Page 141 of The Wright Man

Held her against my chest as she cried like she was trying to wring the pain out of her bones. I rubbed her back. Rocked her gently. Whispered what comfort I could find in the broken places.

She eventually started to settle. Her breathing evened out.

I helped her up, unwrapped her gloves with care, wiped her tears with the tissues we kept on deck for this very thing.

My heart was pounding.

Because I could've sworn—when she screamed—She'd said my name.

But no. I'd misheard.

"Angel..." I asked softly, "Who's Maleeka?"

She sniffled. Closed her eyes. Took a breath that seemed to stretch time.

"Maleeka..." she said, her voice cracked and quiet, "was my daughter."

Chapter Twenty-Three

Maleek

I didn't breathe. Couldn't.

It hit me like a damn freight train.

I had no words. Just my presence. And she let me give her that.

"Angel…"

I reached for her, but she stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself like she was trying to hold in whatever was left.

Angelica stood on the floor of the GhostFit boxing room, her legs stiff beneath her, arms crossed tight around her body like she was trying to hold herself together. Her cheeks were streaked with tears. Her hair stuck to her damp skin in little curly tendrils. And her voice… that voice that had carried me through wars both literal and personal… was cracked and whisper-soft.

And I just listened.

"After the wedding… I didn't want kids right away," she started, her eyes unfocused. "I wanted time. To breathe. To build something for myself before I started trying to raise anybody else."

I nodded, even though she wasn't looking at me. I didn't move. Didn't speak. Just gave her the space to keep going.

"Gavin didn't like that," she continued, bitterness curling in her throat like smoke. "Said he only let me finish school because I begged him to. That I needed to grow up and be a wife instead of 'daydreaming about braiding hair.'"

Her voice cracked on that last part. My fists curled tight at my sides.

"He was always shitting on my dreams," she said, almost like it hurt her to admit it. And the rage that bloomed in my chest could've set this whole building on fire.

I didn't interrupt.

"I told him he didn't let me do anything. And if being a wife meant being barefoot, pregnant, and completely dependent on him, he might as well go file the papers now."

That made me proud. I felt it. A beat of pride for the girl who'd always had a spine made of steel, even when she didn't feel it herself.

"Of course, he didn't want a divorce," she went on. "Didn't like how that would look. So we agreed—focus on our careers first. Start trying later."

She paused for a second. Then her eyes slid to mine.

"He got what he wanted anyway. Six months in. Birth control, condoms—didn't matter. I got pregnant."

She didn't have to say it, but I knew. She hadn't been ready.