Page 48

48

Raya

Good grief—my man looks sinfully good in a tux. Presidential, almost. Like he belongs here, standing shoulder to shoulder with the rest of these geniuses at the White House.

We’re not in, like, the Oval Office or anything. Not that we wanted to be. We’re in one of the dining rooms for the Office of Environmental Quality dinner. It’s so elegant and fancy. Just the kind of place Ace and his family would feel right at home in.

It gives me immense pleasure to know how much the wine-guzzling cunt would have enjoyed being here.

I should feel out of place, but I don’t. Ace gave me his card to buy an outfit to wear tonight, so I bought a beautiful full-length gown and some red bottoms. My first pair.

And now I have a bone to pick with Mr. Louboutin.

These beautiful stilettos on my feet don’t even feel like shoes. They feel like fucking torture devices. If I didn’t have a high pain tolerance, I’d be sitting on this fancy ass floor crying my eyes out right now.

He can expect a letter from me soon.

Anyway, I look the part. But there’s another reason I don’t feel out of place here.

It’s because I won.

This whole trip proves that I’m a winner.

The man on my arm is being honored for his work. They’ve called him a visionary, a pioneer, the future of American engineering. While everybody claps for him, I clap the loudest. That’s my man. My prize.

Dinner is fancy, too. White tablecloths, tiny forks I don’t know what to do with, centerpieces that probably cost more than the medieval pain machines on my feet, and food I’ve never seen and can’t pronounce.

But what’s holding my attention isn’t the food or decor. It’s Brenda Malloy.

She’s sitting at the long table at the front of the room, her hands folded in front of her like a queen surveying her court. Cocoa brown skin, sleek black bob, soft, perfect makeup…she has a presence that draws attention. The woman has captivated me tonight. I can’t keep my eyes off of her.

I’ve been studying the way she interacts with people. Polite, but not too nice. Speaking with gravitas, but soft enough to make people lean into her, hanging onto her every word. Even the way she walked in here, the way her heels clicked against the marble floor. Confidence. Command.

I want that.

I wanna be the kind of woman people look at and immediately know I’m important. Brenda is clearly smart, capable, and powerful. I bet she’s never once cried over some dusty ass fuckboy. She went to college, graduated on time, and didn’t throw her whole life away on a loser like I did.

But I can still become her.

Or a version of her.

The thought sneaks in like a whisper. I could get my GED. Go to Spelman like I dreamed when I was little. I was a smart girl, but a bad student—gifted and talented program, thank you very much. My teachers always said, ‘she’s so smart, such potential, but she doesn’t apply herself.’

That’s because potential doesn’t mean shit when you’re in love and being stupid.

But it’s not to late. It’s never too late.

The idea sticks, humming in the back of my mind while I smile for the hundredth time tonight, shaking hands and telling people how much I’m enjoying the occasion.

The novelty wears off around dessert. Ace is working the room, as he should be, and I’m sitting here, cheeks hurting from smiling, feet hurting from these fucking blood shoes (Cardi was right, just not the way she meant it). I’m growing more and more irritated that I had to take my TikTok down for this shit. My followers probably think I’m dead. But I’ll be back soon enough. New handle, probably, but Ace can’t keep me down. I have makeup to apply and stories to tell.

After the last toast, Ace takes my hand and leads me out. We banter a little during the car ride back to the hotel, but he’s quiet walking into the lobby. I stare at him in the elevator, just about to ask him what’s wrong, when he turns to me.

“Marry me.”

Just like that. No warning.

I stare at him, waiting for him to pull out my fucking ring and drop to one knee. But he just stands there, staring back like he’s expecting an answer.

“No ring?” I tease, but it’s not a joke. I’m pissed . I didn’t work this fucking hard, studying him, pursuing him, seducing him, picking off that pod of orcas he calls a family to be proposed to, ringless, in a fucking elevator!

“We can pick one out tomorrow,” he says nervously. “You can get whatever you want. I just want you.”

Well…

Okay.

That works.

I nod. Not because it’s romantic, because it ain’t, but because I still won. Maybe it didn’t look exactly how I wanted it to, but the destination is the same.

The man did kill for me, after all.

