–Tyrona–
My son cried even after I fed him. I sighed and studied his features — the same sharp set of his father's face. Shame he's already dead. I glanced at Carrie by the door; her eyes were perpetually sullen, probably because her mother's in prison.
"Don't worry too much, Carrie," I said, exhaling. "I wanted to sleep longer and he's been so loud."
"Livana gave birth yesterday," Carrie replied, solemn. "That child will inherit the Blackwell, the Braxton, and the Carrington." She looked almost reverent. "Grandpa Edward promised me I might lead—"
"Nah. Promises are made to be broken. Let's be real, Carrie." I laughed as I scooped my three-month-old from the crib, settled onto the sofa, and fed him.
"Let's also be real, Tyrona. You're part of this, too."
"Of course." I scoffed.
