09. anthony's angel
An unexpected crisis pulls Anthony out of isolation, but his growing bond with Angel pulls him deeper into conflict as a new enemy emerges.
Trigger Warning for This Chapter:
This chapter contains themes of emotional abuse, toxic relationships, manipulation, and power dynamics, including scenes that explore psychological control and emotional degradation within the context of intimate partnerships. Additionally, it touches on trauma, anger, and obsessive behavior, which may be unsettling for some readers. Please proceed with caution, and take care of your mental and emotional well-being.
NEW TO THIS STORY?
Tap below to start from the beginning and read this story in chronological order! Don’t miss a single twist, turn, or explosive moment:
ANTHONY HARRIS
I wanted to follow Carlos out of the hospital, drag his ass into an alley, and snap him in two for coming at Angel like that. Every step I took away from him felt like swallowing broken glass. But what he got from me back there? That was me on my best behavior—out of respect for Angel and Little Derek. The only reason Carlos still had working limbs was because they were in the room. What nobody seemed to realize, though, was that as much as my little brother, Derek, was painted as the hot-headed gangsta rapper, I was the one they didn’t want to piss off.
With a brother like D, it was easy to fly under the radar. His loud mouth and short fuse soaked up all the attention while I kept quiet and handled business in the shadows. But the truth was, Derek wasn’t the only one with loose screws. We were William Harris’s sons, and we’d all inherited a little of that family crazy. Especially when it came to our women.
Except, shit—Angel wasn’t mine. She was just my friend. Friends. Yeah. That’s all it was. And I don’t let friends get disrespected.
Carlos was gonna have to see me. But right now, I had another fucking fire to put out. Luckily, it was in the same hospital. When I told Angel I had an emergency, she gave me the look—you know the one—but told me to go.
The elevator was slower than my patience could handle. My thumb jabbed the button over and over, like it’d force the damn thing to move faster. By the time the doors finally opened, my nerves were thrumming like an engine on overdrive. I stepped inside, hit the button for the second floor, and watched the numbers crawl up.
Come on. Come on.
When the doors slid open, I bolted out, scanning the hallway like I was late to a final. Room numbers blurred past me. 2007... 2009... 2011. There it was.
I shoved the door open without thinking, adrenaline still spiking through me.
Reaper was sitting upright in the hospital bed, broad shoulders swallowing the thin gown like it was three sizes too small. Jacks and DeShawn stood on either side of the bed, their arms crossed like a couple of bodyguards, while Bishop leaned against the corner, scrolling through his phone like this was all a routine flight delay.
Four pairs of eyes snapped to me the moment the door hit the wall. The air in the room shifted.
“What the fuck happened?” I barked, barely catching my breath.
DeShawn let out a loud, obnoxious laugh. “Oh, look who decided to grace us with his presence.” His grin was all teeth, and the tone in his voice made my jaw clench.
“Where you been, man?” Jackson chimed in, arms crossed, voice heavy with judgment. “Can’t pick up your phone? Can’t even hit us back in the chat? That’s cold, bro.”
I ignored their bullshit, my focus locked on Reaper. He looked like he’d been through hell. His shoulders were slumped forward, his hands fiddling with the edge of the hospital blanket, and his face had this pale, waxy sheen to it. The kind of look that made my stomach tighten before he even opened his mouth.
“Reap, what the fuck is going on?”
He didn’t look up at first, just shook his head like he was about to drop some kind of bomb. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and heavy, the kind of tone that twists your gut before the words even land. “I’m dying, Ant.”
The air felt like it got sucked out of the room. My chest tightened, and my stomach dropped like I’d just stepped off a cliff.
“What?” I managed to get out, my voice barely above a whisper.
“They saying I got ‘bout two weeks.” He raised his head then, his eyes shimmering with tears. Real tears. The kind of tears that made you believe the ground under his feet had just split in two.
I grabbed the railing on the bed, knees buckling like they might give out. My head spun, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like they were mocking the moment. “What the fuck you mean, ‘two weeks’? You got cancer or some shit? What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Nigga ain’t dying,” Bishop cut in, his voice flat and bone-dry, slicing through the tension like a machete. He didn’t even bother looking up from his phone, thumb still scrolling like we weren’t all standing in a storm. “Niecey broke his dick.”
I blinked. For a solid five seconds, I just stared at him, trying to process the sheer absurdity of what he’d just said.
“Excuse me?” The word slipped out before I could stop it, my voice cracking on the second syllable. My eyes bounced between Bishop, Reaper, and the rest of the room, trying to figure out if this was some kind of sick joke.
Jackson, always the over-explainer, stepped forward like he was giving a damn TED Talk. “It’s not broken, technically. It’s fractured. He had surgery—”
“Surgery?!” I cut in, my voice pitching higher than I wanted.
Jackson waved a hand, brushing my reaction aside like this was everyday business. “Yeah. They had to, uh… cut the head, peel the skin back to the base, and make sure there weren’t no blood clots or nothing. He’s got a catheter in now. Should be out in a day or two.”
Bishop finally glanced up, deadpan as ever. “Okay then, Black Anatomy.”
For a second, I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or hug my boy. My head tilted, eyes darting between Reaper and the rest of them, searching for some kind of explanation that made sense.
“Y’all serious right now?” I asked, still trying to catch up.
“Deadass,” DeShawn said, smirking from where he leaned against the wall, looking way too pleased about all this. “Niecey was throwing that ass like her life depended on it, and big man here just couldn’t keep up.”
Reaper’s face lit up then, like he was reliving the best (and worst) night of his life. “Man, my wife got that grip, you feel me?” He held up his hands, miming grabbing hips and rocking slightly, like we all needed the visual.
And then he winced, his hand flying to his crotch instinctively. “Tried to turn on my shit while she was riding me, and snap! I told her she was doing too much, but nah, she don’t listen.”
Bishop groaned, rubbing his temples like he was seconds from walking out. “You’re really sitting here telling us all this.”
“My wife fucked the shit outta me!” Reap shot back, flashing him a look before his face melted into a dreamy grin. Pain or no pain, he was proud as hell.
I just stood there, trying to piece together what the hell I’d just walked into. I mean, this was peak Reaper shit. Only him. Still, my face split into a grin before I could stop it.
“Let me guess—y’all had another argument,” I said, already piecing together the puzzle. Their routine was too predictable.
DeShawn snorted, already halfway to laughing. “Yup. Dumbass over here told his wife he was going to Target with a fresh haircut and gray sweatpants. Now his shit’s as bent as Beaumont Ave, and he’s sitting there acting like he won the argument.”
“I did win, though.” Reaper grinned so wide it was damn near criminal, like he’d just hit a game-winning shot and didn’t care if he broke his leg doing it. “Even if I’m out the game for a minute, I’m still the champ.”
I stared at him, shaking my head in disbelief as I let out a long, slow breath. I sank into the chair by the window, the weight in my chest easing just a little now that I knew what was going on. This shit was ridiculous—completely, utterly ridiculous—but at least it wasn’t life or death. For once, something wasn’t falling apart.
It was kind of sad how refreshing that felt.
“Where the hell is Bernice, anyway?” I asked, leaning back in the chair and looking around like she might pop out from behind the door.
“She went to pick us up some Ruby’s,” DeShawn said, smirking like he was holding onto a joke he wasn’t sure if he should let loose yet.
“Wait—” I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to figure out what he wasn’t saying. “Y’all made her run errands after all this?”
DeShawn tilted his head toward Reaper, chuckling like he couldn’t even believe what he was about to say. “Nah, she left on her own. Said she needed a minute to cool off after this fool was crying—talkin’ bout his dick would never work again, they ‘bout to be in a sexless marriage, but she still can’t fuck nobody else.”
The room exploded with laughter, except for Reaper, who threw his hands up in surrender, though his shit-eating grin stayed firmly in place. “Man, it was the drugs…”
“They had you under general anesthesia,” Bishop said, sucking his teeth like the disappointment was personal.
Reaper turned on him with a scowl, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Ain’t nobody ask you nothin’, man. Imagine it, though—imagine the possibility of your dick never working again.” His voice cracked like he might actually cry, and for a second, I couldn’t tell if he was being serious or just putting on a show. Knowing Reaper? Probably both.
