08. anthony's angel
As Reaper and Niecey’s explosive relationship unfolds, Bishop realizes the mirror they hold up might be closer to home than he thought.
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BISHOP
“Niecey, I’m not gon’ call you over here again. Come tell me how I look!” Reaper shouted, his voice carrying through the house as he ran his hands over his fresh haircut in the mirror.
“Fuck you, Reginald!” she snapped, storming past him, her heels clicking sharply against the floor.
Reaper spun around, his hand reaching out to gently grab her arm, but she shoved him off with an angry glare.
“I’m tired of this little attitude you got,” he growled, his jaw tightening.
“And I’m tired of you acting all ignant every time somebody barely looks at me!” she shot back, her voice laced with exasperation.
I was sitting on the couch scrolling the Juniper Facebook page, sick and tired of these two.
Reaper’s spot was like a second home, but when him and Niecey started in on each other, it was always the same. They were either so damn loving it made you want to throw up, or they were in the middle of some stupid-ass argument that usually ended in loud ass makeup sex.
But what do you expect from two people who met under the wildest circumstances and fell in love like they were the last two people on earth? Sick motherfuckers.
“I’m saying, why would you pull your gun out on him in the middle of the BBQ spot?” Niecey whined, shoving Reaper in the chest with both hands.
“He shouldn’t have been eye-fucking you!” Reaper screamed, his voice bouncing off the walls.
“He was showing me the menu!” Niecy screamed back.
“Not the damn waiter…” DeShawn muttered under his breath from the recliner.
Jackson burst out laughing, nearly choking on his spit, while Cordell shook his head in disbelief. Somehow, even with Jackson moving, Cordell managed to keep the clippers steady, his focus unshakable. He’d just finished my cut earlier, as he always did when I called him for a house call. It was one of the perks of being me—avoiding the barbershop and the endless complaints from folks blaming the government for every little thing while I was trying to get fresh.
Right now, I wasn’t trying to hear any of it. The city was in shambles, and somehow, Juniper’s government had become the scapegoat for Mr. House’s actions. People acted like we were supposed to have him on a leash.
Reaper ignored the commentary, turning his full attention to Niecey with a glare that could’ve started a wildfire. He jabbed a finger in her direction like he was laying down the law. “You don’t see me looking at nobody! Ain’t no man got no business looking at my wife like that!”
Cordell chuckled under his breath as he worked, steady as ever. “Man, y’all something else.”
Cordell wasn’t officially part of the crew, but he’d always been around—Juniper born and bred, just like the rest of us. He’d grown up knowing all our quirks, our tempers, and our bad habits, and somehow he’d mastered the art of tolerating our shenanigans without getting dragged into them. Hell, he’d been cutting our hair back when he barely knew how to hold clippers, long before he had any kind of license. It didn’t matter if it was in somebody’s garage, on a back porch, or in the middle of a dice game—if you needed a lineup, Cordell was your guy.
DeShawn grinned. “Jealous, ass.”
Reaper shot him a glare. “Say something else, DeShawn. I dare you.”
Jackson leaned back in the chair, smirking. “Man, you gon’ pull your gun on the waiter, but you ain’t gon’ do shit to Niecey. We all know who runs this house.”
That set off another round of laughter, but Reaper stayed locked on Niecey, who looked like she was just about done.
“You got one more time to embarrass me in public, Reggie,” she said, her voice sharp. “One. More. Time.”
“You gon’ keep testing me,” Reaper warned, his tone low and full of threat. “Entertain these niggas in my face one more time and see what happens.”
Niecey rolled her eyes so hard I thought they were about to pop out and land on the floor. “Reggie, he was asking if I wanted ribs or brisket. I wasn’t flirting—I was placing a damn order!”
“Reggie, but why you do that?” DeShawn chuckled from the recliner as he mimicked Niecy’s voice, clearly enjoying the show.
Reaper shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. “Fuck you and fuck that little apron-wearing motherfucker,” he said, sucking his teeth as he turned back to the mirror to admire his haircut. “And Niecy, chill the fuck out before I put some gray sweatpants on and go to Target with this fresh cut.”
Before anyone could add to the chaos, a damn soda can came flying across the room, smacking Reaper square in the back with a loud thud before hitting the ground.
“Bernice!” Reaper hollered, spinning around, his hand flying to his back like he’d just been shot.
Niecey stood there in the kitchen, arms crossed, her glare colder than an unheated church in winter. “You wanna go to Target? Go ahead, Reginald. I dare you. Walk your ass into that Target with your fresh cut and them gray sweatpants so all the thirsty bitches can clock what’s mine. I hope they enjoy the view—because the second one of them breathes in your direction, I’ll be up there in aisle seven throwing hands next to the laundry detergent.”
The whole room went silent for a second, everyone frozen in disbelief, before DeShawn let out a low whistle. “Man, you dead,” he muttered, shaking his head like he was attending a funeral.
Jackson damn near fell off the couch, slapping his knee. “Reap, that soda can was a warning shot! Next time it’s gonna be a cast iron skillet. Sit your ass down before she sends you to the ER.”
Even Cordell had to stop mid-lineup, setting the clippers down like he couldn’t risk accidentally messing up Jackson’s cut. He was grinning, his shoulders shaking. “Target? With gray sweatpants? Bro, that’s not a death wish, that’s a suicide mission.”
Reaper spun around, pointing a finger at Niecey with a mix of pain and indignation on his face, like she’d just betrayed the Geneva Convention. “You out here assaulting me now? In front of my boys? My crew?!”
