Page 17

The coastal breeze rolled through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of saltwater, jasmine, and the faintest trace of aged oak from the towering trees draped in Spanish moss. The Hills at Old Trinity held a mystique all its own—cobblestone streets whispering with the echoes of history, antebellum mansions standing as monuments to old money and power, and shadows thick with ghost stories tourists paid to hear.

This was Krys’ sanctuary.

Unlike her Bayfront Heights property, modern, sleek, and built for appearances, this home was a fortress. A private oasis guarded and untouchable. The staff moved discreetly, ever-present but never intrusive, ensuring the estate remained the untouched haven she needed it to be. Few were ever invited to this space. Fewer still knew of its existence.

The scent of sandalwood and vanilla, Krys’ signature scent, lingered in the air as Krys padded through the grand hallways, her silk robe whispering against her legs. High ceilings, intricate crown molding, and hand-carved mahogany accents reminded her that this house had lived many lives before her. She appreciated that. Legacy. History. The kind that money couldn’t fabricate.

But tonight, her mind wasn’t on the past; it was on him .

Krys exhaled, fingers tightening around the stem of her half-finished glass of cabernet as she leaned against the cool marble of the kitchen island. She had barely touched her dinner, appetite lost to the distraction swirling in her thoughts: Kenyatta.

It didn’t make sense how much space he was taking up in her mind. It was business. A mutually beneficial arrangement. That’s what she told herself.

And yet…

She turned toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out over the estate. Beyond the balcony, the sprawling garden stretched toward the private courtyard, where fountains gurgled softly beneath the moonlight. The city felt distant from here. Removed.

A low, uninterested huff sounded behind her. Krys chuckled before turning.

Musa lay sprawled across the polished wood floors, his massive frame at ease, his head resting on his paws, golden eyes watching her with the kind of silent judgment only he could deliver. His sleek coat gleamed under the ambient glow of the recessed lighting, his presence an undeniable force even in his relaxed state.

“I don’t need your opinion,” she muttered, swirling her wine.

Musa let out a deep, unimpressed yawn; his jowls stretching before he smacked his lips and shifted, his disinterest evident.

Krys shook her head. Unbothered as always.

She crossed the living room, pausing again at the windows, but this time, it wasn’t the estate she saw.

It was a vision.

A dangerous one: Kenyatta here, in this space. Moving through her kitchen, his inked-up, shirtless frame standing at the stove, fixing breakfast like he belonged there. The deep rumble of his voice teasing her in the morning, lazy and familiar. Kaliyah’s backpack hanging by the entryway, a pair of tiny sneakers kicked off near the door. She didn’t even know what Kaliyah looked like, but somehow, the vision still played out. A family. Stability.

The image was too vivid. Too real. And she hated it.

Krys inhaled sharply, shoving the thought away before it could settle. Hell no.

She turned on her heel, heading toward the primary bedroom, pushing through the double doors. The California king-sized bed, draped in plush Egyptian cotton sheets, felt too big. Too empty. That was a problem.

Dropping onto the edge of the bed, she pressed her hands against her face, forcing herself to stop. This was ridiculous. She wasn’t about to sit here, fantasizing about playing house with a man she barely knew. A man who, if she was being real, still had one foot in the streets.

Musa padded into the room behind her, his nails clicking lightly against the floor as he came to sit beside the bed, watching her.

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you,” she muttered, reaching out to scratch behind his ears. “You’re the only man I need, right?”

Musa gave a slow blink, then nudged her hand in agreement.

Krys chuckled, shaking her head before checking the time.

“You’re a mess, Musa” she murmured, running a hand over his massive head.

Musa responded with a lazy stretch before lowering himself onto the floor beside her, his warmth grounding her in a way she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Krys reached for her phone, her fingers hovering over the screen. Impulsively, she wanted to call Kenyatta, but for what reason?

Her eyes drifted toward her walk-in closet, ideas already forming in her mind. Like… what the hell was he wearing to the graduation? And why did she care? She did, but she didn’t; this was just an excuse to make contact with him.

She tapped Kenyatta’s name in her messages and hovered over the keyboard.

What was the most casual way to ask a man his clothing size without making it weird?

Forget it.

[Krys] 8:23PM— What size you wear?

She hit send and immediately regretted it. Because why did that sound so blunt? She barely had time to think before he responded.

[Kenyatta] 8:23PM— Damn. You tryna buy me lingerie or sum?

Krys’ mouth dropped open. She sat up straight, typing fast.

[Krys] 8:24PM— Shut up. Just answer the question.

[Kenyatta] 8:25PM— You first. What size you wear?

[Krys] 8:26PM— Are you serious right now?

[Kenyatta] 8:26PM— I’m just sayin. Fair exchange.

She groaned, rubbing her temple.

[Krys] 8:26PM— Large or XL?

[Kenyatta] 8:28PM— Depends. Tops, XL. Pants, Large.

She mentally noted that before responding.

[Krys] 8:29PM— Good.

[Kenyatta] 8:31PM— Aight, now tell me what you up to.

