Page 59 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 2
Looked down at Layla’s body.
Felt nothing.
Just the wine warming my blood and the certainty that I’d crossed a line I could never uncross.
I walked back to the table.
Sat down.
Refilled my glass.
And went back to scrolling through my phone like nothing had happened at all.
“Y’all gon’ kill each other in this damn house,” Syx said.
“Might.” I shrugged.
Now we see who folds first. Me or Amai. Neither of us wanted to call the cleaners because that would mean admitting the other won.
One Day Later
I woke up in the guest bed.
Again.
The sheets were expensive—Egyptian cotton, high thread count, the kind that felt like butter against skin. But they weren’thissheets. Weren’t inhisroom.
Amai had kicked me out after the first day.
I didn’t care.
Couldn’t care less where I slept. I was just there ’cause I had to be.
Fuck it.
I threw the covers back and sat up, my feet finding the plush rug beside the bed. The house was quiet. The kind of silence that pressed against your eardrums and made you aware of your own breathing.
I stood and pulled on my silk robe—cream-colored, expensive, something I’d bought in Paris last summer.
When I still hadair.
I walked to the guest bathroom and flipped on the light.
My reflection stared back at me.
I looked tired.
Not physically—my skin was still flawless, my body still tight, my face still the kind that stopped men mid-sentence. But my eyes looked tired. Like I’d been running for years and hadn’t realized I was never going to reach the finish line.
I turned on the faucet and started my morning routine.
Cleanser first. Then toner. Then serum. Then moisturizer. Then eye cream.
Each step precise. Methodical. The same routine I’d done every morning since I was sixteen, and my mother told me that beauty was currency, and I’d better learn how to spend it wisely.
I journaled next.
Sat on the edge of the bed with my leather-bound journal in my lap and wrote three pages of stream-of-consciousness thoughts that I’d burn before anyone ever read them.