“They said you’ll be back in fighting weight soon,” Jackson chimed in, smirking from his spot near the wall.
“Yeah, I know that now,” Reaper shot back, his voice rising an octave. “But in the moment? I mean, damn! I suffered a life-altering injury, and y’all acting like I don’t deserve no sympathy.”
DeShawn rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might stick. “Your situation? Nigga, you ain’t recovering from ACL surgery. You got a penis cast and a catheter. Relax.”
The laughter hit me in waves, and I had to cover my face with my hands to keep from completely losing it. The visual of Reaper with a penis cast—whatever the hell that even looked like—was too much. Meanwhile, Reaper just sat there, throwing up his hands like we were the crazy ones for not treating him like he’d just survived a near-death experience.
“Y’all are disrespectful,” he muttered, shaking his head. But the grin he couldn’t wipe off his face told me he was soaking it all in.
Reaper’s grin faltered, just for a moment, a flicker of something like annoyance crossing his face. “First of all, ain’t no cast,” he said, sitting up straighter. “And second, the thought of not being able to please my wife ever again? She’d beat my ass. Y’all seen her. She got hands.”
The room went dead silent for a beat. Then Jackson, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, muttered, “She do, though.”
That set DeShawn off all over again, laughing so hard he slapped his thigh like he was front row at a comedy show. The sound echoed off the walls, bouncing around the small hospital room.
Meanwhile, I just pinched the bridge of my nose, shaking my head. These fools were impossible.
“Enough about my dick,” Reaper finally said, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. He adjusted the hospital gown with a wince, his grin returning like it never left. “Man, where you been, Ant?”
The question hit harder than I expected, cutting through the noise like the sharp edge of a knife. I looked around the room. Bishop had his eyebrow raised, his phone forgotten in his hand, and Jackson was watching me with this quiet curiosity that made my stomach tighten. Even DeShawn, who usually had something slick to say, was silent now, waiting.
I hesitated, leaning back in the chair. These were my brothers. They deserved the truth. Hell, maybe I needed to say it out loud as much as they needed to hear it. The thing was, ever since the accident, I’d been locked in my own world—a world where it was just me, Angel, and her son. The weight of it all was pressing down on me, heavier than I wanted to admit. And now, sitting here with my boys, I realized how much I’d missed this. How much I’d needed this. I kept telling Angel she needed a break, and truth was, I hadn’t taken one myself - I was so caught up in her and Little Derek.
“I been here,” I finally said, my voice low.
“Here where?” DeShawn asked, his tone sharp but curious, like he was piecing together a puzzle. “Not with us.”
“Here at the hospital,” I said, leaning forward, elbows resting on my knees.
“Doing what? With who?” Jackson asked, his brow furrowing.
I glanced down at my hands, debating for a second. But there wasn’t any point in dodging the truth. These guys knew me too well to fall for bullshit. So I just laid it out.
“With Angel.”
“Angel?” DeShawn repeated, his face twisting like I’d just spoken in a foreign language. “Who the hell is Angel?”
The room stilled, and all their eyes locked on me. I could feel the weight of the question pressing down, heavy and expectant. For a moment, I debated brushing it off or deflecting, but something about the way they were looking at me told me they wouldn’t let it slide.
“Carlos’ ex-wife,” Bishop said, snapping his fingers as he pieced it together quicker than the rest of them thanks to getting me that file. “His kids’ mom. The one he left high and dry.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding slowly. “Her.”
“What the fuck you mean, ‘Her’?” Reaper asked, pushing himself up straighter in the bed, ignoring the wince that followed. “Who the fuck is Carlos?”
“A bitch,” I muttered, the word slipping out before I could catch it.
Reaper blinked, his confusion deepening. “And you’re doing what with his ex? You taking care of this lady or something?”
“Her and her kid,” I said, my voice steady but low, like I was bracing for whatever came next. “Her son’s still in the ICU from the crash at D’s event. She’s a wreck. No family, no backup. I couldn’t just leave her like that.”
The room went quiet for a beat, the weight of what I’d just said settling over us.
“So, you just… decided to be Captain Save-a-Mom?” Jackson asked, his tone dipping into that half-joking territory he liked to play in. But the look in his eyes? Dead serious.
I sat up straighter, my jaw tightening as I met his gaze. “She’s got nobody else,” I said, my voice sharper now, like I dared him to question me. “What was I supposed to do? Walk away?”
Jackson looked at me for a long second, then nodded like he was backing off, but the tension didn’t leave his face.
Bishop, who hadn’t said much, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. He nodded slowly, like he understood what the others didn’t. “That’s some heavy shit, Ant.”
“It is,” I admitted, the words dragging out of me like they weighed a ton. I leaned back in the chair, my shoulders sagging as the exhaustion crept back in. “But I’m in it now. Ain’t no turning back.”
For a moment, nobody said anything. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above us, and the hum of hospital sounds bled in through the cracks of the door. Reaper shifted in the bed, his gaze flicking to the others like he was trying to gauge how they felt about all this.
Then DeShawn broke the silence, his voice quieter than usual. “So, what’s the plan?”
I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to push back the fatigue clawing at me. “Right now? Keep her and her kid afloat. Make sure they’re good. After that…” I trailed off, shaking my head. “Shit, I don’t know. One day at a time.”
Reaper’s grin returned, softer now but still carrying a hint of that mischievous energy. “Damn, Ant. You got a type, huh? You really out here saving damsels in distress like it’s your day job.”
DeShawn chuckled under his breath, but Bishop shot Reaper a look, and the joke died almost as fast as it landed.
“It ain’t like that,” I said, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “This ain’t about me. It’s about her. And her kid. They don’t deserve to be abandoned again.”
Bishop nodded again, his expression thoughtful. “You’re a good dude for that, Ant. For real.”
I shrugged, brushing it off, but the truth was, I didn’t feel like a good dude. I felt like a man doing the only thing he could live with. And even that felt like it might not be enough.
Reaper grinned, his usual mischief bubbling to the surface even from the hospital bed. “You better be careful, Ant. Sounds like this Angel might be clipping your wings.”
“Nah,” I said, too fast. Way too fast. My head shook before the word even finished leaving my mouth. “She’s… uhhh…” The sentence trailed off into nothing, my brain scrambling for the right words. Shit’s complicated, I thought, but there wasn’t a way to say it that wouldn’t make it worse.
Bishop leaned forward, his expression calm but razor-sharp, like he’d already cracked the code before I had a chance to fumble through an excuse.
“You like this girl,” he said, not asking but stating it, his voice cutting straight through my bullshit.
I sighed heavily, scrubbing my hands over my face, trying to hide from the weight of what he’d just said. The room went silent, thick with expectation. Nobody said a word, but I could feel all their eyes on me, waiting. The tension was damn near suffocating.
“It ain’t like that,” I finally muttered, but even to my own ears, it sounded weak as hell. My gaze stayed fixed on the floor, avoiding all the smug looks I knew were coming. “She’s been through a lot. I’m just… helping her out. That’s all.”
Jackson snorted from his spot against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “Yeah, okay, Mother Teresa. That’s why you’re ducking calls and acting all weird lately.”
DeShawn jumped in next, leaning forward with a grin that screamed gotcha. “Man, just admit it. You catching feelings. Ain’t no shame in it, bro. Own up to it.”
I shot him a sharp glare, but that shit-eating grin on his face didn’t waver for a second. He loved this too much.
“I’m serious,” I said, my voice a little firmer now, the edge creeping in. “It’s not like that. She’s got enough on her plate without me complicating her life even more.”
“Complicating her life?” Reaper said, raising an eyebrow. “Nigga, you already in her life. Ain’t like you standing on the sidelines handing out water bottles. You’re in the game.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He wasn’t wrong, and the truth of it hit harder than I wanted to admit. My fists clenched on my knees, the tension winding tighter in my chest.
“This ain’t the time for all that,” I said finally, my tone softer but no less firm. “She needs someone to lean on, not someone making shit messier than it already is.”
“Carlos Steinburg’s ex, though…” Bishop said, his tone heavy with meaning.
The name hit like a punch to the chest, and I couldn’t stop the wave of heat rising in me. Just hearing Carlos Steinburg’s name had my blood boiling all over again. My jaw clenched tight, my fists curling as I leaned forward. When I spoke, my voice was low, steady, but sharp enough to cut glass.
