Nicole asked me a question today. Black man or white man to own Tyrone? Honey, that's like asking if I prefer my coffee black or with cream—it's not about the color, it's about the caffeine. The right man for that job isn't defined by his skin. He's defined by his ability to look Tyrone in the eye and see every pathetic, trembling desire he's spent a lifetime hiding. The right man would make Tyrone forget his own name while remembering his place. He'd make him crawl, not because he's forced to, but because his soul finally found the floor it was looking for. Color is a distraction. Power is the point. And I've already picked the man who understands the assignment.