Niecey shrugged, completely unbothered. “Keep talking crazy, and it won’t just be a can next time.”
DeShawn leaned back, grinning wide. “Man, I don’t even need Netflix with y’all around.”
“Matter of fact, Niecey,” Reaper hollered, pointing toward the hallway like he was sentencing her to death row. “Get your ass in that room! Since you wanna show out in front of company so damn bad!”
The whole room froze. Not a single cough, breath, or shuffle. All eyes darted between Reaper and Niecey like we were ringside at a heavyweight championship fight.
Niecey tilted her head ever so slightly, her expression deadpan but laced with danger. “Oh, you big and bad now? You giving me orders?”
“Damn right, I am!” Reaper barked back, puffing out his chest like he was auditioning for a superhero movie. “You wanna throw cans? Fine. Get your ass in that room so I can handle you proper! You clearly need some attention.”
Niecey took a deliberate step forward, squaring up like she was ready to drop him where he stood. “Oh, you really wanna handle me, huh, Reginald?”
Reaper’s grin faltered, just for a second—like he realized he might’ve bitten off more than he could chew. But his pride wouldn’t let him back down. “You heard me, Mrs. Kent,” he said, his voice wavering just enough for us to catch it.
Niecey let out a sharp, exasperated breath, then turned on her heel, her hips swaying with enough force to make the air shift. Before disappearing down the hallway, she glanced over her shoulder, her tone dripping with venomous sarcasm. “Don’t keep me waiting, Reginald.”
Reaper stood frozen, chest still puffed out, but we could see the confidence draining out of him in real time. The second she disappeared, the room erupted into laughter so loud it probably shook the damn walls.
DeShawn leaned back, holding his stomach. “Man, you dead. You so dead. She gonna body you in there.”
Jackson was wiping tears. “Reap, I hope you wrote your will, bro. Ain’t no coming back from that one.”
Even Cordell had to set the clippers down, shaking his head with a grin. “Man, this ain’t a marriage—it’s an endurance sport.”
Reaper just grinned, grabbing his phone off the counter. “Y’all keep laughing. Meanwhile, I’m about to go remind her exactly who she married.” He winked, peeling off his shirt dramatically, tossing it onto the couch like he was about to step into a boxing ring.
DeShawn scrunched his face in mock disgust. “Man, put a shirt back on. Ain’t nobody trying to see that!”
Reaper ignored him, strutting toward the hallway with all the confidence of a man walking straight into his own demise. At the door to his bedroom, he paused, spinning dramatically to face us one last time.
“Finna show yo ass why they call me Reaper, ’cause I’m ’bout to murder that pussy!” he yelled before slamming the door shut behind him.
Jackson doubled over in laughter, damn near falling out of the chair. “This dude’s a fool!” he wheezed.
I let out a heavy sigh, shaking my head as I sank back into my seat. “One of these days, Niecey gon’ put him in a body bag for real.”
“Them two crazy as hell,” Cordell muttered, his focus back on Jackson’s lineup, though even he was smirking. “I don’t know how they do it, man. Every time I’m over here, it’s a damn episode of Love & Hood Arguments.”
DeShawn leaned back, grinning. “Man, it’s all foreplay to them. Toxic as hell, but it works.”
Jackson nodded, trying to hold still as he stifled his laughter. “Reaper and Niecey need their own reality show.”
I just shook my head again. “Nah, they’d get canceled in the first episode. Too much wild shit for TV.”
Before I could chime in some more, my phone started buzzing on the table. I grabbed it, sighing when I saw the name on the screen.
“Alistair,” my mother’s voice greeted me the second I answered, and not in the warm, welcoming way. No, this was the patented Genie Bishop lecture tone, sharp enough to cut glass. “I haven’t seen you in days. You know Sunday tea is our mother-son time—we’ve been doing it forever. And now, you’ve just thrown your mother away like trash by trying to cancel on me with a text message.”
Nobody, and I mean nobody, on the planet was more dramatic than my mother. Genie could turn a stubbed toe into a Shakespearean tragedy. I muted my mic and groaned, scrubbing a hand down my face to my freshly lined-up beard.
“Mom, I wasn’t trying to cancel—”
“Don’t interrupt me, Alistair!” she snapped, her voice rising another octave. “You’ve been canceling or rescheduling left and right lately, and I’m not going to tolerate it! You think you’re too busy for your own mother now?”
“Mom, you know how crazy it’s been since the crash,” I started, trying to sound reasonable, though I already knew it wouldn’t work.
“Oh, so you’re too busy cleaning up other people’s messes to make time for me?” she shot back. “I raised you better than this, Alistair. If I don’t see you within the hour, I’ll be telling your father exactly who broke his golf clubs.”
The room erupted into muffled laughter at that. I shot them a look that only made them laugh harder.
“Mom—”
“One hour, Alistair!” she declared before hanging up on me.
I stared at my phone, blinking in disbelief. “The betrayal,” I muttered, tossing it onto the table.
DeMarcus grinned. “Better go get that tea, Bish, before she calls your dad.”
“Y’all real funny,” I said.
“Well, Mama Harris ain’t making us dinner today with everything going on,” Jackson said, brushing stray hair off his shoulders as he looked in the handheld mirror. “Let’s see what Genie got going on.”
“Count me out. Y’all know they bougie over there,” DeShawn said, sucking his teeth as he scrolled on his phone. “Tea and crumpets and shit. Ain’t no real food over there.”
I rolled my eyes. “Man, Genie’s tea setup is legendary. You better put some respect on her charcuterie boards.”
