the baptism Sunday.”
“Absolutely.”
Ngozi ended the call and opened the door. Reeds, her parents’ house manager, stood before her holding a tray with a large bronzed dome cover. She smiled at the man of average height with shortbread complexion, more freckles than stars in the sky and graying brownish-red hair in shoulder-length locks. “One day my mother is going to catch you,” she said as she took the tray from him and removed the lid to reveal buttered grits, bacon, scrambled eggs and toast.
He shrugged and chuckled. “The rest of the staff wouldn’t know what to do without me after all these years.”
“I know that’s right,” Ngozi said with a playful wink.
“Just remember to at least eat the bowl of fruit at breakfast,” Reeds said before he turned and began to whistle some jazzy tune. He stopped in the middle of the family room to glance back. “Or you could just tell your mother you’re not vegan. Your choice.”
Ngozi ignored his advice and stepped back into the room, knocking the door with her hip to push it closed.
Alpine, New Jersey
The day of reckoning is here.
Chance splashed his face with water and pressed his hands to his cheeks before wiping the corner of his eyes with his thumb. He stood tall before the sink and eyed his reflection in the large leather-framed mirror above it. He released a heavy breath and studied himself, rubbing his hand over his low-cut fade haircut.
Today he would face his friends for the first time since what was supposed to be his wedding day. With the last bit of pride and bravado he could muster, Chance had stood before all those people and admitted that the wedding was called off. The swell of gasps of shock and whispers had filled the church as he strode down the aisle with nearly every eye locked on his stoic expression. He would admit to no one the embarrassment he felt, and didn’t allow his head to sink one bit until he left the church.
He had instructed Alek to have the wedding planner, Olivia Joy, turn the reception into a party, but he had not attended the event. The idea of being pitied or ridiculed by Helena’s betrayal was too strong for him to swallow. He spent what was supposed to be his wedding night ignoring all attempts at communicating with him as he nursed a bottle of pricey Dos Lunas Grand Reserve tequila, stewed in his anger and envisioned Helena being bedded by her lover.
Early that next morning, with a hangover from hell, he boarded his private jet and flew to Cabrera with no foreseeable plans to return. His consultant work for the same firm that purchased his app could be handled from anywhere in the world with Wi-Fi. All he knew was he had to get away. So he did.
Now I’m back.
He eyed his reflection, hating the nerves and anxiousness he felt.
It took him back to his school days as a poor brown-skinned Latino kid from the Bronx trying his best not to feel less than around students who were predominantly white and absolutely from wealthy families.
He flexed his arms and bent his head toward each of his shoulders, instinctively trying to diminish those feelings from his youth. “Let’s get this over with,” he mumbled under his breath, removing his towel and drying his body before tossing it over the smoothed edge of the cast concrete in the center of the dark and modern bathroom.
He quickly swiped on his deodorant and lightly sprayed on cologne from one of the ten bottles sitting on a long ebony wood tray in the space between the large tray sinks atop the concrete vanity.
Naked, he strode across the heated marble floors and through the opening in the tinted-glass wall to his loft-style bedroom suite. His motorized open-front closets lined the entire wall behind his king-size Monarch Vi-Spring bed, but the suit he’d already selected was laid across one of the custom chaise longues at the foot of it. His long and thick member swayed across his thighs as he moved to pull on his snug boxers, having to adjust it to comfort before he finished dressing in silk socks, his off-white wool-silk suit and a matching open-neck shirt. The fit against his athletic frame spoke to its custom tailoring and his desire for both quality and style.
Not wanting to run late, he hurriedly selected one of a dozen watches to buckle around his wrist while slipping on shoes that were almost as comfortable as his bed.
Life was good when it came to the creature comforts. The days of squeaky rubber-sole shoes from the dollar store were over.
I hated to walk in ’em, he remembered. Felt like everyone heard me coming.
He rushed through his opulent two-story villa-style mansion, which sat on two gated acres in Alpine, New Jersey, styled in muted tasteful decor with vibrant pops of color that were a testament to his dynamic Latino culture. Chance lived alone in the six-bedroom luxury home, and he usually kept music or his 4K televisions on to break the silence. Hip-hop from the 1990s played from the sound system, and he rapped along to Big Daddy Kane’s “Ain’t No Half-Steppin’” as he grabbed his keys from beside the glass-blown structures of nude women atop the table in the center of the foyer.
Soon he was out the double front doors and behind the wheel of his black-on-black Ferrari 488 Pista, taking I-280 to Passion Grove. He drove the supercar with ease with one hand, effortlessly switching lanes on the interstate as he lightly tapped his fist against his knee to the music playing. The commute was hassle-free because it was Sunday morning, and he was grateful as he finally guided the vehicle down the exit ramp and made his way through the small town. He didn’t think he could find an upscale town more laid-back than Alpine, but Passion Grove proved him wrong.
A city without traffic lights in 2018?
Chance felt bored already. He still found it hard to believe that his fun-loving best friend, Alek—who was born into a billionaire dynasty—chose the small town to live in after jet-setting all over the world.
Real love will make you do unexpected things.
His and Helena’s plans had been to travel the world and explore new adventures after they were wed.
And look how that turned out.
His hand gripped the steering wheel, lightening the color of his skin across his knuckles. He was glad to finally make it to Alek and Alessandra’s, accelerating up the private mile-long paved street leading to the expansive twenty-five-acre estate until he reached the twelve-foot-tall wrought iron gate with the letter D in bronzed scroll in the center.
Alessandra had inherited the estate upon the death of her father, Frances Dalmount, who co-owned the billionaire conglomerate the Ansah Dalmount Group, along with Alek’s father, the late Kwame Ansah. When Alessandra and Alek wed last year, they’d decided to make the Passion Grove estate their main home, while maintaining both his Manhattan and London penthouse apartments, and the vacation estate they built together on their private island in upstate New York.
After getting checked in by security via video surveillance, Chance drove through the open gates and soon was pulling up to the massive stone French Tudor. He hopped out and pressed a tip into the hand of one of the valets his friends were using for the day to park the vehicles.
He jogged up the stairs and accepted a flute of champagne from the tray being held by a servant. “Thank you,” he said with a nod of his head as he entered the foyer through the open double doors.
“Thanks so much.”
Chance paused and turned at the soft voice. He froze with his drink still raised to his mouth as he eyed the woman over the rim of the crystal flute. His heart began to pound, and his breath caught in his throat. Well, damn...
She was beautiful. Tall and shapely with skin as dark and smooth as melted chocolate. Long and loose waves of her beyond-shoulder-length ebony hair framed her oval face with high cheekbones, bright and clear brown doe-like eyes,