Page 14 of Unlock My Heart

That seems like a bullshit double standard, but I bite my tongue.

“One last question. The girls go by their first names only, never revealing their last names. You want to go by your real name or come up with a ‘stage name?’”

“Stage name.” My brow furrowed as I consider. “Cherry.”

Jade chuckles. “Perfect.”

We complete the intake form, and she takes several pictures of me before announcing, “You’re good to go. I’ll call you when I finalize the details of your auction. Remember what I said about that cherry, Cherry. Wear a chastity belt if you have to.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Having a clear exit plan, nothing is going to derail my dreams.

Chapter Four

Fabien

Twenty-one-years-old

My fingers dance over the keypad, and the wrought iron gate creaks open. Closing the gate behind me, I hustle down the path to my family’s Garden District home, taking the front steps two at a time. The door swings open before I can get my key in the lock, my eight-year-old sister grinning at me.

“There’s my little black belt.”

Al hops into my arms as I step inside. “I’m not a black belt,” she corrects me.

“Yet.” I give her hair a good ruffle before placing her on her feet.

“Hey!” Al telegraphs a punch, but I allow her to land the blow, making an exaggerated show of stumbling back.

“Oof. Felt like a black belt strike to me.”

“Fabien.” Mama appears.

“Mama, thank God. Save me,” I beg, and Al giggles.

A somber look on her face, Mama greets me with a kiss on each cheek.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Papà needs to see you,” she says, and I wonder what I’ve done this time. “Al, to the kitchen with me.”

“Aww,” Al whines.

“See you later, little blackbelt,” I tell her with a wink.

As I move down the hallway, I rack my brain, trying to figure out why I’m being called to his office. No matter what I do, it’s never enough for my old man. And yet like some fucking masochist, I keep trying to win his approval.

My knuckles rap on the door.

“Come in,” an unknown male voice calls.

Confused, I enter Papà’s office and stop short. A man in scrubs attends to my father, who’s laid up in a hospital bed that didn’t used to be here.

“Doc, this is my son,” the boss of New Orleans says in the weakest voice I’ve ever heard come out of his mouth.

“Hello. I’m your father’s oncologist.”

“Oncologist?” I repeat dumbly.

The doctor nods. “Currently, your father’s lungs are too inflamed to begin chemotherapy. But once we get this flare-up under control, we’ll begin our first round.”