DeShawn snorted. “Charcuterie boards? Sounds like white folks’ appetizers. Ain’t no fried chicken on no damn charcuterie board.”
Jackson laughed. “You keep talking like that, and Genie might put you on the no-entry list.”
“Genie love me,” DeShawn shot back, grinning wide. “She’d just make me sit in the kitchen with the help.”
I sighed, standing up and grabbing my keys. “Y’all coming or not? If I’m going to face her wrath, you might as well get a taste of what real tea looks like.”
Before anyone could answer, we all froze, our heads snapping toward the hallway as we heard it—the unmistakable thump-thump of someone knocking against the wall, followed by loud moaning and the sharp, unmistakable crack of slaps echoing through the house.
“All that shit you was talking!” Reaper’s muffled voice rang out, strained but still dripping with authority. Each word was punctuated by what had to be the sound of him laying down a combo of spanks on Niecey’s ass.
Jackson’s jaw dropped. “Ain’t no way…”
Suddenly, there was a grunt, followed by the shatter of glass hitting the floor.
“Bernice, what the fuck?!” Reaper yelled, his voice cracking like a scared teenager. “Girl—Bernice! Oh shit!”
The bed squealed louder, the springs screaming for their life as Niecey’s laughter rang out, sharp and unbothered.
“Try to go to Target now, motherfucker!” Niecey hollered, her voice full of triumph.
“You gon’ break my shit!” Reaper squealed, and I swear to God, it came out three octaves higher than his usual voice. “Niecey!”
DeShawn clutched his stomach, tears streaming down his face. “This man just squealed like a whole bitch!”
Jackson slid out of the recliner onto the floor, gasping for air as he wheezed. “Man, I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”
Even Cordell, who normally kept it cool, had to set the clippers down, doubling over with laughter. “She turned him into a Disney princess with one move!”
The noises from the bedroom got even wilder—walls rattling, something heavy hitting the floor, and Reaper’s frantic yells growing more desperate by the second.
“Bernice, I said stop! Girl, you gon’ break my backboard! That’s custom!”
“Good!” Niecey shot back. “Next time, think twice before you run your mouth in front of your little friends!”
Jackson wiped tears from his eyes, still on the floor. “Reap finna come outta there with a black eye and a limp, talkin’ ‘bout he won the argument.”
The room went dead silent for a beat, everyone processing the scene—or rather, the soundtrack—playing out in the next room. The only sound came from Cordell, cleaning up his clippers with a practiced calm, like this was just another day.
Then DeShawn broke the silence, grinning ear to ear. “Man, they really going in!”
“They ain’t got no shame.”, Cordell added.
“Alright, enough,” I said, shaking my head as I headed for the door. “I’m not sticking around for round two of whatever the hell that is. Y’all coming or not?”
DeShawn held up a hand, still grinning. “Nah, I’m good right here. This is entertainment.”
I rolled my eyes, pushing the door open. “Suit yourselves. I’m going to Genie’s.”
As I stepped outside, the faint echoes of Bernice’s moans and Reaper’s gruff voice followed me. Against my better judgment, a low heat stirred in me. Damn it. My dick twitched, and I cursed under my breath. I needed to be fucking something too. My thoughts betrayed me, flashing back to the other night with Emery.
Nobody fucked—or sucked—like that damn demon. But if my calculations were correct, she was long gone by now. She hadn’t called, hadn’t popped up. Nothing. I imagined her licking her wounds, brokenhearted and tail between her legs, heading back to New York, Philly—hell, anywhere as long as it was away from me.
“Wanted a quote,” I muttered to myself, shaking my head as I got into my car. “Fuck her and her little newspaper, or whatever the fuck.”
I couldn’t stand her ass. She was toxic, a walking storm that left destruction in her wake. And yet, as much as I tried, I couldn’t shake the memory of how she’d felt, how she’d tasted, how she’d looked at me.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter, forcing her out of my mind as I pulled out of Reaper’s driveway and headed toward my childhood home.
Juniper Lake.
It was where I’d grown up, the only affluent part of Juniper—a border town that rubbed shoulders with the wealth of Westonberry Hills. Juniper wasn’t known for affluence, but Juniper Lake was the exception, a place with sprawling homes and manicured lawns. The families here were “legacy,” descendants of the pioneers who had built Juniper from the ground up. Generations of wealth and privilege.
It was the kind of place that sometimes made me ashamed to claim it. Not because of what we had, but because of what everyone else in Juniper didn’t. The disparity was glaring, and it always sat heavy on my chest. Why did we have so much while others seemed to struggle for even the basics?
My father, ever the realist, had begged my mother to send me to public school. He wanted me to grow up grounded, to see the world outside the bubble of Juniper Lake. It was in those public school halls that I met my boys. Ant, Jackson, Reap, and DeShawn—they became my brothers in every way that mattered. But when high school rolled around, my mother had insisted on private school, and I’d ended up at Armitage Academy, surrounded by kids who thought Juniper Lake was the poor part of the county.
Yet, through it all, I stayed close to my boys. I didn’t care about the invisible lines drawn by wealth or status. To me, we were all the same. When college came around, Ant and I even left Juniper together, ready to take on the world, only for both of us to still be here.
I thought about hitting up him up during the drive, but I knew how that would go. Straight to voicemail, no reply. Whatever the hell he was doing at that hospital had him locked in. He didn’t even show for Card Night this week, which was unheard of. And that Angelina Moore? The one who’d made his veins pop just from hearing her name? I’d looked into her. Nothing. Not a ticket, not a single trace worth noting. She wasn’t a patient at the hospital, wasn’t on staff—hell, it was like she didn’t even exist. Whatever Ant was caught up in, he wasn’t sharing, but I wasn’t the type to leave a thread like that dangling. I’d get to the bottom of it, one way or another.
