And the kitchen? Don’t get me started. We had to double the staff just to keep up with twenty women who eat, complain, and probably ordered like they got personal chefs back home. A private chef got flown in from Nzuri Hall, along with a full-time housekeeper and a schedule for meal rotations that read like a prison calendar. Every girl would be fed, styled, and supervised. And not ‘cause I was tryna be nice, but because the last thing I needed was drama breakin’ out over who didn’t feel accommodated.
Kay’Lo also upgraded security, puttin’ cameras in every hallway. He had motion detectors around the perimeter, new thumbprint locks for the main bedrooms, including mine, and a new room built strictly for observation, like some quiet control center. He said it was just in case shit got outta hand. I said it sounded like we was buildin’ a soft-ass prison, but I ain’t stop him either.
Blaqson came through most days, not just to smoke and laugh, but to keep shit from spiralin’ too far left. While Renza was plannin’ photo ops and Kay’Lo was lockin’ down security, Blaq was the one thinkin’ ahead, askin’ the questions nobody else was slowin’ down to ask. He helped map out schedules, meal rotations, quiet hours, and even drafted a basic code of conduct Renza called ‘cute’ but ended up forwarding to the whole team. Everything didn’t need to be pretty, it needed to function. That was Blaqson’s lane.
Still, the nigga had jokes. One afternoon while we was sittin’ in the back room watching Kay’Lo cuss out the contractors, helit up and said, “You know at least three of them women gon’ fall in love after day two. And one of ‘em gon’ try to poison you if she think she losin’.” I didn’t even argue, ‘cause that nigga was probably right.
The applications had flooded in so fast that Renza had to hire an assistant to manage them. I wasn’t readin’ through that mess, but from what they told me, girls was sendin’ in full portfolios—photoshoots, edited bios, sex appeal stats, horoscopes, even cookin’ samples. One girl mailed in a damn casserole. Another sent a gold-wrapped letter with perfume sprayed all over it. Shit was gettin’ crazy.
And while everybody was askin’ if we was filming it, I kept sayin no. This wasn’t for the cameras. I didn’t want no fake ass moments, or producers pushin’ drama just to make it entertaining.
People knew who I was. They knew I wasn’t just some rich nigga with a mansion and exotic weed. I was Trill-Land royalty—the son of a man who could fund a war, and the heir to a mother who moved through global politics like a ghost. My name held weight, and my last name came with a price. That’s why they was signing up, and every woman applyin’ believed she had what it took to sit next to it. They was lookin’ to be chose, but what none of them realized… was that I didn’t even know if I wanted to choose anybody at all.
Later that night, I chilled on my patio, leanin’ back in the same low-slung chair I always ended up in when I needed to think. I was shirtless, feet propped on the edge of the table, just lettin’ the breeze roll across my skin while the jungle whispered around me. The sky was pitch black except for the stars that peekedthrough the trees, and the only real light was the warm glow comin’ from inside the house behind me.
I had my phone sittin’ screen-down next to my lighter and a fat pre-roll of that God Smoke I’d been savin’ for when I needed to slow my mind down. But before I could even spark up, it buzzed twice and lit up again.
I stared at it for a second, then picked it up and answered with a low, “Hey Ma.”
Her voice was calm like always. “Hey son. How are you?”
“I’m good. Just sittin’ outside.”
“Have you been getting your rest? You sound tired.”
I stretched my neck and rubbed the back of it. “Somethin’ like that.”
There was a little pause. I could hear her settin’ somethin’ down in the background, probably one of her tea cups. Then she said, “I wanted to check in. See how your search is going.”
I almost laughed but caught myself. “Search?”
“For a wife.”
I shook my head and smiled a little, even though it wasn’t really funny. “It’s… goin’.”
“That don’t sound too convincing.”
I didn’t respond right away. I wasn’t tryin’ to lie to her, but I also wasn’t tryna unpack my whole head tonight either. Ma didn’t press me though. She always knew how to slide into a conversation without forcing it.
“You been thinkin’ about her?” she asked.
She ain’t even say Ka’mari’s name, but she didn’t have to ‘cause I already knew.
I leaned back deeper into the chair and exhaled through my nose. “Yeah.”
She hummed, soft and sad, like she already knew. “I figured. You loved her, and I get that.”
“I still do,” I admitted.
“I know, baby, but she’s gettin’ married. That chapter’s over.”
I stared out at the dark trees in front of me, but I wasn’t seein’ ‘em. All I could see was Ka’mari. Her laugh, her stubbornness and the way she used to hold and kiss all over a nigga chest. I ain’t wanna let go of none of that.
“It ain’t over for me,” I said, more to myself than her.
“You’re holdin’ onto a ghost, Pressure,” she said gently. “You’re waiting on a woman who’s already made her choice.”
“That don’t mean it was the right one.”
