hope—but hope nonetheless.

Truth hadn’t left me.

Not really.

She’d just put up walls. And walls could be torn down. Walls could be climbed. Walls could be dismantled brick by brick until there was nothing left between us.

I didn’t give a fuck if she used the card for honestly. What’s mine was hers. Simple.

It was a black card—there was no limit. She could spend a million dollars and I wouldn’t blink. She could buy a house, a car, an entire wardrobe. She could pay off every debt she had and fund her entire education and it wouldn’t even make a dent.

Because money wasn’t the point.

The point was that she couldn’t escape me even when she tried.

And maybe that made me a sick fuck. Maybe it made me obsessive and controlling and everything she’d accused me of being.

But I didn’t care.

I’d spent my entire life being told what I couldn’t have. What I didn’t deserve. What was out of reach. It didn’t stop me, but I hated hearing it nonetheless.

Winston had drilled it into me from the time I was old enough to understand: the Landry legacy came first. The family came first. Personal desires were secondary. Sacrifices had to be made.

And I’d accepted it. I’d buried the part of me that wanted something more.

A wife. A child. A family.

I’d settled for pieces—for Yahmaria’s cold arrangement, for meaningless encounters with women whose names I forgot, for the hollow satisfaction of power and control.

Until Truth.

She’d walked into my life and shattered every wall I’d built. Every defense I’d constructed. Every lie I’d told myself about what I wanted and what I deserved.

And now that I’d had a taste of what it felt like to want something—someone—for myself, I wasn’t letting go.