Page 78 of Collateral Love
Cold, appraising, and dismissive.
“I get to say whatever I want in my house,” she replied. “And I don’t want my good daughter around criminals.”
The word hit the room like a slap.
Criminals.
Plural.
Kenya didn’t flinch. She just smiled, and I knew that smile. It was the one she used when she was deciding whether to burn something down or let it rot on its own.
“So I’m the bad daughter?” Kenya said.
Her mother shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”
I pushed off the wall. “You don’t know me,” I said evenly.
She didn’t even look impressed by the challenge.
“I know enough,” she replied. “And I know what kind of men ruin girls like Chanel.”
That’s when it clicked.
This wasn’t about me.
Or Kenya.
This was about control.
Kenya crossed her arms. “Chanel isn’t a child.”
“She is to me,” her mother snapped. “And she will not be dragged into whatever mess you’re building.”
Kenya laughed softly. Not amused or kind.
“I’m the reason she isn’t in a mess,” she said. “You should be thanking me.”
“I didn’t ask you to do anything,” she said. “And I don’t need your help.”
Kenya stepped closer. “You’ve been needing it for years.”
I watched the woman who gave birth to her daughter refuse to look at her as if eye contact might crack something she couldn’t afford to acknowledge.
“Just keep Chanel away from them,” her mother said finally. “From Xavier. From his brother. From all of it.”
Kenya tilted her head. “Why?”
That was the wrong question.
Her mother’s jaw clenched. “Because I said so.”
Kenya didn’t let it go. “You don’t care who I see. You don’t care who I’m around. But suddenly you’re worried about Chanel?”
Her mother snapped. “You chose your life.”
Kenya’s eyes darkened. “No. I chose to survive.”
That landed harder than anything else said in that room.