“Fuck Carlos. Met him.”
Reaper’s eyebrows shot up, his grin sly and immediate, like he’d just heard the setup to a juicy story. “Oh, you had a run-in with his ass? Do tell.”
“Yeah,” I said, the memory hitting like a bad rerun I couldn’t shut off. “He came up to the hospital, screaming on her like she was nothing. In front of everybody. Like we were just gonna stand there and let it happen. He was so comfortable doing that shit, he didn’t even think twice.”
Jackson shook his head, his face twisting in disgust. “If he’s doing that shit in public, imagine what kind of hell he’s putting her through behind closed doors.”
“I already know,” I muttered, my fists tightening in my lap, the anger bubbling just beneath the surface. “She told me everything.”
Reaper’s grin slipped, his expression hardening as he leaned back against the bed. “What kind of shit are we talking about here?”
I exhaled sharply, trying to push back the memory of Angel’s voice, the way it trembled when she first told me. “You name it. Control, manipulation, threats. Psychological shit. Dude’s a textbook abuser. And he’s been getting away with it for years.”
The room went quiet, the weight of my words settling heavy over all of us. Even DeShawn, who usually had something to say, stayed quiet, his face serious now.
“And you know me and D weren’t about to let that slide,” I continued, my voice sharper now. “We had to let his ass know—Angel ain’t the one. Not anymore. Cause I’m stepping behind her every time. He tries that shit again? He’ll regret it.”
“Damn right,” Reaper said, nodding, his expression dark. “Niggas like that don’t stop unless somebody makes them.”
“Wait,” Bishop cut in, his tone quieter but no less serious. He leaned forward, his gaze locked on mine. “She told you everything?”
I nodded, my head heavy as I stared down at my hands. “Yeah. Everything. About him. About her marriage. All the shit she went through just trying to survive. And that’s all she’s been doing—surviving. Not living.”
The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. For a moment, nobody said anything. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, the only sound in the room besides the hum of the AC kicking on in the corner. I could feel the heat of their stares, but I didn’t look up.
“And you’re just out here trying to give her some kind of life again,” Bishop said finally, his tone more understanding now.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice low but firm. “She deserves that much. Her and her son.”
Reaper let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “You’re a better man than most, Ant. I mean that.”
“Shit,” I muttered, leaning back in the chair, the exhaustion creeping in. “I’m just doing what needs to be done. It ain’t about being better. It’s about doing right by her. She’s been through enough.”
For a moment, the guys didn’t respond, and the silence felt louder than any words they could’ve said. Finally, Jackson broke it, his voice softer than usual. “So, what’s the plan?”
I rubbed a hand over my face, the fatigue settling deep in my bones. “Right now? Keep her and her kid afloat. Make sure they’re safe. Past that…” I shook my head. “One day at a time.”
“This shit is crazy,” Bishop said, shaking his head.
“Look,” I said, blowing out a sharp breath, frustration slipping into my tone. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, alright? But I know I gotta be careful, because she’s fragile. This is literally the worst time in her life. And she’s already been through enough.” I paused, the weight of it all pressing down on me. “She’s a mother. Her son is her whole world, and he’s in here fighting for his life. And she’s barely hanging on.
“Carlos didn’t put hands on her, but he didn’t need to. He’s beaten her down with his words so bad, she doesn’t even know how special she is.” My voice dropped, quieter now. “I gotta take care of them. That’s all I know.”
“Them?” DeShawn cut in, eyebrows raised, disbelief written all over his face. “So what, you about to be this kid daddy too?”
“Man, nah, I just—” I started, but Bishop cut me off.
“Denial!” Bishop said, pointing at me with a smirk like he just cracked the case.
Reaper let out a low whistle, shaking his head as he leaned forward. “Ant, man, I’m telling you now—this ain’t no casual thing. Yea, you’re helping her out in here, but two things can be true at the same time. Just admit it—you want her. You’re just laying low cause shit’s fucked up right now, and it ain’t the right time to make a move.”
My chest felt tight, heat creeping up my neck as his words hit way too close to home. I ran my hand down my face, trying to get a grip.
“But it’s more than that. I’m not helping her cause I want her. I’m helping her cause she needs me. Cause…” I hesitated, the words sticking in my throat before I finally let them out. “Cause God led me to her.”
Reaper shook his head slowly, like I was missing the point entirely. “I know you’re not helping her cause you want her. But let’s be real—you’re helping her and you’re falling for her. Both can be true, man. You’re with her 24/7, she’s opening up to you, telling you everything, you’re stepping up for her kid, and you’re ready to throw hands with her ex-husband. Ant, this ain’t regular. You gotta see what’s going on here.”
The room went still after that, the weight of Reaper’s words settling over all of us. For once, nobody had anything slick to say—not even DeShawn, who usually lived to poke the bear. He just nodded, his usual smirk gone, replaced with something that looked suspiciously like respect.
I sat back in my chair, staring down at my hands. I wanted to argue, to push back against what they were saying, but the truth sat heavy in my chest. Reaper was right, and we all knew it. This wasn’t regular. Not even close.
“Well, damn,” Bishop said, leaning back in his chair, his trademark smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Guess you really are Superman after all.”
“Nah,” I said, my voice softer now, the fight drained out of me. “I’m just a man trying to do what’s right.”
The room settled into a quiet hum as everyone nodded, taking in my words. For once, nobody had a joke or comeback. Just the weight of understanding hanging in the air.
Then Jackson broke the silence, his voice slicing through like a blade. “Reap got a bent dick, Ant’s been hiding up here at the hospital playing Captain Save-a-Life… Anybody else got something to share, since we all gathered like this? Come on, let’s hear it. Full confessional time.”
We all looked around at each other, waiting to see who’d crack first. The quiet stretched, thick with tension and curiosity, until finally, Bishop leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His face was set like he was about to confess to a crime.
“I think I’m bout to get married,” he said, the words heavy, like they’d been weighing him down for days.
Reaper choked on his water, coughing so hard it sounded like he might need the nurse button. DeShawn, meanwhile, was still struggling with his janky-ass hospital bed, jamming the button to raise it, but the thing moved slower than molasses.
“Fuck you talking ‘bout, with your hoe ass? You don’t even have a girlfriend,” Jackson said, staring at Bishop like he’d just announced he was running for president.
“This girl…” Bishop started, dragging a hand down his face like he was physically trying to pull the frustration off him. He sounded more disappointed in himself than we could’ve ever been. “I can’t let her go.”
“Don’t tell me—” I started, already seeing where this train wreck was headed.
“Emery,” the rest of them said in unison—Bishop, Reaper, DeShawn, and Jackson—all their voices dripping with disbelief, like they couldn’t believe they were even saying her name out loud.
“Fuck, man,” Bishop groaned, slumping back in his chair like someone had just yanked the rug out from under him. He looked sick—the kind of sick that came from knowing you’d already lost the battle before it even started.
“You’re serious,” I said, narrowing my eyes, trying to read him.
“Dead serious,” he muttered, his voice flat, his gaze fixed on some invisible point on the wall. “It’s like… I can’t shake her, no matter how hard I try.”
DeShawn snorted, finally giving up on the bed controls. “Nigga, that’s cause she put voodoo on your dumb ass. Emery? For real? She don’t even like you half the time.”
Reaper, finally catching his breath, waved a hand weakly in agreement. “She called you ‘Broke Drake’ to your face, and you still simpin’? Bro, come on.”
Jackson let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Man, the streets gon’ mourn this loss. Bishop ‘Loverboy’ Jenkins? Off the market? Ain’t no way.”
Bishop sat forward again, pointing a finger at Jackson, his expression serious now. “Y’all can talk all the shit you want, but listen—this ain’t a game for me. She’s the one.”
That shut everybody up. For once, Bishop wasn’t being his usual slick, cocky self. The weight in his voice made it clear—he wasn’t joking. And that? That was more shocking than anything he’d just said.
“Well, damn,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “You really might be in love.”
Bishop blew out a breath, slumping back again, his face twisting into something between a smile and a grimace. “Shit, I been in love with her ass…can’t stand her.”