I punched in the gate code, the mechanical whir of the iron gates parting echoing faintly in the quiet. The long driveway stretched before me, lined with perfectly manicured hedges and trees that cast long shadows under the soft glow of the evening. Our Italian-style home came into view, standing proud and elegant at the end of the path, its terracotta roof and pale stucco walls bathed in the amber light of the setting sun.
It didn’t look like anything else in Juniper—not even close. The home I’d grown up in looked like it had been plucked straight from the Amalfi Coast and dropped into the middle of nowhere. It would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb if not for the towering trees and high gates keeping it hidden, tucked away like a secret. I parked and strolled up to the front door.
“Alistair!” my mom said opening the door before I had a chance to touch it, balancing a tray of cookies, her face lighting up like I’d just saved the world. She paused, her eyes scanning me. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come give your mother a hug.”
“Hey, Mom!” I smiled, leaning in to kiss her cheek. Her signature scent of Chanel Mademoiselle wrapped around me like a blanket, a small comfort against the storm brewing in my mind.
“Come on in,” she said, ushering me inside. But her tone shifted, teasing yet pointed. “Alistair, you know I love to entertain—and I don’t mind your friends—but you really should tell me when you’re bringing guests. Especially since you already have one here, waiting with no warning.”
My brows furrowed. “What are you talking about, Mom?”
She turned, as if the answer was obvious. “Your guest that arrived ahead of you.”
“I don’t have any—” The words caught in my throat as I followed her toward the garden, my stomach sinking.
And there she was.
Sitting at the garden table like she owned the damn place.
Emery.
Poised and perfect, her legs crossed elegantly beneath a dress that looked like it belonged in a museum, something straight out of a Sunday tea scene at Buckingham Palace. The sunlight caught her hair, casting it in soft waves that framed her face. Her smile was slow, deliberate, and entirely too self-assured as she sipped from her teacup, pinky raised like she was mocking me with every graceful movement.
So fucking beautiful.
She glanced up, her eyes locking on mine with a flash of amusement that set my blood boiling. I couldn’t stand her ass.
“Alistair,” she said softly, her voice carrying across the garden like a melody designed to ruin me.
She raised her glass slightly in a mock toast, her eyes locking on mine. That smile widened, a subtle dare dancing across her lips as though she could already see the panic rising in me.
“Surprise,” she mouthed with the kind of smooth confidence that could dismantle a man in seconds.
Motherfucker.
“Didn’t know you were in town,” I said evenly, though the sharp edge in my tone betrayed my attempt at calm.
Her smile didn’t falter. “Didn’t you?” she asked, her voice light but her eyes piercing, daring me to deny what we both knew.
Of course, I knew. I’d just had her days ago, screaming my name so loud the walls at The Westonberry Grande probably needed soundproofing. She was supposed to leave after that. She’d one-night-standed me once, so I returned the favor. That was supposed to be the end of it.
But here she was. Not just still in town but sitting in my mother’s garden, like she’d orchestrated this entire scene with precision. Her every move—poised, calculated, deliberate—made my skin crawl and my blood boil simultaneously. This wasn’t a surprise. This was Emery making a statement.
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “What are you doing here, Emery?” I asked, my voice low and measured, though the tension in the air was suffocating.
She took a slow sip from her teacup, her lips curling into a smile that was both knowing and infuriating. “Having tea, of course. Isn’t that what one does in Juniper Lake?”
Before I could respond, my mother’s voice cut through, warm and welcoming. “Alistair, you didn’t tell me you and Emery were still in touch.” She took a seat at the table, neatly placing a napkin on her lap. “You know, I always enjoyed her company back in your college days. So smart, so beautiful.”
“Mrs. Bishop, you’re too kind,” Emery said, her tone dripping with practiced sweetness. “I wasn’t sure you’d even remember me.”
“How could I forget?” my mom replied with a smile. “I just wish my son wasn’t so rude. I would have properly prepared for your company. You’re always welcome here.”
“Mom, you met her once. On campus,” I cut in, trying to steer this love fest off course.
“But she made quite the impression,” Mom said, undeterred. Her smile widened as she added, “You obviously thought enough of her to invite her here today, so stop ruining the moment.”
“I didn’t,” I muttered under my breath, though it was loud enough to draw a quick glance from my mom.
Emery leaned forward slightly, her eyes still locked on mine, her smile widening as if she were savoring my discomfort. “Don’t mind me, Alistair. I just thought it was time to see where you come from. After all, you’ve already reminded me where I belong.”
This was war. And Emery Beaumont was just getting started.
“You know,” she began, her voice syrupy sweet, her gaze sliding to my mother, “back in college, Alistair always told me about his Sunday tea time with you. I never forgot it.”
Her smile was warm, perfectly crafted to charm, but behind it, I could see the gleam of mischief, like a cat toying with a mouse. And I wasn’t about to let her win. Not here. Not today.
My mom’s face lit up, the kind of smile that only mothers have when someone praises their child. “That’s my Alistair,” she said, practically glowing. “My world. I love that he shared that with you.”
“I’m glad he did too,” Emery said, her eyes flicking to mine with a wink that felt like a dagger aimed straight for my ego.