He kisses me, and I let him, but in my head, I’m already rewriting the story. Maybe bae surprised me with a ring in front of Lincoln Memorial. No, the African American History Museum. Or maybe during a private tour of the White House. Not sure yet, but it will be big. It’ll be magical.

Because unlike Meghan Markle, I write my own fucking fairy tales.

The next morning, Ace wakes me up with room service, silver domes and all, like we’re in a movie. Mimosas, some kind of fancy omelet, croissants, a fruit plate with little sprigs of mint tucked between the berries—and it’s all for me. I sit up, rubbing my eyes. I know I look a mess, but he stares at me, smiling like I’m the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Good morning, future Mrs. Taylor,” he says. “You ready to go pick out your ring?”

I should play it cool. Make him sweat a little for giving me such a dusty ass proposal last night. But I can’t. My whole face breaks into a smile. I’m finding out the hard way that it’s very difficult to hide true happiness. It shines through no matter how hard you try to tuck it away.

“Where are we going? Zales? Kay? Claire’s?” I tease, sipping my mimosa.

He grins, taking his own mimosa to the head. “Nah. We have an appointment at Tiffany’s.”

I’ve never been, but I do know there’s no ‘s’ at the end.

Black people.

“The blue one?” I say, my excitement rising. “Like, the actual blue store?”

He nods. “Eat your food, baby. There’s plenty of time.”

But I’m not even hungry any more. I throw the covers off and run to the bathroom, leaving him laughing on the bed.

It feels like a palace up in here.

The lights, the glass, the colors…everything’s bright and airy. It looks and feels and even smells like wealth.

But I’m gonna act like I’ve been somewhere.

The sales associate greets us at the door. She’s thin and wiry and looks like she comes from old money and does Pilates four times a week. She smiles at us like she knows we’re not just here to browse.

“Welcome to Tiffany and Company, Mr. Taylor. Miss,” she says, giving me a subtle once over. I don’t know why she’s eyeing me, though. It’s not like I’m dressed like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman . I look normal. I lift my chin a little higher, letting her know I belong here, too.

Ace’s hand is warm on my back as she leads us to a private room. There’s champagne on the table, soft jazz playing through hidden speakers, and a velvet-lined tray with rings so sparkly and pretty, they make me feel like a princess.

“Pick anything you want,” Ace says softly, close to my ear.

It’s overwhelming, honestly, all the cushion cuts and emerald cuts, solitaires and halos. Emily does her best to explain things to me, but all I can see is sparkle.

I could go obnoxiously big if I wanted to. Ace gave me the green light. But I could also go classic and elegant. Something is pulling me in that direction. There’s a round brilliant in a platinum setting that looks like something future me would wear. Like something Brenda Malloy would wear.

“That one,” I say softly.

Ace doesn’t ask how much. He just nods at Emily.

He takes the ring and slips it on my finger, then kisses the back of my hand. I feel like I’m in a Disney movie; Cinderella , maybe, not the one where they made the black girl a frog for most of it and then had her work her ass off and marry that dusty ass, ran-through prince.

I think I see Emily swoon a little bit.

“It’s perfect.” I angle my hand back and forth, catching the light. “I love it.”

“You sure?” he asks. “I want you to have exactly what you want."

I nod, choking back happy tears. No way in hell am I about to cry in this store in front of this lady.

Ace hands the lady his card like it’s nothing, his eyes locked on me.

“Can you take a picture of me?” I say softly, my eyes still on my ring.

“Doin’ it for the ‘gram?” he jokes. “Of course. Gimme your phone.”

He takes several snaps of me in various poses. He’s so cute and eager, never once getting sick of me and my nonsense. I make him hop in one with me, only realizing just then that we didn’t have any together.

After we leave, we walk arm-in-arm down the busy street, the little blue bag swinging from my wrist like a trophy. The ring is a tad bit loose on me, but when she told me it would take a couple of weeks to get it resized, I politely declined. No fucking way I was walking out of there without my prize.

The other is by my side.

I catch my reflection in a shop window. I barely recognize the woman I see. She looks…happy.

I slip my hand into Ace’s. “Thank you. You really made me feel like a princess.”

He kisses me right there on the sidewalk, just a peck, but with the promise of something deeper later.

“You are a princess,” he murmurs against my lips. “Now and always.”

I sigh happily.

Nobody and nothing can take this away from me.

I’ll die before I let that happen.