I thought back to our college days, back when Bishop and Emery were sneaking around, keeping their relationship on the low. They were known around campus for how much they roasted each other, so the idea of them being a thing? Unthinkable to anyone else. They figured it’d ruin their reps, so they were always holed up in our dorm instead—her and Bishop on his bed, Keisha and me on mine.
Everything was cool with them… until it wasn’t.
That one night after the gala, when Emery dipped on him without a word? It wrecked Bishop so bad he couldn’t even tell us what happened for two years. Two years. And by the time he did, we already knew. It showed in the way he handled every other woman since—like none of them could ever measure up. But married? Shit was giving Mr. and Mrs. Smith, if you asked me.
“How y’all bout to get married?” DeShawn asked, his eyebrows shooting up like he couldn’t believe the audacity. “You ain’t seen her since—”
“Don’t bring that shit up,” Bishop cut him off, his voice sharp enough to slice steel. His jaw tightened as he rubbed his temples, like the memory itself gave him a headache. “Her demonic ass popped up in my office talking ‘bout she needed a quote for a story she’s writing about the crash.”
His eyes flicked to me, like he was searching for something I couldn’t quite name. Then, with a resigned sigh, he kept going. “I told her to get the fuck out of my office. Next thing I know, I’m pulling up on her that night.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking my head. “You ain’t even wait a day?”
Bishop rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “Pulled up on her, did what we do, then bounced on her ass in the middle of the night. Had to flip the script, you know? Return the favor.” He leaned back, his smirk tinged with something darker. “Next thing I know, I’m at tea with Genie, and her ass is sitting in the fucking garden when I get there. Like she’s supposed to be there.”
“Oh, shit,” Reaper said, shaking his head, his grin wide.
The room erupted again, laughter bouncing off the walls, filling the space with that chaotic energy only brothers can create—the kind that comes from knowing each other at their best and worst, and still showing up anyway.
“I never met Emery, but I can’t wait to welcome my new sis,” Reaper said, grinning like he was already plotting how to clown her at the next family barbecue.
“Man, Emery and Bish are the same fucking person,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “It’s the best and worst thing about them.”
“For real,” Reaper added, looking almost pained. “Imma miss fucking with her little boyfriends when y’all settle down together.”
“Who said we settling down?” Bishop shot back, his voice sharp, but the look on his face betrayed him. He wasn’t even convincing himself.
“You just said—” DeShawn started, pointing at him like a lawyer in court.
“Fuck what I said,” Bishop interrupted, waving a hand like he was swatting a fly. He pulled his phone out, staring at the screen like it was his escape route. “I changed my mind.”
“Man, what date is the wedding?” Jackson pressed, leaning forward like he was already RSVPing.
“I don’t know,” Bishop said, deadpan. Like that was a normal answer. “I gotta get her a ring and shit, propose or whatever. But she said she wanna marry me, have my babies and shit.”
The room went dead silent for a beat, all of us staring at him, trying to piece together his logic—or lack of it.
“So… she proposed to you?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” Bishop said flatly, his tone so deadpan it made us all pause. Like we were the crazy ones.
We stared at him, collectively lost as hell.
“Wait,” DeShawn finally broke the silence, holding up a hand like he was trying to stop traffic. “She said she wanna marry you, have your babies, all that… but you’re the one who’s gotta buy the ring, plan the proposal, and lock it down?”
“Yeah,” Bishop replied, nodding like that made perfect sense.
DeShawn threw his hands up, his face scrunched in disbelief. “Man, Emery a demon for real. Ain’t no way you finna tell me, ‘We getting married,’ and now I gotta do all the damn work. That’s next-level evil.”
Reaper snorted, leaning back in his hospital bed, his grin stretching wide. “She really got you out here doing overtime just to say ‘yes.’ That’s wild.”
“Actually,” Bishop said, his voice cutting through the noise, “I told her I wasn’t marrying her ass.”
The room went silent for half a second, all of us blinking at him, waiting for the punchline.
“But you are?” Reaper asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah,” Bishop answered, completely unbothered.
The room erupted in laughter, everyone losing it at the absurdity. DeShawn was damn near falling out of his chair, while Jackson leaned back against the wall, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Man, you don’t make any sense!” Jackson said, throwing his hands up. “You told her no, but you’re marrying her anyway? What the hell is wrong with you?”
Bishop shrugged, leaning back in his chair with the kind of calm only he could pull off. “Look, I told her no at first to see if she’d fold. But she didn’t. She just looked at me like, ‘Alright, nigga, I’ll wait.’ And that was it. I folded. You know how she is.”
Reaper let out a low whistle, shaking his head like Bishop had just confessed to selling his soul. “Damn. That’s some Jedi mind trick shit right there.”
“Bro,” DeShawn said, still wiping tears from his eyes. “She’s got you all twisted up. You out here doing mental gymnastics just to make this make sense in your own head.”
“Y’all act like I’m the first nigga to fall for somebody like Emery,” Bishop shot back, his tone defensive but not angry. “She said she wants me. I want her. End of story. The rest? It’s just details.”
“Details?” Jackson said, cracking a grin. “Like a ring? And a proposal? And a whole-ass marriage?”
“Exactly,” Bishop said, unfazed. “Details.”
The room broke into laughter again, the kind that made the walls feel smaller, warmer. It wasn’t just the jokes—it was the shared history, the chaos that only we could create together.
Reaper leaned forward, his grin still stretched wide. “I don’t care what anybody says. That girl’s dangerous, Bish. She had you folded like a damn lawn chair.”
“And you like it,” I added, smirking as I leaned back in my chair.
Bishop glanced at me, his lips twitching like he wanted to argue but couldn’t. Finally, he cracked a smile, his first real one since this whole conversation started. “Man, fuck y’all.”
“Don’t worry,” DeShawn said, grinning like a cat with a canary. “I’ll make sure to bring a box of tissues to the wedding—for you. You gon’ be up there crying your whole ass off.”
“Man, shut up,” Bishop muttered, shaking his head, but the grin didn’t leave his face.
We all laughed, the kind of deep, belly laughs that felt like medicine. For a moment, everything felt lighter. But even as the sound of their laughter filled the room, my mind drifted. I couldn’t help but wonder if Angel was okay. Did she need me back upstairs?
“Anthony over there thinking about Angel,” Bishop teased, reading me like a damn book.
“Bet he need to be plottin’ how we gon’ handle Carlos for talking to his girl like that,” Reaper added, his grin sharp like he was half-joking—but only half.
“She ain’t my girl,” I corrected, my voice low but firm. Still, the words tasted like a lie the second they left my mouth.
“Anyway,” Reaper said, waving me off like I didn’t just deny the obvious, “now that Bish and Emery locked in, I’mma need someone else’s ex to fuck with. On the house.”
“Crazy ass,” I muttered, though my mind was already spinning. I’d planned Carlos’s death a thousand ways by now, each one bloodier than the last.
“See, times like this is why we need our bikes,” Jackson pressed, leaning forward like he’d just solved all our problems.
The whole room groaned, except for Reaper, who jumped in like he was hyped. “Exactly! Cause we could’ve been riding out on his ass the second they discharge me.” He gestured to his hospital gown. “And we need to look official when we do it. Gotta roll up right.”
“Official?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
“And y’all didn’t like the names so far,” Jackson continued, ignoring me completely. His face got serious, like he was about to drop some life-changing wisdom. “So I came up with something else. Since it’s my idea and there’s five of us, I was thinking… wait for it… The Jackson 5.”
The room fell silent. You could’ve heard a pin drop.
We all just stared at him, deadpan.
Finally, Reaper broke the silence. “Nigga, what?”
DeShawn tilted his head, squinting like he was trying to figure out if Jackson was serious or just trolling. “The Jackson 5? Like the band? The real Jackson 5?”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, nodding earnestly. “You know—five of us, and it’s my idea, my name is Jackson, so it works.”
Bishop let out a low, exaggerated sigh and rubbed his temples like the stupidity of it all had given him a migraine. “Bro, you can’t be serious.”
“Why not?” Jackson shot back, defensive now. “It makes sense!”
“Because we are not naming our crew after a Motown boy band,” DeShawn said, his voice flat like he couldn’t believe he even had to explain this.
“Man, that’s gotta be the worst idea you ever had,” Reaper added, shaking his head. “And that’s saying something.”
