The Exception.

Chapter One: Ice In Her Veins.

I be cooking for yall!

This book may have some pretty slow updates......a lot of the chapters are already prewritten and I have to tweak them.
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"Good morning, Ms. Wilson. It's 6:30 a.m. Your schedule is color-coded and coffee is brewing."

The soft, voice of her home system echoed through the sleek penthouse, cutting through the silence like a polite assistant who never asked for time off.

Fatima Wilson stretched in her silk sheets, not a single hair out of place thanks to her midnight bonnet routine. She blinked at the morning skyline—floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city of Atlanta like a high-end painting.

"Dim the lights. I'm awake, but barely," she groaned, sliding her legs out from under the duvet and planting her feet on the heated floors.

"Lighting adjusted. Your car is waiting downstairs in the valet line. Car has been warmed. Weather is a mild 62 degrees. Breakfast: avocado toast, light salt, no egg, just how you like it."

"I know. I programmed you, remember?" she muttered, walking toward her vanity.

By 6:45, she was in a crisp white pantsuit, hair in a tight bun, lashes on, lips glossed. By 7:00, she was in the elevator. By 7:03, a bellman was holding the door to her Rolls-Royce while the valet placed her briefcase in the back seat.

"Ms. Wilson," the valet nodded. "You're early today."

"I'm always early. You're just getting used to it," she replied with a faint smirk before sliding into the leather interior.

At 8:10 a.m., Fatima strutted into the executive conference room like she owned the building—which she did. Staff stood straighter. Interns whispered.

Her assistant, Gabrielle, trailed behind her. "You've got an 11 a.m. pitch with the marketing team. A lunch meeting with the investors from New York. And... a call from your mother. I told her you'd circle back."

"You lied," Fatima said, flipping open her laptop.

"She said it's urgent."

"Tell her I said 'so is running an empire.' Anything else?"

Gabrielle hesitated. "A potential business collaboration. Local entrepreneur. Custom tech development for in-house systems. Your name came up."

"I'm not interested in small-time partnerships."

"I think you'll want to meet this one. His company's backed by some major capital. He's—well... different."

Fatima glanced up. "Gabby, everyone says their contact is different. Then they show up in loafers and a pitch deck made in Canva."

"He's coming at noon."

Fatima narrowed her eyes. "Fine. But if he smells like Axe body spray or quotes Gary Vee, cancel my calendar and call security."

Meanwhile... across town:

Zac balanced his son Braylon on one hip and a sippy cup in the other hand while trying to tie his sneaker with one foot.

"Daddy, I want fruit gummies."

"You had fruit gummies. At 8 a.m. Don't push it, lil man," Zac muttered, bouncing him while reaching for his keys.

Braylon giggled, then sneakily tossed a toy truck into Zac's gym bag.

"Bro," Zac exhaled. "You got my bag lookin' like a daycare."

"Is a daycare!" Braylon grinned.

Zac laughed, kissing the top of his son's head. "Point taken."

He grabbed his phone off the kitchen counter just as it dinged.