[Krys] 8:33PM— None of your business.

[Kenyatta] 8:33PM— Yeah, okay.

Krys smirked, setting the phone down.

Done.

But before she could move on, another message popped up.

[Kenyatta] 8:37PM— Wyd anyway?

Krys hesitated. Then she texted back.

[Krys] 8:38PM— Winding down. You?

[Kenyatta] 8:40PM— Bout to put on Iron Man.

Krys stared at the message. Then typed…

[Krys] 8:41PM— Which one?

[Kenyatta] 8:41PM— The first one, duh.

[Krys] 8:43PM— Good answer.

[Kenyatta] 8:45PM— Oh? You fuck with Marvel?

Krys smiled.

[Krys] 8:47PM— Of course. Marvel over DC any day. But Marvel will never be the same without Iron Man.

Three dots appeared. Then…

[Kenyatta] 8:49PM— Ain’t never lied.

She sat there for a second, staring at the screen. Her heart did this dumb little skip that she immediately ignored.

Instead, she simply replied…

[Krys] 8:52PM— Enjoy the movie, Yatta.

A pause. Then…

[Kenyatta] 8:55PM— Goodnight, Bae.

Krys exhaled. She locked her phone.

And ignored the tiny, stupid smile tugging at her lips.

**********

Krys was snatched from her moment when Musa’s head lifted, sensing a presence before Krys even heard the knock at the door. His golden eyes locked onto the direction of the entrance, ears twitching in silent recognition. Krys didn’t need to check the security cameras. She already knew who it was.

The heavy iron gates to her estate only opened for a select few, and Karma, silent, efficient, and lethal as ever, didn’t just show up unannounced.

Krys rose from her spot on the bed, adjusting the silk belt around her robe as she moved through the dimly lit hallway. By the time she reached the front door, Musa was already there, standing alert but calm, his presence a living fortress.

Krys pulled the door open. Karma stood on the porch, hands in the pockets of her black tactical jacket, expression unreadable.

No hair, no wasted motion. She was a blade, polished, sharp, and deadly. The moonlight cast long shadows across the cobblestone driveway behind her, illuminating the sleek black Audi RS7 she had arrived in.

Karma didn’t step inside immediately. Instead, her gaze flickered over Krys, taking her in. Assessing.

“You straight?” she asked, voice smooth, measured.

Krys exhaled, stepping aside. “Come in before Musa starts thinking you’re here for the wrong reasons.”

At the sound of his name, Musa let out a low, approving rumble, stepping closer to Karma with a familiarity he reserved for few. He nudged her leg, massive head bumping against her thigh in silent greeting.

Karma crouched down to scratch beneath his jaw. “Good to see you, too, big man.”

Musa huffed, his version of affection, before stalking back toward the sunken living room, his massive form moving like a shadow with weight.

Krys crossed her arms, watching Karma as she peeled off her jacket and draped it over the back of one of the leather armchairs.

“You hungry?”

Karma shook her head. “Just handled something.”

Krys narrowed her eyes slightly, catching the shift in her tone. “Handled?”

A slight tilt of Karma’s head, eyes steady. “It’s done.”

That was all she needed to hear.

Krys studied her for another second, then nodded, moving toward the kitchen. Karma followed, her silent footsteps blending into the dark wood flooring.

Once inside, Krys grabbed the bottle of cabernet from earlier, pouring herself another glass. She needed something to take the edge off.

Karma leaned against the counter, watching her. Always watching.

Krys took a slow sip, then exhaled. “I got a problem.”

Karma arched a brow. “A new one? Or the kind I need to make disappear?”

Krys smirked despite herself, shaking her head. “Not that kind of problem.”

Karma didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just waited.

Krys hesitated, then sighed. “It’s Kenyatta.”

Karma’s head tilted slightly, the closest thing to surprise she ever showed.

Krys tapped her nails against the glass. “I don’t know what it is about him, but…” She exhaled sharply. “I feel myself getting pulled in. And I don’t do that. I don’t let people in.”

Karma’s gaze was steady. “You sure this ain’t just some convenient arrangement that got outta hand?”

Krys shook her head. “It ain’t that simple. I’m not supposed to want to know more about him. But I do. I’m not supposed to care what’s on his mind when he goes quiet. But I do.”

Karma didn’t speak right away. Just absorbed. Calculated.

Then, she leaned forward slightly, voice lower now. “That’s not you, Krys.”

“I know.”

“So, what’s different?”

Krys huffed, pressing her fingers to her temples. “He feels…real.”

That was what unsettled her the most.

Karma leaned back, studying her like she was a puzzle missing a crucial piece. “You sure he’s worth it?”

Krys didn’t answer right away. She just took another sip of wine, staring into the glass like it held the answer.

Karma didn’t push. Didn’t pry. She just watched.

Then, after a long moment, she spoke again.

“If this is real,” she said, voice unreadable, “then you need to decide if you’re letting him in…or if you’re keeping him at arm’s length before it’s too late.”

Krys swallowed hard.

Too late.

She already knew it was.