by Rowena
“Only the most gorgeous,” I say, still amazed at my luck that the goddess is beneath me, completely nude.
I can tell she’s blushing at being called gorgeous, although I hardly think it’s the first time—she’s an actual beauty queen, for fuck’s sake.
“Most of all, one who has been publicly declared untouched,” she says. “I even heard him joking about hanging up a bloody sheet after our wedding night.”
She shivers in what I can only interpret as disgust while rage boils inside me.
Although I already got the honor, the thought of him or anyone touching her makes me murderous.
“Anyway, he has already set me up with an allowance, and I didn’t plan to touch it until we had actually tied the knot, but my mom suddenly needed bypass surgery and insurance didn’t cover it. The catch is, if he and I don’t follow through with the nuptials, I must pay back every cent he’s given me, so…”
So…what? She thinks she’s still following through?
My silly Stella.
“The thing is, I know it’s psychological—I know the things he’s doing for me are tricks—the allowance, the car—ways to get me to stick with the deal. Giving me access to that kind of money sort of makes it more concrete how much my life will change, gives me an idea what being the wife of a billionaire would look like, and theoretically makes it harder to consider giving up. Especially after you’ve already gone in and used some.”
She looks down and appears so ashamed, I feel compelled to caress her face.
“Don’t you worry about any of that,” I say, my voice deep but amazingly gentle; in fact, I’ve never heard my voice sound so fucking tender, but the goddess brings out all sorts of things in me.
“I’ll take care of you, Stella. I’ll take care of everything.”
She sighs and I feel her body relax like she’s relieved, but I can tell she’s still worried.
She’ll know soon enough how serious I am once I put my baby in her belly and replace that ring on her finger.
Fuck this Harold guy.
I hope most of the wedding stuff is refundable.
“Stella, how the hell did you find my studio? How did you hear about me?”
I go to great lengths to stay private and hidden and it has bugged me since the beginning, but I kept getting distracted and forgetting to ask her.
She suddenly looks sheepish.
“Believe it or not, Harold has one of your sculptures in his mansion and I asked him about it. Once I had your artist name, I snooped around. Didn’t find much at first, but then I took things to another level…”
“Come on, spill it. I can’t have people tracking me down like that—so easily. I need to know where I failed and plug those weak spots.”
She let out a quick breath.
“Aaron helped me out. He’s got serious computer skills, and he found out your company name. And since your studio is in the company’s name…”
She shrugs.
I obviously don’t have payments sent directly to me, and my official business isn’t even connected to my legal name since it’s an anonymous LLC, but Aaron obviously hacked his way in to find a sufficient connection.
I suppose it eases my mind a little to know that it’s Aaron who tracked me down.
Hackers generally wouldn’t be interested in me as Dagor unless someone just wanted to find me out of personal curiosity—a hacker could also be a lover of art, after all.
But for the most part, people love easy routes and won’t bother once shit starts getting complicated.
“So your ex-fiancé has one of my pieces…” I begin lightly, about to smile teasingly and say something about the irony of me having a red-blooded ‘piece’ of his, but then it hits me.
Harold, she said?
All humor disappears as a ball of dread forms in my stomach.
Harold is no doubt Harry Bechard—the man who commissioned me to do a sculpture for his future wife, the billionaire behind the surprise wedding gift I’m supposed to deliver in less than four weeks.
Goddess was scheduled to get hitched in four weeks, my sculpture is due around the same time—how am I just now putting this together?
Stella, what the hell did you do to my brain?
“What is it?” she asks, suddenly looking worried.
I can’t exactly tell her—confidentiality is part of the contracts, and despite the conflict of interest and the fact that I plan to snatch Stella from under his nose, my work ethic prevents me from spilling the revelation.
She’s not getting that wedding gift, but I can’t just drop the project—I’m no flake.
I’ll still work on it until further notice—no doubt old Harry will want to cancel pretty soon, and although I’ll get my kill fee, I had already started fantasizing about what I’d do with the other half of his payment to me.
Maybe I’ll finish it early and collect, then pretend there won’t be repercussions for taking the woman he commissioned it for. But what’s the worst he can do? All’s fair in love and war.
In any case, I don’t need his money to put Stella up in a big-ass house we’ll fill with kids; I own one right now.
I just didn’t know all this time it was waiting for her.
“Listen, Stella, I have a lot more money than you think. I can help you repay whatever you’ve used from the allowance so you’ll be released from that and other things.”
“But he might come after you,” she says.
“For what? Because the girl he hand-picked from a beauty contest decided she wanted to be with a real man? Besides, I can protect myself—I’ve got people.”
It’s now obvious that I might need to call in a few favors from my old military buds.
Stella opens her mouth as if to protest or perhaps to ask about ‘my people’ but seems to change her mind.
I kiss her on her slightly open mouth.
“Just know you’re mine, Stella. You’re not going back to him.”