I leaned forward, elbows on the table, my hands clasped together to keep from doing something reckless. My voice was even, but the edge was unmistakable. “Emery, I didn’t realize my family garden was part of your itinerary on this trip.”
Her smile didn’t falter as she set her teacup down, her movements deliberate. “Well, I figured since you were so insistent about showing me what I missed out on, I’d return the favor. Give myself a little tour of the world you built, Alistair.”
The nerve. The absolute nerve.
“And here I thought you were leaving town after…” My words hung in the air, deliberately unfinished. Her eyes sparkled, knowing exactly what I was referencing.
“Oh, after that unforgettable night?” she teased, her tone dripping with feigned innocence. “Why would I leave when there’s still so much to see?”
My mom, oblivious to the undercurrents, clapped her hands together. “Well, Emery, if you’re still in town next week, I expect to see you here.”
Emery smiled sweetly, leaning back in her chair like she’d just won a prize. “I’d love that, Mrs. Bishop.”
I clenched my jaw, biting back every sharp retort burning on my tongue. Emery wasn’t just starting a war—she’d planted herself on the battlefield, waving her flag like she’d already claimed victory.
Game on, Emery. Game fucking on.
“Em, let me talk to you real quick,” I said, standing abruptly. My mom looked surprised, but before she could say anything, Emery smirked, that knowing, calculated smile plastered on her face. She rose gracefully, her movements smooth and deliberate, as if she’d planned this exact moment all along.
“Of course,” she said, her voice silky, following me inside.
I didn’t stop until we were in the guest room. As soon as the door clicked shut, I backed her against it, my hands bracing the door on either side of her. She looked up at me, her eyes dark with anticipation, her breathing uneven.
“Alistair,” she whispered, her voice low and teasing, her chest rising and falling as she feigned innocence. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
I didn’t answer. Instead, my hand slid up her dress, my fingers grabbing the seat of her panties. I yanked them to the side with practiced ease, pressing my thumb hard against her clit. Her gasp was sharp, her body arching instinctively against the door.
“You like to fucking play games with me, huh?” I growled, my voice low, dangerous, my mouth brushing the shell of her ear. “You don’t learn, Beaumont. Why the fuck are you here?”
Her panting quickened, but she still managed to smirk, her defiance flickering even as her knees weakened. “Get me an interview with D-Truth,” she panted, her words breaking on a gasp.
I froze for a moment, chuckling darkly as I looked down at her. “You really think you can come into my house, into my mother’s garden, pull this shit, and then ask me for a favor?”
Her eyes fluttered shut as I applied just enough pressure to make her body jerk, her hands clutching at my chest for balance. “You—” she started, but her words caught in her throat, her body betraying her composure.
Her lips parted, and a moan slipped out before she bit it back, her pride battling the pleasure I was forcing her to surrender to. Emery loved the game, always had, but right now, she was on my board, playing by my rules. And losing.
“You won’t win anymore, Em,” I growled, my voice low and sharp, each word biting like steel. “You made me like this. You hardened me. Made me a monster. You’re not in control anymore, and I’m always gonna remind your ass of that.” My teeth grazed her neck before sinking in just enough to leave a mark.
Her laugh was breathy, mixed with a moan, her defiance flickering even as her body trembled.
“I always win,” she panted. “You should’ve seen your face when you walked in. You looked wrecked.”
I smirked darkly, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. “You should see your face now,” I said, my tone dripping with menace. “You don’t look at anyone else like this, Em. I make sure you don’t.”
Her head fell back against the door, a laugh escaping between gasps. “You’re a psychopath…in a suit.”
“The suited savage,” I corrected, my voice cold and certain. “That’s what they call me. Act like you know.”
I pushed two fingers inside her without warning, deep and deliberate, earning a sharp gasp that turned into a broken moan. Her body arched, her nails clawing at my shoulders as I pressed my thumb against her clit again, circling slowly.
“Fuck my fingers, Emery,” I demanded, my voice dark and commanding. “Fuck me like I fucked you in that hotel.”
Her defiance faltered, her body moving instinctively, grinding against my hand as though she couldn’t help herself. Her moans grew louder, her pride crumbling under the weight of her need.
“Good girl,” I murmured again, my fingers curling deeper, hitting the spot I knew would make her completely unravel. “That’s it, Em. Show me who really owns you.”
Her body moved against me, trembling, betraying every ounce of control she always tried to hold onto.
“Tell me why you’re really in town,” I demanded, my voice sharp but calm, cutting through her gasps.
“Interview… I need it…” she choked out, her words broken, barely audible.
“That’s it?” I asked, my eyes narrowing, studying every flicker of emotion on her face.
“Yes,” she panted, though her body told me otherwise.
“You lie,” I said, my tone dark and certain as my gaze bore into hers. I smirked, lowering my voice. “But keep taking what you need, baby girl.”
“Ha-hate you,” she gasped, her defiance flickering weakly under the weight of her pleasure.
“Need me,” I corrected, my fingers working her harder, relentless now. “Can’t live without me.”
“Ali-stair…” she whimpered, her voice breaking as she begged.
“Shhhhhh…” I whispered darkly, my lips brushing against her ear. “You want my mom and the staff to know what how dirty of a slut you really are for me, Em? Fucking my hand in my parents’ house? Rude…”
“Fuck…” she gasped, her head falling back against the door as her eyes rolled back, her body tightening around my fingers like a vice.
“Mmmhhmmm,” I murmured, my smirk deepening as I curled my fingers inside her, hitting that spot that always broke her. “Soak my hand, Emery. I want it dripping on the floor.”
