Page 145 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

I set my vintage Leica instant camera on the dining table and checked the film cartridge.

“Come here, sweetheart,” I called out toward the salon doorway.

Truth walked in, holding Trumai, who was dressed in a pristine white lace romper with tiny pearl buttons up the front. Truth had washed her hair; it hung down her back in thick, defined coils that caught the afternoon light. She looked radiant, if slightly worn, the way any dedicated mother looks during the early months.

“What’s all this?” she asked, stopping by the sofa.

“It’s Tru’s two-month milestone,” I said, crossing the room to meet them. “A child only turns two months old once. We aren’t going to let the circumstances cheat us out of memories.”

From my pocket, I pulled out a small black velvet jeweler’s box. I pressed the golden clasp, and the lid popped open.

Inside rested a custom pendant: a platinum disc engraved with a blooming dogwood flower, centered with a flawless two-carat canary diamond.

Truth’s breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened as she looked at the piece, her knuckles tightening slightly against Tru’s back.

“Kaisen…” she whispered. “This is… you shouldn’t have.”

“It belonged to my mother’s grandmother,” I lied smoothly, lifting the delicate platinum chain from the velvet bed. “She gave it to the first Landry woman who gave birth to an heir. Mama never appreciated fine things—she let Winston lock everything in bank vaults. But you… you have the grace for it, Truth. Turn around. Let me put it on you.”

She hesitated for a single heartbeat, then shifted Trumai into the crook of her left arm and turned her back to me.

I stepped close, lifting her heavy curls off the nape of her neck. Her skin was cool, peppered with fine goosebumps. I brought the platinum chain around her throat, fastening the lobster clasp with steady fingers. As I closed the lock, I let my thumbs rest against the soft hollow beneath her ears for two seconds, breathing in the scent of her hair.

“It belongs on you,” I murmured near her ear. “Just like Tru belongs in your arms.”

When she turned back around, the yellow diamond caught the sun, blazing against her cream sweater. She looked down at it, her thumb grazing the polished platinum edge.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Her voice sounded tight, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what I was providing. “It’s beautiful.”

“Sit on the sofa,” I said, picking up the Leica camera. “Let me take a picture of you two.”

Truth walked over to the velvet sofa and sat in the center, adjusting Trumai so the baby faced forward, Tru’s tiny fist resting against Truth’s collarbone. Truth didn’t give a wide, fake smile. She offered the camera a soft, serene, enigmatic look—the timeless expression of a classic portrait.

Click. Whir.

The camera spat the white-bordered film into my hand.

“Now one together,” I said, setting the ten-second timer on the console.

I hurried over and sat beside Truth on the plush cushions, sliding my arm along the back of the sofa behind her shoulders, leaning my head slightly toward hers.

Click.

I pulled both prints from the camera, setting them on the coffee table to develop. As the dark chemical gray slowly dissolved into vivid color, the truth of our lives emerged: a handsome, devoted father, a beautiful, poised mother, and a healthy, perfect baby girl, nestled together in luxury.

“Look at that,” I whispered, holding the developed photo before her eyes. “That’s history, Truth. That’s our story.”

She looked at the image for a long moment. “It looks like an oil painting.”

“Because it’s real,” I said, leaning back into the cushions. “You know, when we were in the hospital—after you delivered—I stood outside that glass nursery and watched the nurses clean her. I knew right then. All that chaos before… Winston trying to control the contracts, Amai pulling his weapons, bringing soldiers to your house… it was all just noise. Amai was an obstacle we had to endure to get here.”

Truth kept her eyes on the photograph, her thumb continuing to trace the diamond at her neck. “He was very protective of his territory.”

“That’s all you ever were to him, sweetheart,” I said, reaching over to stroke Trumai’s fine baby hair. “Territory. A prize to win so he could beat Winston. But I never saw you as a trophy. From the moment I met you in that park, I saw a wife. A mother.”

She didn’t defend him. She didn’t say, Amai loved me. She let my words stand as the definitive record.

“When we leave the water,” I continued, letting my mind drift toward the horizon, “we won’t go back to Louisiana. It’s too loud. Too many ghosts. I was thinking coastal Georgia. Or the mountains outside Asheville. Ten, maybe fifteen acres behind a stone gate. High ceilings, wraparound porches, a private garden for you. A nursery with windows that overlook the valley so Tru can watch the seasons change.”