Page 70 of Heavy Is The Crown

He exhaled. “She got a problem with everything I do. I breathe too hard, she mad. I come home too late, she mad. If I stay out of her way, she still mad.”

Krys gave him a pointed look. “Be serious.”

Kenyatta sighed, rubbing his temple. “She just…I don’t know. She frustrated. She tired. And I guess I get it. She been holding it down for so long, she ain’t got no patience for nobody…including me.”

Krys tapped her nails against her cup, thinking.

“You ever think maybe she got her own shit she’s dealing with?”

Kenyatta side-eyed her. “You on her side now?”

Krys rolled her eyes. “I don’t do ‘sides.’ I do logic. And logically, your mom been handling life by herself for a long time, right?”

Kenyatta exhaled. “Yeah.”

“So, why do you think she’s supposed to suddenly be okay with everything now?”

That made him pause.

Krys continued, her voice softer now. “She’s probably scared. She don’t know if you’re really trying to change or if you’re just waiting for the first opportunity to mess up again.”

Kenyatta clenched his jaw.

Krys watched him closely. “But once you get on your feet, you can actually do something about that. You can bring her some relief. Let her breathe. Maybe even bring some happiness back into her life.”

Kenyatta sat with that for a long time.

Then, finally, he shook his head with a small smirk. “Damn. You really be thinking about shit like this?”

Krys smirked back. “I think about a lot of things, Kenyatta.”

And just like that, more was added to the dynamic they were developing.

Chapter 17

The coastal breeze rolled through the open balcony doors, carrying the scent of saltwater, jasmine, and the faintest trace of aged oak from the towering trees draped in Spanish moss. The Hills at Old Trinity held a mystique all its own—cobblestone streets whispering with the echoes of history, antebellum mansions standing as monuments to old money and power, and shadows thick with ghost stories tourists paid to hear.

This was Krys’ sanctuary.

Unlike her Bayfront Heights property, modern, sleek, and built for appearances, this home was a fortress. A private oasis guarded and untouchable. The staff moved discreetly, ever-present but never intrusive, ensuring the estate remained the untouched haven she needed it to be. Few were ever invited to this space. Fewer still knew of its existence.

The scent of sandalwood and vanilla, Krys’ signature scent, lingered in the air as Krys padded through the grand hallways, her silk robe whispering against her legs. High ceilings, intricate crown molding, and hand-carved mahogany accents reminded her that this house had lived many lives before her. She appreciated that. Legacy. History. The kind that money couldn’t fabricate.

But tonight, her mind wasn’t on the past; it was onhim.

Krys exhaled, fingers tightening around the stem of her half-finished glass of cabernet as she leaned against the cool marble of the kitchen island. She had barely touched her dinner, appetite lost to the distraction swirling in her thoughts: Kenyatta.

It didn’t make sense how much space he was taking up in her mind. It was business. A mutually beneficial arrangement. That’s what she told herself.

And yet…

She turned toward the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out over the estate. Beyond the balcony, the sprawling garden stretched toward the private courtyard, where fountains gurgled softly beneath the moonlight. The city felt distant from here. Removed.

A low, uninterested huff sounded behind her. Krys chuckled before turning.

Musa lay sprawled across the polished wood floors, his massive frame at ease, his head resting on his paws, golden eyes watching her with the kind of silent judgment only he could deliver. His sleek coat gleamed under the ambient glow of the recessed lighting, his presence an undeniable force even in his relaxed state.

“I don’t need your opinion,” she muttered, swirling her wine.

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