Page 33 of What Happens In Vegas: Jessa & Jaxon
“No.” I don’t need to raise my voice.
Eric shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable with challenging me, but foolishly committed to his position. “With all due respect, sir, if we—”
I place my hand flat on the table. The gesture itself is minimal, but the effect is immediate. Complete silence falls across the room. I maintain eye contact with Eric.
“Eric.” I say, calmly. “When I hired you, was it for your expertise in market timing?”
“N-no, sir.”
“Then explain to me why you believe your assessment should override mine on a decision that affects fifty million in projected revenue?” I lean forward. “Or perhaps you’d prefer we discuss the user experience testing that was due on my desk yesterday?”
The color drains from his face. “I’ll get the testing results to you today,” he manages, eyes dropping to the table.
“Two hours,” I correct him. “And a revised timeline for Phoenix that doesn’t involve delays.”
No one else dares to speak.
The meeting wraps up tense and awkward, and as soon as the last person shuffles out, my two business partners turn on me.
“What the hell was that?” Kamal asks, arms crossed.
Antonio studies me like I’m a puzzle missing half its pieces. “Yeah, man. You usually rip people apart with a little more finesse.”
I exhale sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Drop it.”
Kamal scoffs. “Not a chance.” He jerks his head toward the door. “Come on.”
I’m not in the mood to be questioned. I should tell them to back the hell off, that it’s none of their business. Instead, I follow Kamal down the hall, with Antonio on my heels.
We enter Kamal’s a spacious corner office where his collection of African art is displayed. Hand-carved Makonde figures stand in illuminated cases. A massive Senufo mask dominates one wall, while a massive Benin bronze mask watches over the room. Unlike the minimalism of my own office, Kamal’s space tells a story of his heritage and travels.
Dominating the center of the room is a championship-sized pool table. Its burgundy felt a perfect complement to the mahogany bookshelves lining the walls. Kamal immediately moves toward it, selecting a cue from the custom rack beneath a striking Maasai warrior shield.
“Here.” He tosses a cue each to Antonio and me. “Maybe knocking some balls around will loosen that jaw of yours.”
Antonio catches his easily. “Last time we played, I believe someone owes me a rematch.”
We play in tense silence for several minutes, the soft click of balls and occasional sigh the only sounds. After I miss an easy shot—my third in a row—Kamal leans against the table, levels me with a no-bullshit stare.
“Talk.”
“JJ wants to annul our marriage.”
Absolute silence fills the room.
Antonio freezes mid-shot. “Come again?”
“JJ and I are married.”
Kamal finally speaks. “Nah. Nah. You playin’.” His voice is the kind of calm that comes before a man commits murder.
I meet his gaze directly. “Do I look like a man who jokes about marriage?”
I give them a straightforward account of Vegas, the snowstorm, being trapped for nearly two weeks. I’m selective with details, careful to preserve JJ’s dignity while making no excuses for my actions.
“Bruh... you married my sister?” Kamal’s face contorts through a series of emotions I’ve never seen on him before. He gestures with his cue stick in disbelief. “What the hell were you thinking?” His voice rises now, cue stick jabbing toward me.
“I love her,” I admit easily. “I’ve been in love with her for years, Kamal.”
