Page 2 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

I couldn’t afford for her to believe that I was like her ex, but until I figured a way through this, I had no choice. Finding out I was married would taint her image of me forever.

I pocketed my phone and grabbed my keys.

The drive to Lakeview was quiet. The kind of quiet that let my thoughts get loud.

I took St. Charles, the streetcar tracks running parallel to my route, the old mansions looming on either side like monuments to old money and older secrets. The sun was just starting to break over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange that felt too soft for what I was about to do.

My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary.

Yahmaria had walked into my house while Alexis was there. While Syx was there. While Layla was in the kitchen cooking dinner like it was just another night. She’d walked in and smiled like she owned the place.

And, technically, she did.

We were still married.

The divorce papers had been sitting unsigned for some time. Every time I sent someone to serve her, she disappeared. Every time I tried to corner her, she slipped through my fingers like smoke. And my father—my father acted like it was all just a misunderstanding. Like if I waited long enough, Yahmaria and I would work it out. He knew the entire time they had no intention of releasing either of us from the prison they created for us.

I turned onto my parents’ street, and the houses got bigger. Older. The kind of architecture that screamed generational wealth, and the kind of power that didn’t need to announce itself. My father’s estate sat at the end of the block, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and oak trees that had been there longer than any of us.

I pulled into the circular driveway and put the car in park.

Sat there.

Stared at the front door.

The house was a monument. Greek Revival columns, double staircase leading to the entrance, windows that reflected the rising sun like they were made of gold. This was where I’d grown up. Where I’d learned that power wasn’t given—it was taken. Where I’d watched my father build an empire on the backs of men who thought they were his equals until they realized they weren’t.

Where I’d learned that love was conditional.

And control was everything.

I got out of the car and closed the door. The sound echoed in the early morning stillness. My shoes hit the pavers with sharp, deliberate clicks as I walked toward the entrance. The humidity was already thick, clinging to my skin, making my shirt stick to my back.

New Orleans in the summer. Even at dawn, the city was sweating.

I stopped at the door.

My hand hovered over the doorbell.

I could walk away. Get back in the car. Go to Truth and the baby and pretend this wasn’t happening. Pretend Yahmaria showing up was just a fluke. Pretend my father wasn’t tightening the leash.

But I’d never been good at pretending.

And I was done being brought to my knees by the balls.

I pressed the doorbell and heard it chime inside—deep, resonant, the kind of sound that announced arrivals and demanded attention.

Footsteps.

The door opened.

Winston stood there in slacks and a pressed shirt, a cup of coffee in his hand, looking like he’d been awake for hours. Like he’d been expecting me.

“Amai,” he said, his voice calm. “You’re up early.”

I didn’t smile.

Didn’t move.