“Alright, alright,” Jackson grumbled, throwing his hands up. “It was just a suggestion. Damn.”
“Nigga, keep that one to yourself next time,” Reaper said, laughing. “Ain’t nobody riding out as the fucking Jackson 5 on the back of our jackets.”
The room broke into laughter again, the tension cracking and spilling out as everyone lost it. Even Jackson, dumb as his suggestion was, eventually cracked a grin.
But beneath it all, my mind stayed locked on Carlos. While they joked, I couldn’t shake the image of him yelling at Angel, his voice sharp, cutting her down like she was nothing. My fists clenched, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
“Ant,” Bishop said, pulling me out of my thoughts. His voice was quieter now, the teasing edge gone. “You good?”
I nodded once, forcing my hands to relax. “Yeah,” I said, though the lie felt heavier this time. “I’m good.”
“Don’t worry,” Bishop said, his smirk sharp as ever. “We gon’ have you back in time for curfew.” He paused, letting the tease hang in the air before adding, “Get you back to your Angel.”
My Angel.
The words hung in my head, hitting deeper than I wanted to admit.
Shit sounded good, though. Too good.
But I couldn’t let my mind go there. Not now. This wasn’t the time, and I knew it. Angel’s world began and ended with her son, and his fight was all that mattered. She was giving everything she had to keep it together, to keep him going.
And me? I’d keep showing up, keep standing behind her, no matter what. Because when her son was safe—when her world was steady again—I wanted her to look up and see me there, ready to be part of it.
CARLOS STEINBURG
My vision blurred as I slammed back the glass, the liquor clawing its way down my throat. I didn’t care what it was—whiskey, tequila, diesel fuel. All I knew was that it burned like the devil’s breath, setting fire to a roar buried deep in my chest.
“Another one,” I barked, the words cracking the air like a whip. My voice wasn’t a request—it was an order, sharp enough to cut through the low murmur of the bar.
The girl behind the counter froze. Wide eyes. Quivering hands. She looked at me like I was a goddamn predator—and maybe I was. Her fear fed me. Pathetic little thing, barely worth my notice if she wasn’t serving me.
She nodded without a word, spun on her heels, and vanished into the shadows of the backroom. That’s right, sweetheart. Move quickly. Don’t waste my time.
As soon as she was out of sight, I pulled out my phone, my thumb already hovering over the screen. I didn’t need to think about it. My body acted on instinct, a bitter compulsion. Google Images. D-Truth and his brother.
Anthony. The name tasted sour. Every article, every photo screamed the same story: The older brother. Still rotting in that trash heap of a town, Juniper. King of nothing. Not a star like D-Truth, but always close enough to remind the world he existed.
Photos of them jogging together. Shopping. Flexing muscles so big he looked like a walking billboard for steroid abuse. Always with security when he was with D-Truth. Like anyone would be dumb enough to mess with him.
Anthony Harris didn’t need bodyguards—he was the bodyguard. A brick wall with a pulse.
My jaw tightened as the memory of earlier clawed its way back, uninvited. Our first encounter. His face was like thunder, his fists cocked like loaded weapons. My temper had gotten the better of me, and I’d nearly paid for it. He’d almost knocked my goddamn head clean off—right in front of Angelina. Right in front of D-Truth.
Angelina.
What the hell was D-Truth doing with her? My favorite rapper, tangled up with trailer-trash like that? The world didn’t make sense. Unless…
Unless it was guilt.
Yeah, that was it. It had to be. A guilty conscience. My son got hurt at his event, and this was his way of making amends. A peace offering so that he didn’t get sued. Because what other reason could a man like D-Truth—rich, powerful, untouchable—have for keeping her around? And why the hell would his muscle-bound brother care?
No one—not in Roena County, not in this world—spoke to me the way he did.
Not to Carlos Steinburg.
Angelina knew that. She used to understand. Back when she still carried my name.
But she ran. Like a coward. Like the ungrateful bitch she is.
I made sure she got nothing. Not a dime. Not a shred of respect. I stripped her bare. Took back everything I ever gave her. And I took the name, too. She didn’t deserve it.
She never did.
“That’s enough, Steinburg.”
I turned slowly, deliberately, letting the moment stretch. Chuckling low, the sound rumbling deep in my chest, I finally turned to face him. Curtis Silas.
Of course.
There he stood, arms crossed, jaw tight, drowning in self-importance. The picture of a man who thought he mattered. Dressed to the nines in one of those designer suits he wore like armor. He always looked like he was posing for a magazine cover no one was going to print.
Curtis Silas. Owner of this overhyped vanity project he called Silas Social. A fancy name for what amounted to a playground for Roena County’s “elite.” The people who thought ten grand a year and overpriced scotch gave their lives meaning. It didn’t. Not to me.
And Curtis? Please. He was from Juniper. A nobody from nowhere who’d managed to rub shoulders with the right frat boys in college. Now he was trying to climb a ladder he didn’t belong on by opening this place. Hosting charity events, networking mixers, wine tastings—anything to prove he belonged.
He didn’t.
“Carlos,” Curtis said again, his tone low but firm, like he thought he had authority here. “I said that’s enough.”
I smirked. The man was trying too hard. Always had been. “Kiss my ass, Curtis.” I turned back to the bar, tapping the edge of my empty glass. “And where the hell is my drink?”
The bartender was still missing. Useless.
Curtis shifted behind me. I could feel the heat of his frustration, the way his shoulders squared up. Like he was gearing up to play the tough guy.
“I’m gonna have security remove you,” he said finally. Calm. Like that was supposed to scare me.
I snorted. Didn’t bother looking at him. “That’s the second time someone’s threatened me with security today. And let me tell you, Curtis—I’m getting real tired of that shit.”
The stool creaked under his weight as he slid in beside me. Too close. His cologne hit me—some overly expensive brand that reeked of desperation.
“Look, Carlos,” Curtis started, his voice softening, trying to play peacemaker now. “I respect you. But you’re over your limit, and—”
His words faded into white noise. I wasn’t listening. My thumb was already scrolling through my phone again, back to the photo I’d been studying earlier.
Anthony Harris.
The oversized thorn in my side. The righteous big brother. The man who thought he could loom over me like a goddamn monument.
“You know him?” I asked suddenly, holding up the screen without bothering to look at Curtis.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught it—the flicker of recognition in his face. Subtle, but there. A slow, knowing smile crept onto Curtis’s lips, and he nodded.
“Yea. Grew up with Ant,” he said, his tone casual, but I caught the pride beneath it. The kind of pride people from nowhere cling to when they name-drop someone who made it.
“Ant,” I repeated, rolling the nickname over my tongue. Tasting it. Testing it.
“So this is your friend?” I asked, keeping my tone light. Interested, but not too interested.
“Was,” Curtis said, the word landing heavy.
“What happened?” I turned to him now, leaning in just enough to sell the curiosity. I didn’t give a damn about the answer, but Curtis didn’t need to know that.
“She happened,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the bar.
I followed his gaze. Curtis’s wife was leaning over the counter, deep in conversation with the bartender—the same girl who’d been throwing me dagger-filled looks all night. Dramatic little thing.
Curtis’s wife, though. Now she was something. Tall. Poised. Graceful. The kind of beauty that turned heads when she walked into a room. She moved like she knew it, too. Like she owned the space she occupied.
Except for that hair. That blonde bob. It didn’t suit her. Clashed with the rest of the polished package. But men like Curtis ate that shit up, I guess.
“What’s her name again? Keyanna?” I asked, my voice casual, like I was guessing a name on a list I didn’t care about.
“Keisha,” he corrected, a hint of irritation slipping through.
“Your wife,” I added, drawing the word out just enough to make it land.
“Yeah,” he said. His voice was tight now.
I let the moment stretch. Smiled slowly, just enough to keep him guessing. Then I leaned back, dropped my next question smooth as silk.
“What, you steal her from your boy Ant or something?”
It hit its mark. I saw it. A flicker. Small. Quick. But it was there. Curtis shifted, barely noticeable. His jaw tightened. His hand flexed against the bar.
“Something like that,” he said finally, his voice low, the words carrying more weight than he intended.
I leaned forward again, letting the smile grow.
“Bet he didn’t like that, huh?” I said, my tone dripping with mock camaraderie.