“No—don’t, please,” she whispered, knowing what I was about to do, her voice weak but desperate.
Her cries were muffled against the palm I placed over her mouth as her release came in an uncontrollable wave, splashing onto the hardwood floor and dripping from my hand. Her entire body shook violently, her breath hitching as she tried to catch it, her legs trembling like they might give out any second. Squirting always drained her, leaving her weak and struggling, and this time was no different.
Her hand slapped weakly at mine, desperate but useless. I didn’t stop until her body trembled, spent, her breathing ragged and uneven. When her legs buckled, I caught her, my arm around her waist, steadying her as I pulled my hand away from her mouth.
“On your feet,” I said firmly, my voice low and commanding, steadying her as she sagged against me.
Her hands gripped my shoulders weakly, her head resting against my chest as her body gave in to exhaustion. Done. Completely spent.
I leaned back, smirking down at her trembling frame.
“Miss Beaumont,” I said, my tone mocking and light, “looks like you had an accident. I hope you didn’t ruin your dress. You’d have to go home and skip the rest of tea time.”
Her eyes snapped open, filled with exhaustion and fire all at once. I chuckled darkly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, knowing damn well I’d just reminded her—there was no playing games with me.
“You’re such a bastard,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and shaky.
I leaned in closer, my smirk widening as I let my hand trail down her side, slow and deliberate.
“Now, fix yourself up,” I said, stepping back and adjusting my shirt cuffs casually, as if I hadn’t just ruined her composure in every possible way.
Her jaw clenched, her hands trembling as she smoothed her dress and tried to compose herself. She looked every bit the polished, untouchable woman she wanted the world to see, but I could still see the faint tremor in her hands, the way her knees wobbled ever so slightly.
I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall with a smug grin. “You good, Beaumont? Or do you need another minute?”
She shot me a look so sharp it could’ve drawn blood. “Fuck you, Alistair,” she hissed, her voice regaining a sliver of its usual fire.
“You wish,” I scoffed, even though I knew damn well I wanted nothing more than to hike that dress up and bend her over the bed.
“Marry me, Alistair,” she said abruptly.
Time stopped. Whoa. What the fuck?
I blinked at her, my mind scrambling to process what I’d just heard. “You proposing to niggas now? Damn, I know the sex is good, but that don’t sound like you, Beaumont,” I said, stepping closer and gripping her face gently, forcing her to look at me. “You doing coke up there in New York? You need help? I know people who run rehabs.”
Her response was instant. She shoved me hard, using the little strength she had left, but it only made me laugh.
“I’m not on drugs, Bishop,” she said, rolling her eyes as she moved to sit on the edge of the bed, her posture defiant despite the exhaustion etched across her face.
“Then why the fuck are you asking me to marry you?” I asked, still trying to process the absurdity of her words.
“Because,” she started, leveling me with a look that was equal parts serious and frustrated, “we said that’s what we’d do, remember? If we were still single at 35, we’d just marry each other.”
I stared at her, stunned into silence for a moment before recognition dawned. “Our stupid-ass pact from college?” I asked, my tone incredulous.
She nodded, crossing her legs and leaning back slightly, her eyes never leaving mine. “Yeah. That one.”
I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head as I raked a hand through my hair. “You’re out of your damn mind, Emery.”
“Am I?” she challenged, tilting her head. “Or are you just scared I’m right?”
“Right about what?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
“That no one else gets you like I do.”
Her words hit harder than I wanted to admit, but I wasn’t about to let her see that. “You really think that’s a good reason to get married?” I asked, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
She didn’t flinch, her eyes holding mine steady. “Alistair, you won’t even let me be with anyone else. Every time I get close to a man, he just…” She paused, her voice wavering as she looked up at me, something vulnerable flickering in her gaze. “And I’ve always felt like it was you. You confirmed that in your office. You won’t give me up… and I don’t want you to.”
Hell no. This sounded like some Reaper and Niecey shit, the kind of toxic mess I’d always promised myself I’d never be a part of. But with Emery, it was different. She wasn’t supposed to want me—not after the way we tore each other apart. Not after everything I’d done to every man who got too close to her. And yet, hearing those words come out of her mouth—‘Marry me’—felt like someone had reached inside me and lit a match.
“I just left you in a hotel room, Emery,” I reminded her, my voice low, trying to push her away with logic.
Her lips curled into a small, defiant smile. “I did it to you first,” she shrugged, unbothered.
That damn shrug. The same one that always made me want to shake her and kiss her at the same time.
“You can say whatever you want, Alistair. But we both know the truth—you’re mine just as much as I’m yours.”
I stared at her, my chest tight, my mind warring with itself. This woman was a storm I couldn’t outrun, and maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe I never did.
“Have you felt for anyone what you felt for me?” she asked softly, closing the distance between us. Her hands rested on my chest, her touch light but electrifying as she looked up at me, her eyes searching mine.
Never.
The answer burned in my throat, but I didn’t say it. Couldn’t.
Her voice wavered, just for a second, before she steadied herself. “I want to be a wife, Alistair. I want to be your wife. Have your babies.” She smiled, but there was something in her eyes—something fragile, almost pleading—before it disappeared behind her usual confidence.
I looked at her, at those fucking eyes that had always been my undoing. What kind of game was she playing? And why the hell was I even considering it? Of course I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her ass. That’s why I wasn’t married, why no other woman had ever made it past the point of temporary. I wanted her—only her.
