Page 25 of Love's Free Will

I hit FaceTime, and Egypt’s face filled the screen. She was curled up on her couch in her trailer in Toronto, her makeup was done and she a bonnet on her head, holding a bowl of ice cream like she was watching an episode of my life unfold in real time.

She did a once-over, then narrowed her eyes. “Why you look all… flustered?”

I let out an exasperated sigh and fanned myself with my hand, still feeling overheated from Royal’s unnecessary proximity.

“Because this nigga Royal keeps fuckin’ with me,” I muttered.

Egypt immediately grinned sitting up. “Oh, word? What he do?”

I threw my head back, groaning. “Everything.”

She leaned in. “Like… the good kind of everything?”

I shot her a look. “No, Egypt.”

She smirked. “You sure?” I hesitated which was a big mistake because Egypt caught that shit instantly. “Oh, bitch.” She leaned back dramatically, laughing. “You like him.”

I nearly choked. “I do NOT.”

She laughed harder. “Nah, you not foolin’ me. You like that man.”

I shook my head. “I can’t stand him. He’s immature, reckless, and not serious about anything but himself.”

Egypt waved her spoon. “Mmhmm. And yet he got you in there sweating. Gon’ pop it for pimp one time, get that shit outta ya system.”

I hung up on her ass… immediately and considered blocking her too.

I took a full minute to compose myself before re-entering the studio. Only to find Royal sitting at the soundboard, headphones on, vibing to a track I had sent him earlier that day. I froze, because I knew that look on his face. He liked what he was hearing.

He looked up, smirking when he saw me. “Damn, Ave,” he drawled. “You finally sent me some shit I actually wanna use.”

I blinked, then narrowed my eyes. “Excuse me?”

He just leaned back, arms stretched behind his head, and grinned the beautiful grin. “Guess we makin’ a hit, Shawty.”

My stomach flipped. I blamed it on hunger. Not him. Never him. But damn, the way he smiled at me, had me wanting to break a rule I had set for myself. Don’t fuck the client.

I should’ve knownI couldn’t dodge my parents forever. After weeks of ignoring texts and rescheduling dinner plans, my mother had finally cornered me with an offer I couldn’t escape. Lunch today, at her office. I was trapped and there was no getting out of it, no more excuses to try to avoid it.

I arrived at her law firm, greeted by marble floors, towering glass windows, and the suffocating air of generational expectations. Her assistant led me to her office, where she wasalready sitting at her desk, flipping through a legal brief, looking impeccable as always.

The food was already set out when I arrived, but I barely had a second to pull out my chair before my mother’s sharp voice cut through the room.

She barely glanced up. “You’re late.”

I dropped into the chair across from her, sighing. “Good to see you too, Ma.”

Allison St. Claire was pristine as ever, dressed in an expensive navy power suit, her hair perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. Her office—cold, sleek, efficient—mirrored her energy. Nothing here was warm, welcoming, or inviting. It never had been.

She finally looked at me, a sharp brow arching. “You’ve been in Atlanta for weeks, and I have to beg to see my own daughter?”

I didn’t have the energy to argue. “I’ve been busy.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Too busy with that rapper?”

My stomach clenched. She took a delicate sip of her sparkling water, waiting for my response.

Here we go.

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