Piss Off, This Is My Money

17

The camera was already rolling, the lighting soft, the room perfect.

Eight million people locked in. Comments firing like bullets.

Maya smiled — that soft, rehearsed, “I’m the victim” smile.

“I don’t want you all to misunderstand what’s going on between me and Jace,” she began.

Her voice carried that emotional tremble she practiced in the mirror.

“Because… no matter what Jace does, I still love him.”

Hearts and roses flooded the screen.

She continued, pausing like she needed a moment.

“It might have been a Livestream, yeah… but what I had for Jace was real love. And honestly? I still love him now.”

She sighed dramatically.

“I heard his mother was arrested back home and… it broke me.”

Then she tapped the screen. The video played.

Trevon’s voice filled the stream — edited, smoothed, manipulated.

He sounded excited, grateful, almost worshipping her.

In reality, he had been shaking.

But money has a way of rewriting emotions.

“I promise I’ll never come between you and Jace again,” Trevon’s voice said sincerely.

“I see how kind you really are. Jace is just stubborn — he’ll forgive you.”

The chat went nuclear.

“Maya is an angel!”

“Why is Jace treating her like this?”

“Jace needs to humble himself.”

Maya pressed pause and faced the camera again, all soft sadness.

“So… don’t believe everything you see,” she said quietly.

“I’m trying to keep this private and give Jace time to recover.”

She ended the stream with a gentle nod.

The second the red light went off, her face dropped.

She spun her chair, grabbed her champagne, and took a slow, satisfied sip.

Jace should stop dragging this, she thought. He’s the one who will bleed in the long run. But what are Detroit boys without their stupid egos?

She leaned back, smirking.

If he wants war… fine. She play better.

****

Jace’s body must’ve finally given up, because when he opened his eyes again, he realized he’d passed out on the damn chair.

The bed still felt like a fucking crime scene he didn’t want to go near.

He blinked around, searching for his phone.

9:00 a.m.

He pushed himself upright, legs dragging like they weighed fifty pounds each.

His skull was splitting open — leftover shit from the alcohol he dumped into himself at the party.

And like some sick flashback, his mind dragged him five months back.

That morning he woke up feeling like shit, only to find Maya lying half-naked on his bed.

Not fully naked — just underwear — but still enough to fuck him mentally.

She’d blushed and told him they’d slept together.

He didn’t feel a damn thing.

But like a clown, he sprinted over to comfort her, telling her it was okay.

Telling her he’d take responsibility.

Like a fucking fool, he believed her over his own body telling him nothing had happened.

He even promised he’d be “the man” his own father never was.

The memory hit him like a punch.

“FUCK!!”

He screamed into the shower, voice ripping through the room.

He yelled until his lungs burned and his chest felt like it was breaking open.