Page 173 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

I stood there in the quiet room, running my index finger over the cool silver.

We didn’t pretend the boy hadn’t existed. We didn’t bury his memory just because his father had gone mad on a riverboat. Every now and then, when the rain hit the windows at night, Amai would lay his hand over the small of my back and whisper, I wonder if he would’ve had your laugh.

And I would tell him, No. He would’ve been stubborn and quiet.

Grief didn’t leave you. It just made room for other things to grow around it. Kaisen had stolen weeks of my life, had poisoned my mind with a manufactured fantasy, had tried to make me believe that captivity was protection. He had died believing he was a hero in a romance only he could see.

I didn’t hate him anymore. Hate took too much energy, and I needed every drop of mine for the baby drooling on her flashcards in the kitchen. But I didn’t forgive him, either. I left Kaisen Landry where he belonged: in the past, beneath the dark water of the Atchafalaya, an example of what happened when a man called ownership love.

A shadow crossed the threshold, and Amai stepped into the room.

He smelled like hickory smoke and fresh air. He didn’t sneak up on me—he never did that anymore. He always made sure his footsteps were heavy enough for me to hear him coming.

“Meat’s resting,” he said quietly, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.

“Good. Mama was about to revoke your backyard privileges.”

He smiled, but his eyes were on my hand resting on the silver rattle. He crossed the room with slow, measured steps, stopping just behind me. He didn’t reach out immediately. He waited until I turned around, until my eyes met his, before he lifted his hand and tucked a loose curl behind my ear.

“You tired?” he asked.

“A little,” I admitted. “Tru decided four in the morning was the ideal time to practice standing up in the crib.”

“I’ll take the night shift,” he said. “You got that hospital orientation tomorrow.”

“Amai, you have a meeting with the port authority at seven.”

“Then I’ll drink more coffee.” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a slim manila folder, and held it out to me. “This came by courier an hour ago. From the city zoning board.”

I looked down at the folder. “What is it?”

“The permits for that clinic space on Claiborne,” he said, his voice quiet, steady, stripped of all arrogance. “The one you looked at three months ago. The old pharmacy with the brick facade.”

My breath caught in my throat. I looked up at his face. “Amai… that building was in probate. The owners weren’t selling.”

“They sold,” he said simply. “Title’s clean. No shell companies. No Landry holdings. It’s registered entirely in your name, Truth. Truth Renois, sole proprietor.”

I opened the folder. The deed was right there, stamped in blue ink, with my name printed across the top of the state seal.

“I didn’t buy it so you could work for me,” Amai said, taking a half-step back, giving me room to breathe, giving me the space he had once spent months trying to steal. “I bought it because you told me one day you wanted to open a maternal health center for girls in the Seventh Ward who don’t have insurance. When you finish your residency, it’s there. If you want to use it, it’s yours. If you want to sell it and buy something else in Atlanta or Houston or New York, you can do that too.”

My eyes stung, the blue ink blurring on the page.

“And what if I took Tru and moved to Atlanta?” I asked, testing the air between us, looking for the old shadows of the man who used to put snipers on rooftops.

Amai didn’t flinch. A muscle ticked in his jaw, the raw, terrifying depth of what he felt for me flashing in his dark eyes, but his hands stayed loose at his sides.

“Then I’d buy a house in Atlanta,” he said softly. “Down the street. Close enough to see her on weekends, and far enough that you wouldn’t have to look at me if you didn’t want to.”

He reached out, his thumb gently catching a single tear that had spilled over my lower lash line.

“I’m not your warden, Truth,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that made my whole body feel anchored. “I spent my whole life being Winston’s weapon. I thought if I didn’t hold the leash, the world would take what was mine. But you ain’t something to keep. You’re something to choose.”

He stepped closer, his chest brushing against mine, waiting. Always waiting for my permission now.

I closed the folder, set it on the shelf beside the silver rattle, and put both of my hands flat against his broad, warm chest. I could feel his heart beating underneath the black cotton—strong, steady, alive.

“I choose you, Amai,” I whispered. “Not because I’m scared of what’s out there. But because I like who I am when you’re beside me.”