Curtis chuckled, leaning back now, like we were sharing some inside joke. “Not one bit.”
I laughed with him. Low. Sharp.
Anthony got his girl stolen, and now he thought he could mess with me? Take what was mine? Not a chance in hell.
“What you wanna know about Ant for?” Curtis asked, his curiosity finally breaking through. His voice had that sharp edge, the kind that comes when a man knows he’s about to step into something he shouldn’t. “He’s quiet. Stays out of the way. What business you got with him?”
I let the silence stretch, let him squirm a little. Then I leaned back, took a long breath, and exhaled slow. Controlled. The kind of breath you take when you’re trying to keep the fire inside from spilling out and burning the whole goddamn room down.
“He’s trying to take something that belongs to me,” I said, my voice dipping into a growl. Each word was a low rumble, like thunder rolling in the distance.
Curtis frowned, but I wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. My mind flickered, snapshots firing off in quick succession. Images of him.
Anthony. With Angelina.
The way he leaned in close, talking to her like she was the center of his goddamn universe. His hands hovering too close, his shoulders angled toward her like she was magnetic. And that look in his eyes—like she was something precious. Rare.
It burned. Acid dripping into my chest, carving trenches into my ribs.
That’s what Anthony didn’t get. What no one seemed to get. Angel wasn’t rare. She wasn’t precious. She wasn’t some priceless artifact or a goddamn angel from heaven.
She was used. Mine.
The same woman who I’d bent over countertops, pressed into her cheap ass sheets, left behind when I was finished. The same woman who came crawling back every single time she needed money for her son. She wasn’t special. She wasn’t untouchable. She was a toy. My toy.
I smirked at the thought. What would Anthony think of her if he knew that? If he knew what she really was? She was nothing more than a desperate, broke, used-up whore who didn’t have a shred of dignity left.
She let me ruin her.
She handed me the keys and begged me to drive her into the ground. And now? Now she played the role of some struggling single mother, like she hadn’t been a willing participant in her own destruction.
I pictured it when I’d break him the news—his face crumbling. That dreamy, lovesick look draining from his eyes. The pedestal he’d built for her crashing to the ground, splintering into a thousand pieces.
And her? She’d be right back where she belonged. Beneath me. Always beneath me.
“Everything belongs to Carlos Steinburg, huh?” Curtis said, his voice cutting through my thoughts. Amused. He thought he was clever. Thought he was in on the joke.
I turned my head slowly, my gaze locking on him. My smirk disappeared.
“Fucking right,” I said, my voice snapping like a whip. I leaned back in my chair, stretching out like a king surveying his court. Curtis may have owned this place, but we both knew who really held the power in this room.
Curtis shifted in his seat, but before he could say anything else, my phone buzzed in my pocket. The sound cut through the tense moment like a razor.
I sighed, pulling it out and glancing at the screen. Blithe. My damn wife.
Great. Another goddamn headache waiting to happen.
I pushed myself off the barstool, a stumble in my step. “I’ll be back,” I said, my words slurred just enough to sound like a warning. “We’ll finish this another time.”
Curtis raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “I should call you an Uber.”
I turned, glancing over my shoulder, my expression hard as stone. “You should mind your fucking business,” I shot back. My voice was calm, but there was enough venom in it to make him flinch.
I didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t need to. I shoved open the door and stepped out into the balmy evening air, the sting of it clearing some of the fog from my head.
The second I stepped inside, I heard her.
Blithe.
Her voice hit me like nails on a chalkboard, sharp and grating as it ricocheted through the foyer. The sound of her heels clicking down the stairs followed, a rapid-fire staccato that made my temple throb.
She appeared at the landing, her movements quick, her tone slicing through the air. “You’ve been out drinking again, haven’t you?”
I took a moment to really take her in—the woman I married. The woman who bore four of my children, all of whom were currently away at Polo camp, because in this family, horses and hand-me-down privilege were practically written into the DNA. And here she was, strutting around the house like she was the queen of some private kingdom, wrapped in a designer silk robe with matching slippers that probably cost more than what most people make in a month.
Her long, straight hair cascaded down her back, perfectly sleek and freshly done—I’d bet money she’d spent the better part of the morning in some high-end salon, sipping champagne while they polished her into this glossy version of herself. That was Blithe’s thing. Her beauty was her armor, her currency, her favorite weapon.
She had the kind of look that made people stop and wonder. Ambiguous. The kind of face that could belong to any place, any lineage, yet always left you guessing. Her skin was so fair you might’ve thought she was white if you didn’t know better. Hell, I might’ve been darker than her.
She looked just like her mother, too - my mothers lifelong best friend.
They used to joke about it. Two best friends, pregnant at the same time, carrying a boy and a girl who were “destined to marry.” A joke that, somehow, turned into reality.
Blithe and I grew up inseparable. Best friends. Practically siblings. Until high school, when everything shifted. It started with a kiss—awkward, tentative. By senior year, we were dating. And for a while, it was good. Until she went off to Europe on one of those study abroad programs in college and decided she wasn’t coming back.
She ran off with some Frenchman. Shattered my heart like glass.
That’s when Angel came into the picture.
Sweet, shy, naive Angel. She wasn’t like the other girls I’d been with. She was quiet. Soft. The kind of girl who didn’t know her own worth, didn’t know who she was or what she could be. And that was what made her perfect for me.
I saw the potential in her before she even saw it herself. That blank slate of hers—it called to me. A canvas just waiting for someone to paint on it, to give it shape, meaning, direction. I molded her into my image of what I wanted her to be, because she didn’t know herself. She didn’t need to. I knew better.
She was so green, so trusting, so easy. Easy to lead, easy to convince, easy to wrap around my finger like a ribbon. She looked at me like I was the answer to every question she’d never dared to ask. And I liked that. I liked the way she tilted her head when I spoke, how her eyes widened when I gave her advice, like every word out of my mouth was gospel.
I could feel the power I had over her from the very beginning.
And then I found out she was a virgin.
She was untouched, unspoiled, mine for the taking.
How could I resist?
I didn’t.
I took her. Without hesitation. Without a condom. And the best part? She let me.
She let me, because she trusted me. She let me, because I’d already carved my name into her heart. She didn’t stop to think about what I wanted or why. She was too busy trying to please me, to hold onto the version of herself I’d created for her.
And in that moment, I knew I owned her. Completely.
Next thing I knew, she was pregnant.
I’d barely had time to process it myself when the fallout hit. My parents—the Steinburgs—were livid.
My father paced the length of the study, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood as he waved his whiskey glass in the air, spilling drops of amber liquid onto the rug.
“What is your obsession with Black girls, Carlos?” he asked, his tone clipped and seething with the kind of disappointment that hung over my entire childhood. “For God’s sake, couldn’t you have found someone respectable to knock up? To carry on The Steinburg legacy? Someone who fits into this family?”
I leaned back in the leather armchair, crossing my arms and watching him unravel. His face was red, the vein in his temple pulsing as he tried to keep his temper in check. I didn’t bother answering. What could I say? That he was right? That he was wrong? It didn’t matter. Not to me, and definitely not to him.
My mother, always the more calculated of the two, sat primly on the edge of the couch, her pearls glinting in the firelight.
“If you had to pick one,” she said, her voice slow and measured, as if she were explaining something obvious to a child, “it should’ve been Blithe. At least she’s one of the good ones. You grew up with her. We know her family. She’s refined. Educated. Not... whatever this girl is.”
She said it with the same kind of disdain she reserved for lower-class wine at a fundraiser—a subtle sneer, just enough to let you know she was disgusted but too well-mannered to say it outright.
I wanted to laugh at the hypocrisy of it all. My parents, the paragons of morality and decorum, sitting there judging me while their empire was built on the backs of shady deals and handshakes behind closed doors.
“She’s pregnant,” I said flatly, cutting through the tension like a knife. “What do you want me to do? Pretend it’s not my kid?”
“That might’ve been better,” my father muttered, draining his glass and slamming it onto the bar cart.
My mother sighed, shaking her head as she reached for her drink. “The Steinburg name comes first,” she said, her voice firm, unyielding. She looked at me over the rim of her glass, her eyes cold and calculating. “You’ll marry her. You’ll make it right. And you’ll do it quietly. No headlines. No scandal. Just a small ceremony. Understand?”
