Khalil watched the boutique door close behind him and didn't break stride.
He walked back to his Range Rover like a man with a plan, like her words hadn't just made his jaw clench.
"You can't afford me."
The audacity.
It wasn't what she said — it was how she said it. Like she owned the sidewalk. Like her boutique's peeling paint and stubborn pride somehow made her immune to pressure.
He'd dealt with tougher.
But none that wore red nails and gold hoops like armor.
He opened the driver's door, slid in, and grabbed his phone from the console. One tap and the screen lit up with missed messages from investors, his assistant, and a city zoning contact.
Jason:
Need confirmation by Friday. If she won't sell, we'll find a workaround.
Khalil (typing):
Leave her to me. I'll handle it.
But even as he sent it, something was off.
This wasn't about her holding up permits anymore. It wasn't about square footage or development rights. It was about the fact that she — Maka — had challenged him.
And worse?
She wasn't impressed.
Most people bent eventually. Maka didn't bend — she built.
But pride didn't protect you from foreclosure. Sentiment didn't sign checks. She was playing legacy while the city played chess.
And Khalil Bennett didn't lose.
Later that Night — Downtown Loft
Khalil poured himself two fingers of whiskey and leaned on the floor-to-ceiling window, the skyline twinkling beneath him like it owed him something.
He'd spent years getting here.
Out of Compton. Into boardrooms. Off the block. Into the blueprints.
And now?
A stubborn woman with a storefront full of Ankara skirts and righteous attitude was threatening to block a project that could bring real money into this neighborhood.
No.
She wasn't the problem.
Emotion was the problem.
Emotion made people cling to old buildings and broken promises.
Emotion was the reason his cousin was dead and his uncle had lost their barbershop.
Emotion didn't build empires. Money did.
And Maka?
She was just another queen on the board.
For now.