Page 146 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

“Asheville gets cold in the winter,” Truth said quietly, looking down at the baby’s blanket. “Tru doesn’t like the cold.”

“Then we’ll build heated stone floors,” I answered, thrilled by her participation in our future. “We’ll install three fireplaces. She’ll never feel a draft in her life. I’ll make sure the nursery is twice the size of this salon.”

She looked up at me, her dark eyes searching mine with that quiet, intense gravity. “And what about the city? You don’t miss New Orleans?”

“New Orleans was a graveyard, Truth,” I said, shaking my head with complete, unwavering certainty. “Everything good in my life is sitting on this sofa. Why would I ever look back?”

She offered a small, tired nod, pulling the baby closer against her ribs. “We should let her nap. She’s starting to fuss.”

“Of course,” I said, standing up and gathering the photographs. “I’ll frame these before dinner. Our first family portrait.”

I walked toward my study, holding the photographs against my chest like sacred relics, completely intoxicated by the simple, domestic bliss of my new life.

Late that evening, after the boat had anchored in a secluded, tree-lined bayou cut where the water lay still as black glass, the master stateroom was quiet.

Trumai was asleep in the white wooden crib near the window, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythmic peace. On the king-sized bed, Truth lay on her side beneath the heavy duvet, her back turned toward the center of the mattress, her breathing deep and even.

I sat at the mahogany writing desk near the foot of the bed, a crystal glass of sparkling water at my elbow, a leather-bound journal open before me.

The amber glow of the bedside lamp bathed the room in warmth. Everything was soft, safe, and utterly contained.

I dipped my fountain pen into the black ink and began writing our timeline.

Spring: Relocate to the North Carolina estate.

Summer: Private ceremony on the grounds. Just Truth, me, Tru, and a licensed officiant.

Autumn: Enroll Truth in the private health sciences consortium in Charlotte.

I paused, tapping the gold nib against the heavy paper, smiling to myself as the vision expanded.

Truth had worked so hard for her nursing degree. She had spent months stressing over clinicals, cramming flashcards between appointments, terrified that the Landry war would steal her future. But she would never have to step foot in a chaotic public hospital in Orleans Parish again.

I would build a private wellness pavilion right on our estate. A fully equipped, state-of-the-art community clinic funded entirely by my clean offshore trusts. Truth could practice medicine on her own terms, treating mothers and infants without ever having to worry about insurance companies, budgets, or street violence. She would be Dr. Renois-Landry, the matriarch of the region, respected and untouchable.

And Tru wouldn’t grow up an only child.

My pen moved again, sketching the margins of the page.

A son.

A little boy with Truth’s sharp wit and my strategic mind. A boy to run through the mountain grass, to ride horses across our acreage, to give Tru the fierce, protective brotherhood that Amai had poisoned between me and my brothers. We would have three, maybe four children. A full, bustling dinner table with laughter echoing against high timber ceilings.

Then, my thoughts turned to Delphine.

I leaned back in the leather chair, swirling the sparkling water in my glass, picturing the old shotgun house on Derbigny Street.

I knew Delphine was angry right now. She was probably sitting on her front porch with her liquor, cursing my name to the neighborhood, assuming I was the same kind of monster Winston and Amai had always been. But Delphine was a sensible woman. She was a mother who had clawed through poverty to raise four daughters in the Seventh Ward.

She didn’t actually love Amai. She had simply tolerated him because he had money and showed up with wine and groceries.

Once the dust settled—once six or eight months passed, and she saw how pristine our life was—I would send a private car to New Orleans to bring her to the estate.

I could see the entire afternoon unfolding in my mind with cinematic clarity.

Delphine would step out of the car onto the gravel driveway, looking up at the stone manor, her sharp eyes taking in the manicured gardens and the mountain air. She would walk through the front double doors, braced for an argument, ready to swing her purse and spit fire.

And then Truth would walk down the grand staircase, wearing silk, healthy and glowing, holding a fat, laughing Trumai in her arms.