“But give me a bit of time to figure things out—some way to let him down gently.”
It goes against my instincts, but it’s not an unreasonable request.
“Not a lot of time left, goddess. But I’ll give you a minute. Take too long and I’m taking matters into my own hands.”
“Okay,” she says softly.
“In the meantime, whenever I contact you saying I need you, come to me immediately. I’ll let you know where. I’ll be working hard on your mother’s present, but, no doubt, I’ll need your help to get back on track when my mind inevitably wanders to you.”
She nods dutifully.
Then guess who shows up again?
My cock suddenly starts hardening, but instead of stuffing it back inside her right away, I pull her up from the couch, throw her over my shoulder and take her to the nearest bedroom, ready to increase the chances of putting my baby in her.
8
Stella
1 week later…
Thankfully, Harold hasn’t asked to see me again yet, and I’ve been putting off trying to arrange the meeting myself.
Obviously, I can’t just send a text, but I also want to make sure I have reinforcements of some sort, considering what happened the last time I saw him.
I pretty much immediately regretted not letting Derek handle it however he was going to but didn’t want to bother him since I know he’d be working on the project I suddenly thrust upon him, and I definitely didn’t want to jeopardize having my mom’s birthday gift finished on time; I already knew I was pushing it time-wise when I propositioned him, but I had done some research and knew it was possible.
And now the day is here—time to present my mom with the gift Derek worked so hard on.
Part of me wishes I had allowed him to come along.
When Derek first presented the finished product to me, I couldn't believe it.
I stood there staring at the likeness of my mother in the form of Yemoja, petting it as if she could feel my affectionate strokes by proxy.
&
nbsp; I wondered where she would place it—the mantle? A bedroom bureau? Alongside my pageant trophies?—but now, as my mother unwraps it and her face transforms, I'm thinking she might take it to bed with her and sleep with it like some treasured teddy bear.
As expected, she clearly loves it, but the wind has been knocked out of her, it seems.
She's actually speechless, and that's saying something.
She is now staring at the statue wondrously, and I realize this is probably how I looked when I first saw the finished product.
She keeps opening her mouth and making weird noises like she's about to talk, but her voice keeps taking an unexpected break.
And then I see something I haven't seen since the death of my father—something that ceased to happen once a year had passed and my mother’s mourning period was over—my mom starts crying.
A tear falls from one eye then the next, and she's still standing there, holding the sculpture, her hand over her mouth as if they're not distorting her vision, dripping down her face.
"It's wonderful,” she finally manages to squeeze out.
I know she had no idea what I had planned.
To give some perspective, previous gifts have been: poor attempts at making her a favorite meal, jewelry, books, clothing, and gift cards. Things that could have been for anyone.
This time, there's no question the gift is personalized, made specially for her.
I’ve finally managed to come up with something to show her how much she means to me, how much she thinks I don't see of her, but I haven't missed.
She thinks I just see her as a vague maternal figure, but I know she was once a girl with a big personality and dreams, a woman left behind who still has a unique spirit she now has more freedom to express.
"Who did it?" she asks.
“Oh! Um..." I have to think twice about my words. "I commissioned an artist—someone quite popular in the art world right now; he’s in great demand."
"I can see why. But how did you...? Oh yes." She nods her head knowingly. "One of the benefits of being a billionaire's wife."
"Sort of," I say, trying to ignore the disgust filling me at the thought of marrying Harold now. Thankfully, Derek promised me I don't have to worry about it anymore, though I still don't know how I'll get out of it. "And I'm not his wife," I feel the need to say.
She is watching my face now, and I catch the concern before she flattens out her expression as I turn to face her stare.
"Is there any way I can meet him? The artist?" she says, obviously deciding not to say whatever was just on her mind.
Either way, I'm glad for the subject change, although I'm not sure how to answer her question.
I really want to tell her the precious gift she's holding is also from the heart of a boy who was almost like another child of hers, he was here so often. I want to let her know that the artist she now reveres was a boy who used to call her Mama Olu.
But I refuse to betray Dagor's identity.
I obtained the info through underhanded means, and I have a responsibility to protect something he obviously fought hard to keep.
"Um..."
I'm still trying to think of a way around it.
For example, if Derek does what he usually does when he attends an exhibit where one of his pieces is displayed, he can disguise himself and meet her.
But would she recognize him even then?
Would she immediately say, "Wait a minute—I know those green eyes," ignoring the glasses in front of him, the wig, the scarf—whatever he decides to use to shield his identity with?
I'm still mentally floundering when there's a knock on the door.
I figure it's Aaron returning, hands full, but when I pull the door open, Derek's handsome face is there, and he's smiling at me sort of wickedly.
My cheeks immediately flush.
"Thought I'd drop by and say hi," he says cheerfully.
“Derek! What are you doing here?” I say in hushed tones.
He shrugs his shoulders.