I stared at her, feeling the weight of the decision settle over me. But it didn’t bother me—not the way it should’ve. Marriage was just paperwork. A signature, a ceremony, a few posed photos. I didn’t care about the rest.
“Fine,” I said, shrugging.
My father stopped pacing, narrowing his eyes at me like he was trying to figure out whether I was being flippant or just indifferent. “You don’t even care, do you?” he asked, his tone bitter. “You don’t care about this family. About what you’ve done to our name.”
I didn’t answer. Because he was wrong. I did care.
Just not in the way he thought.
The Steinburg name mattered to me. It always had. But not because I wanted to protect it. Because I wanted to own it. To wield it. To make it mine.
Blithe was furious when she found out about the baby and wedding from her mother. Hurt, even. Good. She deserved it.
Derek was born, and I did what any man in my position would do. I buried myself in work to provide. Let Angel sit at home, getting fatter, slower, less interesting by the day. She wasn’t the woman I married anymore. Not that she ever really was.
And then one day, she left. Just like that.
It didn’t hurt because I loved her—I didn’t. It hurt because of her audacity. Her nerve. Walking out on a Steinburg? That took a pair of balls I didn’t think she had. And I made her pay for it.
I whispered in the right ears, called in the right favors. Made sure the Steinburg name blacklisted her from every decent job in Juniper and Westonberry for good measure. I wanted her to crawl back. To beg.
But Angel? She was resourceful.
I’ll give her that.
When no one would hire her, she didn’t come crawling back like I expected. No begging, no tears. She found another way. She started cleaning houses—scraping by, piece by pathetic piece.
Fine. If she wanted to live on scraps, let her. That was the life she chose when she walked out on me. She thought she was proving something, thought she could build her own life without me. Without the Steinburg name. But all she’d done was downgrade herself to exactly where she belonged—on her knees, scrubbing the floors of people better than her.
And I let her.
I let her stay there, because I thought it would teach her something. Humble her. Break her down enough to remind her of the mistake she made when she left me.
And then there was Blithe.
When news of my divorce reached her, Blithe was on the first thing smoking back from Paris. She didn’t even hesitate. Bags packed, ticket booked, and by the time I blinked, she was standing on my doorstep with that flawless smile and those calculating eyes, telling me how glad she was to “finally come home.”
Blithe Ortega became Blithe Steinburg almost overnight, as if it was always meant to be. And maybe it was.
She fit into my world perfectly, moving through it like she was born to wear the name. The charity events. The dinner parties. The whispered conversations over martinis. She lived for it. Thrived in it. And me? I played my part.
Now we were living the life that had been designed for us—the one my parents always wanted. Blithe and I, the perfect couple. The Steinburg name polished and restored, gleaming for the world to admire.
“Carlos!”
Blithe’s voice yanked me out of my thoughts. She was standing at the bottom of the staircase now, hands on her hips, glaring at me with enough heat to start a fire.
“You drove home drunk?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Relax,” I said, waving her off as I strode past her. “No one from your precious country club mom group saw me. I was at Silas after I left the hospital.”
Her glare followed me, sharp and unrelenting.
“You actually went to see him?” she asked, her heels clicking against the marble as she followed me through the house.
I didn’t need to ask who she meant. “My son? Yeah,” I said flatly, not bothering to turn around.
Derek. The son she wished I didn’t have. The one she liked to pretend didn’t exist.
“So?” she pressed, her tone clipped, full of disdain.
“He’s gonna live,” I said, tossing my keys onto the console table as I headed for the kitchen. “But it’s gonna be a long road.”
“And you’re supposed to pay for this?” she snapped, her voice trailing behind me like an accusation.
“She didn’t ask me for shit,” I said, the realization hitting me even as I said it aloud.
Blithe stopped in her tracks. “She didn’t?”
“Not a dime,” I repeated, my tone sharp.
“But eventually, she’ll want more,” Blithe said, her voice cold, dripping venom. “Fucking leech. Why can’t she just get a job like everyone else?”
I stopped dead in my tracks, turning to face her. My voice dropped, low and dangerous. “You’ve never worked a day in your life.”
Her arms crossed over her chest, her glare narrowing into daggers. “I’m a stay-at-home mom. I work every single day, 24/7.”
I laughed. Cold and sharp. “You have nannies. Housekeepers. A chef. Tutors for the kids.” I leaned in closer, each word slicing like a blade. “You don’t work, Blithe. You supervise.”
The slap came before I saw it. Hard and fast, it cracked across my face, leaving my cheek burning hot.
Blithe stood there, hand trembling, eyes blazing with fury.
“I do fucking work!” she screamed, her voice shrill, her chest heaving with anger.
I chuckled, rubbing my cheek at the shock of it all.
“Sure, honey,” I said, the words laced with mockery. Then I turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, trembling in the wreckage of her own anger.
“Where are you going?” Blithe’s voice followed me.
“Away from you,” I said, my tone cold as ice. I didn’t look back. Didn’t stop. My feet carried me forward, fast and steady, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. “Before I do something stupid.”
She laughed—low, sharp, and cruel. The kind of laugh that could cut you to the bone.
“Something stupid?” she repeated, the heels of her designer slippers clicking softly against the marble as she took slow, deliberate steps toward me. “Mr. Steinburg, you usually love being slapped.”
The words froze me mid-step. My jaw tightened, heat pooling at the base of my neck. I turned my head slightly, just enough to see her out of the corner of my eye. She was smirking, her arms crossed loosely over her chest, her posture casual. Too casual.
“Careful, Blithe,” I said, my voice low, controlled. “You’re walking a thin line.”
She raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening into a full, teeth-baring smile.
“Oh, please, Carlos. Don’t act like you’re dangerous. Not here. Not with me.” She gestured lazily toward the vaulted ceilings, the polished floors, the framed art that lined the walls. “This is my house, too. Or did you forget that in your little drunken tantrum?”
I turned to face her fully now. Blithe’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, she seemed to draw strength from my anger, feeding off it like it was a flame she could control. She tilted her head, her smirk widening into something that felt more like a dare.
“What’s the matter, Carlos?” she purred, her voice like honey laced with poison. She took a slow, deliberate step closer, her silk robe gliding against her skin. “Forgot to take your mask off when you stepped inside my house?”
Her words hit like a slap, sharper than the one she’d already given me.
“Leave that bravado, that narcissism, outside,” she continued, her tone dropping lower, more commanding. She circled me now, like a predator toying with its prey. “Inside here? You’re just my little bitch. Or did you forget?”
My breath caught in my throat, and I felt my fists tighten at my sides, my instinct to resist flaring for a brief moment. But I knew better. Blithe wasn’t someone you resisted.
Not in here.
I swallowed hard, the sound loud in the silence that stretched between us. My shoulders sagged slightly, and I let out a shallow breath.
“Sorry,” I muttered, my voice barely audible.
She tilted her head, arching an eyebrow as she stepped in front of me again. Her manicured finger reached out, tapping against my chest lightly—once, twice, like she was scolding a child.
“Sorry who?” she said, her voice calm but firm, each word dragging over me like a blade.
Her finger moved upward now, trailing along the buttons of my shirt, then my throat, until it rested on the top of my head. She pressed down gently at first, but her intent was clear.
I hesitated for a split second.
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Carlos,” she said, her tone hardening, her gaze locking onto mine with that unrelenting, commanding fire that always left me unraveling.
I dropped to my knees. Slowly.
My legs folded beneath me on the cold marble floor, the humbling sensation of kneeling in front of her always sharper than I remembered. My head tilted downward automatically, my breathing shallow as I stared at the polished tips of her slippers.
“Sorry, Madame,” I said, my voice quiet, but steady enough to satisfy her.
She reached out, her fingers threading into my hair, gripping it lightly at first, then tugging just enough to tilt my head upward so I had to look at her.
“That’s better,” she said softly, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “You see? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Her eyes searched mine, studying me the way she always did in these moments, like she was peeling back the layers, stripping me down to the raw, vulnerable truth of who I was beneath the Steinburg name and the tailored suits.
“Stand up,” she said suddenly, her hand releasing my hair as she stepped back, gesturing for me to rise.
I did as I was told, unfolding myself slowly and standing tall, though I felt anything but.
