Page 94 of Pregnant By A Rich Demon 4

I stepped onto the hand-scraped Brazilian cherry floors, inhaling the rich scent of new cedar, fresh leather, and high-grade beeswax. The central salon opened into an expansive living area with twelve-foot ceilings, custom recessed LED lighting that mimicked natural daylight, and panoramic reinforced bullet-resistant glass treated with a one-way mirror tint. From the inside, you could watch the muddy river roll past under the Louisiana sky; from the outside, it looked like dark, empty hull.

I walked down the central corridor, running my hand along the brushed gold handrails, conducting my daily inspection.

First, the master suite.

The bedroom was massive, centered around a custom California king bed framed in fluted oak, dressed in four-thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets in cream. I’d had the mattress custom-built to the exact medium-firm density Truth had mentioned liking when we’d talked on her porch a long time ago, before the world broke apart.

I walked into the walk-in closet.

On the left side hung my suits, linen shirts, and casual wear. On the right, hung Truth’s wardrobe.

Every single piece had been sourced by a private stylist who had her exact measurements from the prenatal records Winston’s clinic had archived. Silk wrap dresses in jewel tones—deep amethyst, emerald, and the warm rust color she’d worn on her first date out after the baby. The nanny cam in the bear caught a glimpse of her. I had tailored joggers in cashmere for her. Lightweight nursing tops with discreet magnetic clasps. Rows of shoes lined the lower shelves: designer sneakers, soft leather mules, low-block heels in nude and tan, all in size eight and a half.

I stepped into the en-suite master bath.

The double vanity was paved in Calacatta marble, surrounding a deep, freestanding soaking tub fitted with hydrotherapy jets. On her side of the counter sat two dozen glass jars and bottles, neatly aligned: raw whipped African shea butter scented with vanilla, rosewater facial mist, French lavender bath salts, silk hair bonnets, wide-tooth horn combs, and three unopened bottles of her signature vanilla bourbon perfume.

Nothing was missing. Nothing was left to chance. When she walked in here, she wouldn’t feel displaced. She would feel provided for.

At the end of the hall sat the nursery.

I pushed the door open, and sorrow shredded my insides. /holy ache.

The walls were painted a warm, comforting taupe, bordered by hand-painted gold stars and a soft mural of magnolia blossoms. In the center stood a crib handcrafted from solid birch, outfitted with an organic breathable mattress, hypoallergenic white linens, and a mobile of plush velvet elephants and moons that rotated silently when wound. An upgrade from the initial one I’d picked out.

Against the wall sat a white oak dresser and changing station, stocked with twelve cases of diapers in various sizes, organic water wipes, diaper creams, glass feeding bottles, sterilizers, and an infant scale. A cream velvet glider chair rested by the window, with a soft cashmere throw draped across the arm.

On the high bookshelf above the glider, I had arranged rows of medical texts: Saunders Comprehensive Review for the NCLEX-RN, current pharmacology drug guides, and advanced medical-surgical nursing manuals. Right next to them sat the fiction she loved—dog-eared vintage paperbacks by Toni Morrison, Terry McMillan, and Beverly Jenkins, alongside modern Black romance novels I’d ordered in pristine hardcovers.

I walked down to the galley kitchen.

The commercial-grade stainless-steel refrigerator hummed quietly. I opened the double doors. The shelves were empty for now, but it was cool and ready to be stocked. I’d have that done by a bonded courier when the time came for that part.

In the walk-in pantry, I checked the dry goods. Six bags of Zapp’s Voodoo chips sat on the middle shelf alongside boxes of New Orleans pralines, dark chocolate with sea salt, chicory coffee beans, and four cases of specialty infant formula in case Truth chose not to breastfeed exclusively under the stress of the initial transition.

Finally, I walked back out to the main dining room.

Along the curved mahogany wall hung six custom gold leaf frames. They were empty right now, lined with deep black velvet backing, their glass polished to a high shine.

Waiting.

One for the baby’s first portrait. One for Truth’s graduation picture in her nursing cap. One for our first Christmas together on the water.

This wasn’t a cage. This was an ark.

I pulled out the leather-bound operational binder from the safe beneath the navigation console and flipped through the extraction logistics.

I never called it a kidnapping.

Kidnapping was a crude, desperate crime committed by men who wanted money or leverage. Kidnapping was what street thugs did when they snatched someone for a bag of cash or a trade in territory.

What I was planning was an extraction. A medical and psychological relocation designed for protection and decompression.

Truth had been subjected to months of unrelenting trauma. She had been thrust into a violent family war, terrorized by Amai’s lifestyle, forced to watch me take a bullet on her walkway, and surrounded by killers who solved every disagreement with hollow-point rounds. Amai had conditioned her. He had wrapped his violence in the language of security, buying her compliance with luxury and intimidation until her survival instincts forced her to defend him.

It was textbook trauma-bonding. In my research on battered women and high-stress captivity survivors, the psychological data was clear: victims almost always defended their abuser in the initial stages of intervention. They fought the rescuers because the abuser was the only source of certainty their fractured nervous systems understood.

I knew Truth would scream at me when I took her. I knew she would cry, throw things, and curse my name until her voice was raw.