BLK SNOW

The neon sign above King's Reserve flickered to life at exactly 8 PM, bathing Sunset Boulevard in emerald light. Ronnie King stood on the second-floor balcony, watching the crowd gather below—a sea of designer labels, diamond watches, and carefully cultivated ambition. His empire, finally visible. Finally real.

"You look like a man watching his own funeral," Monét said, appearing beside him with two glasses of champagne. She wore a black multi color twill 2 piece Chanel suit that clung to every curve, her black hair swept to one side, gray eyes reflecting the city lights below.

Ronnie took the glass without looking at her. "A crown means nothing if nobody tries to take it."

"Paranoid already?" She sipped her champagne, studying him. "We haven't even opened the doors yet."

"I'm not paranoid. I'm prepared." He finally turned to face her, and the five years of professional distance between them felt suddenly, dangerously thin. "There's a difference."

Monét's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Is there?"

Below them, the crowd had swelled to over three hundred—influencers, athletes, musicians, the kind of people who made trends instead of following them. King's Reserve was designed to be exclusive, a cannabis lounge so luxurious it made dispensaries look like corner stores. Forty-foot ceilings. Velvet banquettes in burgundy with gold threading. Floor-to-ceiling glass cases displaying premium strains like art in a museum.

This was supposed to be his coronation.

So why did it feel like a trap?

"Kamari just texted," Monét said, checking her phone. "Security's in position. Kavari's handling the VIP list. Andre's in the studio finishing the opening track." She paused. "Everything's perfect, Ron. You can breathe."

But Ronnie couldn't breathe. His honey-brown eyes scanned the crowd below, cataloging faces, searching for the one that didn't belong. Someone was watching. He could feel it the way you feel a storm coming pressure in the air, electricity on your skin.

"You remember what my grandma used to say?" he asked quietly.

Monét waited.

"She said the devil don't announce himself. He just shows up at your table and orders a drink."

"Your grandma also said you'd die alone if you didn't learn to trust people." Monét's voice was soft but sharp. "Which prophecy are we believing tonight?"

Before Ronnie could answer, his phone buzzed. Unknown number. He almost didn't answer but something made him swipe.

"Congratulations on the opening, King." The voice was distorted, mechanical. "Beautiful place. Shame about what's going to happen to it."

Ronnie's hand tightened on the phone. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Someone who knows you better than you know yourself." A pause. "Check your email. I sent you a gift."

The line went dead.

Monét was already moving, her champagne forgotten. "What did they say?"

Ronnie opened his email with hands that refused to shake. One new message. No subject line. Just an attachment—a photograph.

It was a picture of his Bel Air mansion, taken from inside. His bedroom. His bed.

Someone had been in his house.

"Jesus Christ," Monét breathed, looking over his shoulder.

The second photo was worse: Andre Cross's silver Rolls-Royce parked outside Legacy Studios. Except the hood was covered in something dark. Even in the grainy photo, Ronnie could tell it was blood.

The third photo made his stomach drop: Teyanna, his first love, the girl he'd walked away from five years ago to build this empire. She was bound to a chair, eyes wide with terror, a gag in her mouth.

The caption below read: **BLK SNOW IS COMING.**

"Ron—" Monét started.

"Get Kamari and Kavari up here. Now." His voice was cold, controlled. The voice he used when bodies needed to disappear. "And find out who the fuck has been in my house."

Monét was already dialing, her champagne-warm voice replaced by something surgical. "Gio, we have a situation. I need a full security sweep of Ronnie's Bel Air property. Yes, now. I don't give a fuck if you're at dinner someone was inside."

Below them, the crowd was getting restless. The doors were supposed to open five minutes ago. Ronnie could see people checking their phones, influencers starting to film, the energy shifting from anticipation to irritation.

His phone buzzed again. Another message: **Open the doors, King. Let's give them a show.**

"We're not opening," Ronnie said.

"What?" Monét lowered her phone. "Ron, there are three hundred people down there. Half of them are press. If we don't open—"

"If we open, whoever sent this knows we're playing their game." He showed her the message. "They want us to open. So we don't."

"That's not how this works." Monét's voice was sharp now, the debutante polish cracking to reveal something harder underneath. "You cancel this opening, you look weak. You look scared. And in this business, scared is the same as dead."

"In this business, dead is dead." Ronnie turned to face her fully. "Someone was in my house, Mon. Someone has Teyanna. Someone knows about BLK SNOW—"

"BLK SNOW is a cannabis strain," Monét interrupted. "It's not a secret. It's literally what we're selling tonight."

"Then why does it feel like a threat?"

The question hung between them, unanswered.

