Page 113

She was a middle-aged Black woman stuffed with enough filler and silicone that the shit probably seeped into her brain. Maxwell probably had one too many young mistresses and she needed to keep up. Her salt and pepper hair was styled into the perfect fuck-ass bob, and she had on a silver Gucci playsuit that dipped low enough to show off her boob job. Not really my choice for a cocktail party, but go off, aunty.

I was three glasses of champagne deep when she found me at the bar. By that time, I’d ignored enough dirty looks and shady remarks from the other members of the Table to know they weren’t happy with the engagement. It was information that I filed away for later.

“La’Belle,” she said, materializing beside me with a wide smile. I knew she was about to say some shit that would piss me off. “I have to ask.” She lowered her voice like we were old girlfriends about to share a hot piece of gossip. “Forgive me if this comes across too forward, but some of the other women were curious. How exactly did you and Cardez get together? Because we’ve known him since he was a boy and he’s never—” She cocked her head. “Well. He’s always been very selective about who he brings around.”

“That he is,” I agreed.

“So then you can understand why we’re all a little—” She tapped her chin, searching for the word. “Surprised by the engagement. Especially because no one’s ever heard of you before. We just want to make sure he’s being taken care of properly and this isn’t some kind of…arrangement.”

“Patty.” I smiled when she frowned at the nickname. “I want to make sure I understand what you’re asking me.” I tilted my head, mimicking her gesture. “Are you asking if I’m a whore?”

Her face went through three different expressions in rapid succession.

“Because I want to make sure we’re on the same page,” I continued, making sure to keep my voice warm. “And that you understand what kind of bitch I am.” I looked at her ring, which was vintage and had probably belonged to her husband’s mother. “I’m sure you’ve been in this world way longer than I have. How old are you? Sixty? So you must know that the women who end up beside men like Cardez are in one of two categories. The ones who were chosen for their last name and ones who were chosen because he actually wanted them there.” I took another sip of champagne. “I’m quite obviously the latter, which I know can be confusing for someone like you.”

Her nostrils flared.

“And if I was a whore, please believe that I’d be the most successful one any of you had ever met. Because I don’t do shit halfway.” I winked. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

I left her standing there and grabbed a canapé off a passing tray on my way back across the room. Cardez met me in the middle of it.

“You good?” he asked as he slipped an arm around my waist. I hadn’t been this close to him in weeks, and as much as I wanted to shove him off me, his presence was comforting.

“Splendid. Amazing,” I said, sarcasm lacing my tone.

“Patricia say some out of pocket shit?”

“She basically asked if I was a hooker.” I looked over my shoulder. She was surrounded by the other women now, who were stealing glances at Cardez and me.

“What?” He turned but I caught his arm.

“I dealt with it.”

He looked at my hand on his arm. It was the first time I’d touched him in a nonaggressive way in weeks. I quickly pulled away as I felt the heat crawl up my spine.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

He nodded and lifted the glass out of my hand, exchanging it for a new one from the passing tray.

I rolled my eyes and took the glass from him.

We spent the rest of the evening moving through the room together. There were no congratulations, just a room full of people sizing us up and trying to determine the validity of our relationship.

That didn’t bother me. What bothered me was how I felt next to him as the evening went on.

I was sure all the alcohol I’d been drinking had something to do with it. I wasn’t drunk, but I was teetering on the edge. Weeks of living in his space, smelling his cologne lingering in the penthouse long after he’d gone and pretending I didn’t notice it. All of it had been simmering underneath the anger and hurt and the champagne was loosening whatever I’d been using to keep it there.

Somewhere over the last hour, his hand around me had stopped feeling like a claim. Now my body was acting like it had amnesia over the nigga who’d coerced me into marriage.

I’d finally gotten away from him, sitting alone at a table while he talked to some investors. Orlando sauntered over with his cane, moving slower, but the way he carried himself hadn’t changed.

“La’Belle,” he said as he took the seat next to me. His jaw clenched as he lowered himself into it.

“Orlando.” I eyed him. “You look well considering.”

“I’d be better if I’d taken a damn edible before I came here,” he grunted.