Page 153 of The Sweetest Return

“Pops.”

“You ain't getting nobody back hungry.”

I stared at him.

He opened the deck door. “Your mama made biscuits.”

And because the man was annoying, correct, and my father, I followed him inside.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

At eleven Monday morning, I had already stared at Andre Jones’s name on my phone four times and pretended each time that I was simply too busy to answer.

That was almost true.

Saint Aurelia had greeted me with a full inbox, two calendar requests, one nervous message from PR, and a list of names I’d collected during Crown Weekend that needed follow-up before the warmth of those conversations cooled.

I had come into the office early with coffee, sore thighs, and a mouth still tender enough to make brushing my teeth an event.

That part was Dre’s fault.

The rest was work.

My office sat behind ribbed glass with my name newly etched across the door. Inside, everything still felt a little too neat to be fully mine: cream walls, walnut shelves, brass lamps, campaign boards beside sales reports, and a framed photograph of Aurelia St. Clair standing behind a velvet jewelry counter in the Hill District. Pearls at her throat, marcel waves close to her head, and a stare that made it very clear she had never needed anybody else to tell her what luxury meant.

The rest of Saint Aurelia carried that same spirit. Black art. Fresh flowers. Archive photographs of women in gloves, church hats, fur collars, silk blouses, gold bangles, diamonds. Staff who could move from carat weight to shipping delays to somebody’s auntie’s macaroni in the same conversation without dropping a single thread.

At YSL, I had known the machine. I knew where to press, when to smile, and when to let a room believe my idea had been theirs all along.

Saint Aurelia was different.

Smaller. Black-owned. Family-rooted. Protective of its name in a way I respected. I had authority here, but I was still new enough to listen before I started rearranging furniture in somebody else’s house.

Confidence got me hired.

Discernment would help me stay.

Nina stood beside my desk with her tablet against her chest. Young, pretty, brown-skinned, knotless braids pulled high, gold hoops at her jaw, and eyes quick enough to catch everything she was still deciding whether she had permission to say.

I liked that about her.

The prototype bracelet shifted at my wrist while I reviewed our Crown Weekend follow-up list.

“At the Crown Club, nobody asked whether Saint Aurelia was affordable.”

Nina looked up.

“They asked when the bracelet would be available.”

Her stylus paused. “That’s a very different question.”

“Exactly.”

Black women did not need permission to desire beautiful things. They needed to see themselves centered without being flattened into somebody’s campaign trend. Saint Aurelia already had the craftsmanship. The stones had fire. The settings had attitude. My job was to make sure the right women recognized the house before somebody else explained it badly.

I tapped Marisol Grant’s name.

“Private preview. No gifting.”