Page 51 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2

“Yes, but?—”

“If you and Amai separate now,” he cut me off, his voice sharp as a blade, “the Baptiste empire doesn’t remain standing. We crumble. Everything we’ve built—everythingI’vebuilt—falls apart because you don’t want to play house with a man who doesn’t want you.”

The words hit like a slap.

I stood up, my voice shaking. “I just want to live my life, Daddy. I want to be happy. I want?—”

He moved so fast I didn’t see it coming.

One second, he was sitting in his chair. The next, his hand was wrapped around my upper arm, yanking me forward with a force that made my breath catch.

“This IS your fucking life,” he snarled, pulling me close enough that I could smell the bourbon and cigar smoke on his breath. “Your life is what I say it is. Your happiness is irrelevant. Your wants are irrelevant. You are a tool, Yahmaria. A tool I’m using to keep the Baptiste name relevant in this city.”

His grip tightened, and I felt my eyes start to water.

“You will go back to that house. You will make sure Amai knows you’re there. You will remind him that you are his wife—legally, publicly, permanently. And you will do whatever it takes to keep him from throwing away this alliance for some hood rat from the Seventh Ward.”

“Daddy, please?—”

“Do you understand me?”

His fingers dug into my arm, and I nodded frantically, tears spilling over.

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

He released me with a shove that sent me stumbling backward. I caught myself on the sofa, my heart hammering in my chest.

Victor settled back into his chair like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just reminded me that I was nothing more than a possession. A bargaining chip. A means to an end.

“Good,” he said, picking his cigar back up. “Now get out of my sight.”

I left without another word, my arm throbbing where his fingers had been, my mind already spinning with how I was going to convince Amai that I was worth keeping around.

Even though we both knew I wasn’t.

Even though we both knew this was just business.

Even though I’d stopped mattering the moment my father decided I was useful.

The drive back to Amai’s house was a blur.

I didn’t remember getting in the car. Didn’t remember pulling out of my father’s driveway or merging onto the highway. My hands moved on autopilot—turn signal, brake, accelerate—while my mind was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere far away.

Thailand.

God, I missed Thailand.

Those three months after Amai and I split—before Daddy dragged me back—had been the freest I’d felt in years. Maybe ever.

No obligations. No empire I had to sell my soul for. No last name weighing me down like a fucking anchor.

Just fresh air. Sexy men who didn’t know who I was or what I represented. Great food that didn’t come with expectations.Views that stretched forever. Vibes that felt like breathing for the first time.

I’d woken up every morning in that little villa overlooking the ocean and feltlight.

No Winston Landry watching my every move. No Victor Baptiste reminding me I was a tool, not a person. No Amai looking at me like I was the biggest mistake he’d ever made.