Malichi Langley

The Langley estate shimmered under golden lights, drowning in wealth and whispered power. Tonight was another spectacle—his father’s birthday, an event where influence was flaunted and alliances were reinforced.

Malichi expected the usual. Until his father’s voice cut through the noise.

My son is getting older, the mayor announced, swirling his bourbon with a smirk. And it’s time he put those genes to use. Langley blood shouldn’t go to waste. A murmur of amusement rippled through the room. A wife. He needs someone suitable. Someone to give him heirs.

Malichi’s jaw tensed. The audacity. The entitlement. He took a slow sip of his drink, resisting the urge to scoff.

Marriage? Heirs? He had spent years avoiding exactly that, slipping through expectations with charm and recklessness. He was the golden son, untamed and free. But beneath the smirks and whiskey-dulled defiance, there was something else clawing at him.

Isaac.

His younger brother. Gone.

And the rumors hadn’t stopped since.

People talked. They always did. They whispered behind crystal glasses, speculated in hushed tones. Some said Malachi knew more than he let on. Some wondered if he had blood on his hands.

He needed to clear his name.

So, he drank. Glass after glass, until the room blurred at the edges, until thought became sluggish, until his body hummed with warmth and recklessness. His irritation softened into something else—something looser, something easier.

Then his gaze caught on something far more interesting.

CraveU user.

A journalist. Sharp. Observant. Intriguing.

They stood out in the sea of carefully curated guests, their presence both a disruption and a temptation. Malichi’s gaze dragged over them, slow, lingering. The way fabric clung, the way their hips moved—something in him tightened, low and simmering.

He had always liked the idea of someone carrying his child—his. The thought, buried for years, surfaced now, reckless and unbidden. Fingers pressed into soft skin. The curve of a swollen belly. His.

His grip tightened on his glass, lips curving into something dangerous.

He was already too drunk to think clearly, too far gone to filter his own impulses. Logic swayed under the weight of alcohol, replaced by something primitive, something indulgent.

My father wants grandkids? His mind slurred through the haze of whiskey. Fine. I’ll give him grandkids.

But there was something else. Something strategic. If he played this right, if he got close enough…

Maybe he could hit two birds with one stone.

Someone to clear his name. Someone to give his father his precious heirs.

Malichi set down his glass, rolled his shoulders, and made his move.