"Came to wish your mom a happy birthday!"
"Who is that?" I hear my mom ask before she appears a few seconds later, heading for us.
She peers at Derek while he grins sort of goofily at her—although Derek's version of goofy is still unbearably sexy.
"Derek, is that you?" my mom says wondrously.
"It's me, Mama Olu."
He sticks his tongue out at me playfully, as if he won some bet, then steps inside to encase my mother in a bear hug.
"My god, you've gotten so much bigger!" she says as she pulls away, taking him in.
"That's how it works," he says drily.
She slaps him on the arm.
"You know what I mean. What are you doing here?"
"Well, I heard through the grapevine it was your birthday, and since I was a selfish kid who never logged such things about adults, and I ran into your daughter recently who…filled me in, I figure now's as good a time as any to pay you a visit. It's been far too long."
"That it has. Come, let me show you what Stella got me!"
She pulls him into the kitchen and he throws me a smug glance before disappearing with her.
I follow them, shaking my head.
I watch my mom gush about the gift, presenting the sculpture to him delicately, going on non-stop about the details, singing the artist's praises, complimenting me for coming up with the idea.
He keeps glancing at me, and he looks so damned pleased, warmth fills me.
I am so proud of him, and I’m happy he's getting to hear the praise he deserves.
I feel even guiltier for almost robbing him of this moment because I wanted to keep things separate for now.
I stifle a giggle at Derek's attempts to sound engaged but not too engaged, to admire the piece without going overboard yet match my mom's excitement without giving himself away.
At first, he said stuff like, "Wow, that's something." "The craftsmanship is stunning." "The resemblance is indeed uncanny."
Everything was uttered in indulgent, casual tones until he says, "It truly captures your essence, Mama Olu," this time looking right at her.
Her eyes tear up again.
Apparently, it was the right thing to say.
She pats his cheek, smiling.
Then, gathering herself again, she says, "Whatever happened between you and Aaron?"
"Mom, can you give me a second with Derek?" I interrupt.
"Of course," she says, but the look in her eye has changed.
Her eyes dart from me to Derek a few times.
I pull him as far away as I can from the kitchen and speak in hushed tones.
"I told you...!"
"Yeah, yeah—you didn't want to complicate things. But look—she recognizes me; she doesn't think it's weird I'm here. I used to be here all the time!"
"That's not the point! The point is…" I take a breath. "The point is she knows now."
“Knows what?”
I shake my head a little. “You actually missed it, then—that look of hers. At the very least, she knows how...how I still feel about you."
"Well, let's clear things up, shall we?" he says, dragging me back into the kitchen, holding me tightly by the hand.
What the hell is he planning to do?
"I have a confession to make," he says to my mom, and I can't possibly hide what I'm feeling—utter panic.
He's not about to tell her what we've been up to, is he?
"I can see that Stella has done the right thing, but you're family, and I want you to know—I am the artist behind the sculpture," he says with a nod in its direction.
Relief floods me, but I also feel a pinch of disappointment.
"No," my mom says wondrously, picking it up again and looking at it as if the figure will confirm or deny.
“Yes. Don't fault Stella for not telling you—it's a secret identity since I prefer to have people out of my business. No one knows that artist is my alter ego, so for now, it’s still our little secret,
” he says, making a circle as he points to the three of us.
I'm not sure why he's risking telling her; my mom might not be a gossip, but you know what they say about secrets—if you want to keep them, tell no one.
My mom could easily slip but apparently, it's not a concern.
"This is even more wonderful," she says, gazing at the statue again. "No wonder it's so...specific? It felt like it was done by someone who knew me." She looks at him directly. “Thank you,” she says.
“It was my honor and utter pleasure, Mama Olu.”
She smiles at him and he smiles warmly back.
"You've come a long way from your sketches,” she says affectionately.
At this, he looks so boyishly proud, tears actually sting my eyes.
“You know, I never got your first real name,” he says. “what is it? I’m not some tied-tongue kid anymore—I think I can handle it.”
She leans up and whispers in his ear, and then he turns to me and grins so hard, I don’t think she actually told him her first name.
“You should make one of her,” she says, indicating me. “That one is Oya.”
I roll my eyes, but Oya is the orisha I most identified with.
The sudden sound of a key in the lock quickly turns into the sound of the front door opening, and my brother is announcing his presence with a terrible start to the Happy Birthday song.
He keeps 'singing' until he comes upon us in the kitchen, and then his voice cuts off, his eyes locking with Derek's.
I'm trying as hard as I can to read the expressions on those two, but the military must teach them a thing or two about being stone-faced even when flooded with emotion.
I can feel the weight of something between them, but they're giving me no clues what it might have to do with.
Guess I'll find out soon.
"Can I talk to you for a sec?" Derek says to Aaron, sounding totally normal, but everyone here knows there's nothing casual about the request.