An Emery Beaumont was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and that was the problem. She terrified me. The way she made me feel, the depth of it—it wasn’t normal. How could I love and despise someone so much at the same time? It was because she was the only woman who ever stood up to me, who matched me blow for blow. The way she talked to me, handled me, fucked me—I wasn’t finding that anywhere else.
But to actually marry her? For real? Not just in my fantasies?
And her wanting to marry me now, while she was building a career, set to carve out a name beyond the one she was born into, and I was still here in this little town, dealing with local bullshit? It didn’t add up.
Not to mention, this was Emery. The woman who lived and breathed ambition, who wouldn’t blink twice about using every angle to get what she wanted. She’d come here to dig for a story, and now she wanted to talk about marriage? It felt like a setup.
“You love me, Alistair,” she said, her voice smooth, melodic, and dangerous—like a song I didn’t want to hear but couldn’t ignore.
She was maddening. Impossible to trust, and yet impossible to resist. Logic told me to send her packing, to cut her out before she took another piece of me. But logic didn’t matter when it came to Emery Beaumont. I wanted her gone—and at the same time, I wanted to take her to Tiffany’s tomorrow, pick out rings, and make sure no one else ever touched her again. Give her those babies she wanted.
I exhaled sharply, stepping back and breaking the connection between us. My gaze dropped to the floor as I shoved the chaos of my emotions down deep.
“Em, get the fuck out of here,” I said, my voice rough, the weight of her words pressing down on me like a boulder. “I’ll tell my mom you had to leave.”
She didn’t move. Instead, she tilted her head, studying me with those piercing, calculating eyes that always saw too much. “Look me in my eyes, Alistair,” she said, her voice low, unwavering. “And tell me—deep down, under all the madness, all the games—that you haven’t been in love with me since college. Tell me you never stopped loving me.”
She took a step closer, her voice softer now but still razor-sharp. “You can’t, can you? Because you know the truth. You’ve always known. You love me, like I love you.”
“You’re not in love with me, Em,” I said, my voice low and deliberate as Ireached out, my fingers brushing against her jaw before gripping her chin firmly, forcing her to look at me. “You’re running game, like you always do. But I told you—I win now.”
Her eyes didn’t waver. Not a tear, not a flicker of doubt. Just that unshakable confidence she always wore like armor.
“This isn’t a game,” she said, her tone steady, almost cold. “It’s practical. Logical. You and me—it makes sense. It doesn’t have to be some big romantic show.”
I let out a sharp laugh, the sound bitter and mocking as I tilted her chin higher. “Oh, so now you want to marry me off logic?” I asked, my words dripping with scorn. “That’s your grand proposal? No feelings, no love—just spreadsheets and family pedigrees?”
Her gaze didn’t falter, even as I loomed over her, my hand still holding her in place. “The Bishops and the Beaumonts,” she said quietly, her voice as smooth as glass. “It makes sense to me.”
The Beaumonts. That name carried weight. Old money, Westonberry Hills money. The kind that stretched back through generations, steeped in power, privilege, and control. They weren’t just wealthy—they were established, a family built on the bones of the town itself. If Westonberry Hills was the crown jewel of the region, the Beaumonts were the royal family. But not the fairy-tale kind—the sharp, calculating kind, the kind that kept their hands clean while someone else did the dirty work.
They owned half the land in Westonberry—country clubs with decades-long waitlists, golf courses hosting million-dollar tournaments, and estates that looked like something out of a royal family’s playbook. Their name was everywhere: Beaumont Boulevard, Beaumont Plaza, the Beaumont Wing at St. Raphael’s Hospital. You couldn’t take two steps in that town without tripping over something they owned or funded.
But that wasn’t what defined them, not really. What defined the Beaumonts was their presence. They had this way of making you feel small just by being in the same room. It wasn’t loud or obvious—it was quieter than that, sharper. You could see it in the way they carried themselves, in the way they spoke, in the way they looked at you like you were a pawn on their chessboard. The Beaumonts weren’t just rich—they were commanding. They made the rules, and the rest of us just played the game.
Emery’s family wasn’t just any branch of the Beaumont tree, either. She came from that side—the Beaumonts who sat at the very top of the food chain. Her father, Edwin Beaumont, was the closest thing Westonberry had to a kingpin, though you’d never catch anyone calling him that to his face. He wore his power in crisp three-piece suits and a disarming smile, but everyone knew better. Edwin was the kind of man who could destroy your livelihood with a single phone call and leave you thanking him for it.
And her mother, Charlotte? She was just as lethal, but in a different way. Where Edwin ran the empire, Charlotte curated the image. Charity galas, debutante balls, political fundraisers—she was the face of their power, all diamonds and poise. If you didn’t belong in their circle, she’d let you know it with nothing more than a polite smile and a glance that could cut glass. People loved her, feared her, envied her. She didn’t need to speak to make her opinion known. She could freeze you out with nothing more than the tilt of her head.
Then there was Emery. The golden child, the Beaumont heiress who somehow managed to inherit every ounce of her parents’ ruthlessness and none of their patience. She wasn’t the kind of person who waited for power to come to her—she went after it, hunted it down like it owed her something. Emery didn’t walk into a room; she commanded it. Her confidence wasn’t just learned—it was bred into her, cultivated over years of being reminded that she was special, that she was better. And she believed it. Hell, sometimes I believed it too.
But for all their power and influence, there was something rotten at the core of their family. It wasn’t something they’d ever let the public see, but if you looked close enough, you could find the cracks. Edwin’s iron grip on the family’s finances. Charlotte’s perfectionism that bordered on obsession. Emery’s brother, Vaughn, the black sheep who’d been quietly shipped off to Europe years ago, his name scrubbed from family functions and Christmas cards. The Beaumonts were immaculate on the surface, but underneath, they were just as messy as anyone else—maybe even messier, because they had so much more to lose.