She walked around me again, her fingers brushing lightly over my shoulders, down my back, like she was inspecting me. Testing me. She stopped in front of me once more, her gaze meeting mine with unflinching intensity.
“Take off your clothes,” she commanded, her voice soft but absolute.
I hesitated again, my hands hovering over the buttons of my shirt.
“Carlos,” she said, her tone shifting into something sharper. “Do I need to remind you who you belong to?”
“No, Madame,” I said quickly, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Then stop wasting my time,” she said, crossing her arms as she watched me with a raised eyebrow, daring me to disobey.
My hands moved instinctively, unbuttoning my shirt one button at a time, the fabric feeling heavier with each piece I removed. My shirt hit the floor first, followed by my belt, my slacks.
Blithe watched silently, her expression unreadable, but I could feel the weight of her gaze. When I was down to just my briefs, she took a step forward, her fingers tracing along my jawline.
“Good,” she said, her voice softening just slightly, though the command in her tone never left. “Now go to the bedroom and wait for me.”
Her eyes flashed as she added, “On your knees.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes, Madame.”
Without another word, I turned and made my way upstairs, my steps slower than usual, the weight of the moment pressing down on me.
Her footsteps echoed softly behind me as I climbed the stairs, each one deliberate, calculated. I could feel her watching me, feel her gaze boring into the back of my neck like a brand.
When I reached the bedroom, I paused for just a moment before stepping inside. The room was as pristine and cold as always—immaculate white sheets stretched tight over the oversized bed, curtains drawn halfway to let in just enough moonlight. Everything in this house was perfect. Too perfect.
I lowered myself to my knees at the foot of the bed, my body sinking onto the plush rug below. The coolness of the fabric brushed against my skin, grounding me, reminding me of where I was. Of who I was in this moment.
Her bitch.
The words rang in my head, loud and mocking, and I clenched my fists against my thighs to steady myself. My jaw tightened, my teeth grinding together as I stared at the floor, waiting.
Behind me, the soft click of her slippers on the hardwood floor grew louder as she entered the room. She didn’t speak right away. She never did. She liked to let the silence stretch, to let it fill the space until it was unbearable, until I was suffocating under the weight of her presence.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, smooth as silk.
“Look at you,” she said, and I could hear the smirk in her tone. “Big, powerful Carlos Steinburg. On your knees. You look good like this.”
I swallowed hard but didn’t respond. I knew better.
Her hand came to rest on the back of my head, her fingers threading through my hair. The touch was light, almost gentle, but the intent behind it was unmistakable.
“You’ve been such a disappointment lately,” she said, her fingers tightening slightly, pulling just enough to force my head back so I had no choice but to look up at her.
Blithe stood over me, her silk robe falling open just enough to reveal the curve of her leg, her posture regal, commanding. She looked like a queen surveying her kingdom.
“You think you can stomp around this house like you own it? Like you’re the reason for your success?” she continued, her gaze locking onto mine with unrelenting force. “Let me remind you, Carlos. You might own the name. The money. The reputation. But here?” She leaned down, her face inches from mine, her voice dropping to a low, deadly whisper. “I own you.”
My throat went dry, and I nodded slightly, my body stiff with tension.
“Say it,” she commanded, her fingers tightening in my hair.
I hesitated. Not out of defiance, but because the words still burned every time they left my mouth. They stripped away everything I thought I was, everything the world thought I was.
“I… belong to you,” I said finally, my voice low and strained.
“Louder,” she snapped, tugging harder now, her eyes narrowing.
“I belong to you,” I repeated, the words echoing through the room.
Blithe smiled, releasing her grip on my hair and straightening up again. “Good boy,” she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction though it made me think back to earlier when Anthony said it. Like he knew who I really was.
She turned away from me then, walking toward the vanity in the corner of the room, her movements slow and deliberate. She sat down gracefully, crossing her legs and tilting her head slightly as she regarded me through the mirror.
“I wonder,” she mused, her tone casual now, like she was thinking out loud. “If the rest of the world knew about this… about who you really are… what would they say? What would they think about the great Carlos Steinburg on his knees, begging for my approval?”
My chest tightened, a flash of anger igniting deep in my gut. But I shoved it down. Buried it. That was part of the deal. That was part of the game.
Blithe chuckled softly, as if she could see the flicker of defiance behind my carefully blank expression.
“Oh, don’t worry,” she said lightly, running a finger along the edge of her vanity. “Your little secret’s safe with me. For now.”
I exhaled sharply, my shoulders sagging just slightly in relief.
“Stand up,” she said suddenly, her voice snapping like a whip.
I obeyed immediately, rising to my feet and standing at attention like a soldier awaiting orders.
She rose from the vanity then, gliding across the room until she was standing in front of me again. She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly over my jaw, then down my chest, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle with tension.
“You’re dismissed,” she said finally, stepping back and waving me off like I was nothing more than an afterthought.
I hesitated, the heat of humiliation creeping up the back of my neck, but I didn’t argue. I turned and walked toward the door, my movements stiff and mechanical, my jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
As I reached the threshold, her voice stopped me cold.
“Oh, and Carlos?” she said, her tone casual but laced with something sharp.
I turned slightly, just enough to glance over my shoulder at her. She was leaning against the bedpost now, her arms crossed, her smile sharp enough to cut glass.
“Don’t forget,” she said, her eyes locking onto mine. Her gaze was steady, sharp, unyielding, pinning me to the spot like an insect under glass. “No matter what face you show the world out there, I’m the one who owns you in here.”
God, I hated how much she saw me—really saw me. She didn’t care about the mask I wore for the world. The Carlos Steinburg with the suits, the power, the control. That version of me was smoke and mirrors, and she cut through it like a razor every time. She knew who I was when the doors were closed, when the world wasn’t looking. And the worst part? She made me feel it. The raw, vulnerable, stripped-down truth of it all. I wanted to hate her for that, but I couldn’t.
“Yes, Madame,” I said, my voice quiet, barely above a whisper.
The word burned, as it always did. A small part of me wanted to spit it out like poison, to slam the door behind me. But the larger part of me—the one I tried to ignore—loved the sting of it. Loved the way she forced me to say it. Madame. That word alone stripped me of everything I thought I was. Every ounce of control, every scrap of pride. And yet, I kept saying it. Because the truth was, I needed this. I needed her to remind me of who I was when the mask came off.
I was nothing.
And that was what fueled me.
That void inside me, that gaping hole where confidence should’ve been, was the fire behind everything I did. Every deal I closed. Every room I walked into like I owned it. It wasn’t real power—it was desperation, insecurity. The need to prove myself, to show the world that I was worthy of this name. Of the Steinburg legacy. Of anything.
Being submissive to my wife—it didn’t make me hate her.
No. The truth was darker than that.
The truth that she saw, the one she reminded me of every time I knelt at her feet, was that I didn’t hate her at all.
I hated myself.
For not being enough. For hiding behind the façade of Carlos Steinburg, the man everyone thought I was. For needing this. For craving the humiliation like it was the only thing that made me feel real.
Blithe didn’t break me.
I was already broken. She just saw the cracks in real time as they formed throughout the course of my life.
And maybe that was why I stayed.
Why I obeyed.
Blithe knew the real me. She didn’t fall for the act, didn’t believe in the illusion of Carlos Steinburg, the man everyone else saw. She cut through the lies, saw past the bravado and the mask I wore so well. She had radical acceptance of who I truly was.
She saw me.
And I loved her for it.
Even when it destroyed me.
I loved her for it, because with Blithe, I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to play the part, or hold the world on my shoulders like some goddamn marble statue. I could let the weight crush me here, because she already knew what I was underneath it all: broken, hollow, weak.
The truth was, while I let Blithe break me piece by piece behind these walls, I unleashed that destruction on everyone else outside them.
Because that’s how I survived. That’s how I balanced the scales. I didn’t build myself up—I tore everyone else down.
And next on my list?
Anthony Harris.
I loved the camaraderie of the guys with Ant! That they’re able to be themselves and vulnerable. Be seen! That was beautiful!
Now Carlos! I begrudgingly read it because I couldn’t care less. I’d like to see his face when he realizes Ant knows it al already.
I need chapter 10-12 ASAP! I love reading about Bishop and Anthony.