Kamari and Kavari appeared on the balcony, identical in height but different in everything else. Kamari moved like a soldier controlled, vigilant, his dark eyes already scanning for threats. Kavari was lighter, looser, his caramel complexion and gold-flecked eyes making him look younger than his twenty-eight years.

"What's the situation?" Kamari asked.

Ronnie showed them the photos.

Kavari's face went pale. "Yo, that's Teyanna. When was this taken?"

"I don't know. But whoever took it wants us to know they can reach anyone." Ronnie pocketed his phone. "We're postponing the opening."

"The fuck we are," Kavari said. "Ron, we got three hundred people down there. We got press. We got investors. You cancel now, you might as well burn the whole thing down yourself."

"He's right," Monét said quietly. "Canceling makes you look guilty. Like you're hiding something."

"I am hiding something," Ronnie snapped. "I'm hiding the fact that someone just threatened to destroy everything I've built."

"Then we find out who." Kamari's voice was calm, methodical. "We open the doors. We smile for the cameras. And while everyone's distracted, I start pulling security footage, tracking IP addresses, finding out who sent those photos."

"And if they make a move tonight?"

"Then we're ready." Kamari's hand moved to his waistband, where Ronnie knew he kept a Glock 19. "But they won't. This is psychological warfare, not physical. They want you scared, not dead."

"Not yet," Kavari added darkly.

Ronnie looked at Monét. She was watching him with those grey eyes, the ones that had seen him at his worst and never flinched. Five years they'd worked together. Five years of late nights and close calls and moments where the professional distance between them felt like a lie they were both telling.

"What do you think?" he asked her.

"I think you're right to be paranoid." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something expensive and French that probably cost more than most people's rent. "But Kamari's right too. We can't show weakness. Not tonight."

"So we open."

"We open." She held his gaze. "And we find out who's fucking with us. Together."

The word hung in the air between them, heavy with implications neither of them was ready to name.

"Alright." Ronnie turned to the twins. "Kamari, I want eyes on every entrance. Kavari, you're on the floor anyone looks suspicious, you let me know. Mon, you're with me."

"Always," she said, and something in her voice made his chest tighten.

They descended the stairs together, Ronnie forcing his face into something that resembled confidence. The crowd erupted when the doors finally opened, a wave of bodies and noise and flashing cameras. King's Reserve swallowed them whole three hundred people flooding into the space, filling it with laughter and music and the sweet, earthy smell of premium cannabis.

Ronnie moved through the crowd like a ghost, shaking hands, accepting congratulations, playing the role of the young king who had everything under control. But his mind was elsewhere, cataloging faces, searching for the one that didn't belong.

Monét stayed close, her hand occasionally brushing his arm, a reminder that he wasn't alone. They'd built this together her strategic mind and his street instincts, her old money connections and his new money hunger. She was the only person who knew all his secrets.

Almost all of them.

"Smile," she murmured as a photographer approached. "You look like you're at a wake."

"Maybe I am."

But he smiled anyway, pulling her close for the photo, her body warm against his side. The camera flashed. The photographer moved on. And for just a second, Ronnie let himself imagine a different life one where Monét was more than his business partner, where Teyanna wasn't tied to a chair somewhere, where his empire wasn't built on a foundation of paranoia and blood.

Then his phone buzzed.

Another message: **Beautiful couple. Shame about what's going to happen to her.**

Ronnie's blood went cold.

"What?" Monét asked, reading his face.

He showed her the message.

Her expression didn't change, but her hand tightened on his arm. "We need to leave. Now."

"We can't. Not without—"

The lights went out.

All of them. Every bulb, every neon sign, every carefully positioned spotlight—gone. King's Reserve plunged into darkness so complete it felt like drowning.

Someone screamed.

Then the emergency lights kicked in, bathing everything in red.

And on the main screen behind the bar, where they were supposed to be showing the promotional video, there was a message in white text:

**BLK SNOW IS COMING. AND WHEN IT FALLS, KINGS DIE.**

The crowd erupted into chaos people shouting, pushing toward the exits, phones out and filming everything. Ronnie stood frozen, watching his empire collapse in real time.

Monét's hand found his in the darkness. "Ron—"

"Get everyone out," he said quietly. "Kamari, Kavari sweep the building. I want to know if anyone's still here."

"What about you?" Monét asked.

"I'm going to find out who the fuck is doing this."

"Not alone you're not."

He turned to face her, and in the red emergency lighting, she looked like something out of a dream sexy and dangerous and absolutely unwilling to leave his side.

"Mon—"

"Don't." Her voice was sharp. "Don't you dare try to protect me. We built this together. We survive it together."

The word echoed in his mind: *together*.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he'd never learned how to do anything alone.

His phone buzzed one last time: **Check on your producer, King. He's bleeding out.**

Ronnie was already running.