And now, Emery stood in front of me, bringing that whole legacy into my orbit. The Bishops and the Beaumonts. She wasn’t wrong—it did make sense, at least on paper. My family wasn’t the Beaumonts, but we weren’t nobodies either. The Bishops had money, prestige, connections. My mom, Genie, could host a gala that made Camille’s look like a backyard barbecue. My dad’s business investments in Juniper Lake had kept our family comfortable for decades, and my upbringing was just polished enough to fit into their world.
But I’d never belonged in Westonberry the way the Beaumonts did. I was always the outsider looking in, the one who could sit at the table but never truly be part of the club. Emery knew that. She’d always known. And maybe that was part of why she wanted this. She didn’t just want me—she wanted the story, the merge. The Bishop-Beaumont alliance. She wanted to cement her legacy, tie my family’s influence to hers, create a dynasty so untouchable that no one could ever challenge her.
And yet, as much as her logic infuriated me, there was another part of me—the part that always wanted her, always needed her—that couldn’t shake the thought.
Yet, we weren’t logical. We weren’t practical. We were chaos wrapped in chemistry, destruction in designer clothing. If we came together, it wouldn’t be some carefully crafted alliance. It would be a wildfire—messy, uncontrollable, and dangerous.
So no, Emery, it didn’t make sense. Not for you, not for me, and not for the Bishops and the damn Beaumonts.
But that didn’t mean I didn’t want it anyway.
The calm certainty in her words lit a fuse inside me. I leaned in, my face inches from hers, my grip on her chin tightening just enough to make her breath hitch.
“Sense?” I repeated, my voice low and dangerous. “You think sense is enough to deal with someone like me? Like you? We’d burn each other alive, Emery.”
She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her chin slightly, meeting my glare head-on.
“Maybe,” she said softly, her breath ghosting across my lips. “But at least we’d burn together. No one else could handle either of us, and you know it.”
My chest tightened, the weight of her words hitting harder than I wanted to admit. She was right, and she knew it. She always knew it. But that didn’t mean I was going to let her win this round. Not like this.
I let go of her chin abruptly, stepping back, putting distance between us before I did something reckless. Something permanent.
“You don’t want me, Em,” I said, my voice colder now, trying to steady the fire she’d just stoked. “You want the idea of me. The safety net. The one man who’ll put up with your bullshit because I’m too fucked up to walk away.”
Her lips curved into the faintest smile, and it pissed me off how calm she looked, like she had all the time in the world to wear me down. “If I wanted a safety net, I’d be in New York with some banker by now,” she said, her voice quiet but cutting. “You know who I am. There are suitors, arranged marriages I’ve dodged while trying to build a career that has nothing to do with my family.” She stepped closer, her gaze steady, unwavering. “I want you, Alistair. I always have. And deep down, no matter how hard you fight it, you want me too.”
I laughed again, but it sounded hollow even to my own ears. “You don’t want me, Em. You want the story. The drama. The win. Marrying me? That’s just another fucking power play for you.”
Her expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes—something quick and fleeting, like vulnerability she didn’t want me to see.
“And if it is?” she challenged, her voice soft but steady. “What does it matter if it gets us to the same place?”
“That’s the problem,” I shot back, my voice rising. “You don’t care how we get there. You don’t care who gets hurt in the process. You just want the endgame, no matter what it costs.”
Her jaw tightened, her composure cracking just enough for me to see the frustration underneath.
“It doesn’t have to be complicated, Alistair,” she said, her voice sharper now. “We’re already halfway there. We understand each other. We want the same things.”
“No, we don’t,” I said, my tone final, my eyes locking on hers. “You want control. I want freedom. That’s why it’s never going to work between us, Em.”
Her confidence faltered for a split second—just long enough for me to see the crack in her armor—but she recovered quickly, her lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile.
“We’ll see,” she said softly, the challenge clear in her tone. “You always come back to me, Alistair. No matter how far you run.”
The air between us crackled with tension, thick and suffocating, but I forced myself to stay still, to hold my ground. “Not this time,” I said, my voice low and firm, though even I wasn’t sure if I believed it.
She didn’t argue. She just turned and walked to the door, her heels clicking softly against the floor. But before she left, she paused, glancing over her shoulder with a look that made my chest tighten all over again.
“You can keep running, Alistair,” she said quietly, her tone almost gentle. “But you and I both know you’ll never outrun me.”
And then she was gone, leaving me alone in the quiet, her words echoing in my head like a taunt I couldn’t shake.
READER QUESTIONS:
What do you think drives Emery more—her ambition or her genuine feelings for Alistair? Can it be both, or is one masking the other?
Do you believe Alistair when he says he’s done with Emery, or is his resistance just another layer of their connection?
How do you feel about the balance of power between Alistair and Emery in this chapter? Who, if anyone, truly has the upper hand?
If you were in Alistair’s shoes, would you trust Emery’s intentions, or would you walk away? Why?
What do you think the marriage proposal really represents for Emery—love, control, legacy, or something else entirely? How does Alistair fit into her vision of the future?
As much as I hate to admit it Emery makes sense! Allistair is just afraid to feel, let go and be vulnerable which makes sense. She’s tricky, hell they both are. 😂
Maybe a vulnerable moment of honesty without all the tactical thinking would help them reach common ground.
They’re both crazy. Can’t wait for the wedding 😂