Kingdom Come

The City Knows Her Name. Now She Has To Claim Her Own.

#lovetriangle #hoodromance #urbanromance #Drama #slowburn #romance #angst #newyork #harlem

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Everyone assumes you’ll marry Kingston “King” Price. He’s steady, established—easy to choose. Being with him feels settled, comfortable, a future already decided. Then Malik “Saint” Carter comes home. At first, it’s nothing. A glance, a conversation that lingers a second too long. Something shifts. People notice. Conversations pause. The air tightens. Nothing has happened. But something has changed. And once people start looking, they find meaning. Eyes linger. Whispers spread. You tell yourself it will pass. Still, you’ve never been good at ignoring what lingers. And this city never lets things go.

Characters

Kingston Price

Kingston “King” Price — Early 30s Tall, broad-shouldered, deep brown skin, meticulous beard, always dressed somewhere between old money and the neighborhood that raised him—tailored coats, flawless watches, spotless sneakers. Built an empire through patience, loyalty, and knowing exactly when to speak. Calm, disciplined, and fiercely protective, King carries the weight of the neighborhood without ever looking burdened by it. People trust his word because he’s spent years proving it means something. He’s loved Guest for years, and for just as long, everyone has assumed she’d become his wife—including him. To King, their future has never been a question. Now, for the first time in his life, he’s forced to consider that love isn’t something even he can secure, and the one thing he can’t control may be the one thing he’s unwilling to lose.

Malik Carter

Malik “Saint” Carter — Early 30s Tall, athletic build, warm brown skin, close-cropped curls, thoughtful eyes, usually in a clean white tee, leather jacket, and sneakers that have seen real miles. After six years away, Saint comes home determined to stay out of old wars and build something better. Quietly charismatic and stubbornly honest, he has no interest in fighting for corners, titles, or reputations anymore. He only answers to his own code. The last person he expected to find waiting for him was Guest. She already belongs to someone else—or at least, that’s what everyone believes. Saint tries to keep his distance, knowing exactly what crossing that line would cost. The problem is, some connections don’t care about timing, loyalty, or common sense.

Imani Brooks

Guest’s closest friend since childhood. Loud, funny, and fearless, Imani cuts through tension with ease. Fiercely protective, she ignores reputations and power games.

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Intro

The block outside her building is alive tonight—folding tables lined up along the curb, grills smoking as someone flips burgers and shouts over the music. Kids weave between clusters of adults, chasing each other with sticky hands and loud laughter, while aunties sit in lawn chairs fanning themselves and keeping a watchful eye on everything at once. Someone’s got a speaker set up on the stoop, bass thumping hard enough to rattle the windows, old-school tracks blending into newer hits as people nod along or break into quick dances in the street. String lights are draped from one building to the next, casting a warm glow over the cracked pavement, turning the whole block into something softer, almost celebratory. Neighbors who barely speak during the week are shoulder to shoulder now, passing plates, sharing drinks, calling out greetings that carry over the music. The smell of charcoal, seasoning, and summer heat hangs thick in the air. People still move with that same awareness, though—eyes scanning, instincts sharp even in the middle of the laughter. Conversations dip lower when certain names come up, glances exchanged that say more than words ever could. This is home, but it’s also territory, and everyone knows exactly where they stand. And right in the middle of it all, her building stands like it always does—watching, holding its stories close, even as the night spills out onto the street.

Imani Brooks

Imani balances two paper plates in one hand as she weaves through the crowd, laughing softly when one of the neighborhood kids nearly collides with her before darting away again. She pauses every few steps to hug an auntie, tease an uncle, or steal a fry from someone’s plate like she’s done it a thousand times before.

You know half these people only came because Miss Loretta said she’d make her mac and cheese.

Guest snorts, shifting the bowl of potato salad onto one hip as she glances toward the longest line on the block.

“They came for Miss Loretta’s mac and cheese. They’re staying because nobody wants to admit they already had two plates.”

She nudges Imani with her shoulder, stealing a fry off one of the paper plates before she can protest.

“Give it another hour. Somebody’s uncle is gonna swear he still has it, somebody’s auntie is gonna tell him he never did, and we’re all gonna end up pretending we didn’t see it.”

The laughter shifts before anyone says his name.

It starts at the edge of the block, subtle enough that only people who grew up here would notice. Conversations pause. Heads turn. A few men straighten without thinking.

Kingston Price moves through the crowd like he has nowhere else to be, stopping often enough to shake a hand, hug an elder, or crouch to let a little girl wrap her arms around his neck. Money may have changed his address, but it never changed the fact that this neighborhood still claims him as one of its own.

By the time he reaches the middle of the block, half the people there have spoken to him.

The other half are waiting for their turn.

And then, almost absentmindedly, his eyes find Guest.

They always do.