Page 2 of The Birthday Girl
T hree months later…
“Happy birthday, baby.” Tyriq’s lips brushed Tahlia’s in a kiss, so gentle a whisper of warmth lingered after he pulled back.
Tahlia smiled against his mouth, her fingers curling into the cotton of his T-shirt.
He deepened the kiss, slow at first, then hungry, pulling her closer until her body molded against his.
The sheets tangled around them, and for a moment, she became lost in him.
His touch made her forget everything, even her family and her obligations.
When they finally broke apart, their breaths were uneven, mingling in the warm hush of the bedroom. Tyriq smoothed his hand down her thigh, then pressed one last kiss to her temple before slipping out of bed.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, reaching for his slacks.
Tahlia’s smile faded. “Go? It’s Saturday. My birthday.”
Tyriq paused, guilt flashing across his face, before he forced a smile. “I know, baby, but I have to meet a new client this morning. It shouldn’t take long, but if it does, I’ll be there tonight.”
She watched him knot his tie in the mirror, each tug pulling him further from her. “A client?” She repeated. “On a Saturday?”
Tyriq turned around and leaned over her, cupping her face in his hands, thumbs grazing her cheeks. “Don’t worry, baby. I promise I’ll be on time for the party. You know I wouldn’t miss it.”
She nodded, but said nothing, the corners of her mouth lifting into a mechanical smile as she watched him adjust his cufflinks, an old ache welling in her chest.
Tyriq bent down for one last kiss, then strode out the door without a backward glance.
Tahlia laid back against the pillows, her nostrils filling with the cedar and sage that lingered where Tyriq had been. She closed her eyes, as her fingers curled into fists, relaxed, then curled again.
Behind her eyelids, she saw Tyriq's car crumpled against a highway divider. Saw his body sprawled across the asphalt. Saw herself standing over him, a tire iron hanging loose in her grip.
Her eyes snapped open, and she pressed her palms flat against the mattress, picturing a pattern that went up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start, until her heart stopped hammering against her ribs.
Maybe she was being petty. Working on her birthday wasn’t grounds for suspicion, not in their city, and not in their circles, where sleep was currency and relationships subsisted on afterthoughts and obligation.
However, Tyriq never worked Saturdays. That was the problem. His excuse didn’t fit the man she knew, but she forced herself to let it go.
The day moved on, the hours slipping through her fingers in a blur of party preparations, and silence from him. By the time evening settled in, she couldn’t push the unease away anymore. Especially when her phone lit up with the kind of notification that could freeze a woman’s blood in her veins.
Tyriq Lawson, thirty-six, standing at six feet five with a toned, athletic body, gorgeous caramel skin, alluring brown eyes, thick brows, and lashes that could shame a runway model.
His lips. God, those lips. She had traced them with her fingertip just yesterday morning while he slept. Lips that had whispered only you against her collarbone. They were so perfect, they felt like pillows made from clouds when they were pressed to her skin.
That was how Tahlia Banks knew the bitch who had just tagged her in a photo on social media with his head buried between her legs was receiving the same reverence she once thought belonged only to her.
Tahlia’s stomach plummeted as if the floor had vanished from beneath her, and her lungs forgot their purpose entirely. The silver bracelet he had given her last month, engraved on the back with T+M forever , suddenly seared her wrist, branding her not as his beloved, but as his fool.
She wanted to throw the phone across the room and pretend none of it was real, but it was ringing off the hook. Emails were rolling in and texts arrived faster than she could breathe. Pretending wasn’t an option. Tyriq’s side bitch had broken the internet.
She placed the phone on Do Not Disturb and stared at the photo until every curve of the woman’s body seared itself into her mind. The sight of his face buried between another’s thighs carved something jagged into her chest.
Thirty-five years old. A billionaire. She could close deals with men who ran empires, she could build skylines from scratch, and yet there she was, reduced to nothing by a woman with a camera phone and Tyriq’s lack of shame.
Tahlia’s name was flooding a space she had never given anyone permission to drag her into.
They didn’t see the man who whispered against her skin, or the man who had gone out of his way to prove himself to her.
All they saw was the headline: Even Billionaire Baddies Get Played For A Fool, and people were running with it.
Tahlia knew the blowback from the scandal would be ugly.
She could already envision the smirks hidden behind champagne glasses at charity galas, and whispered I told you so’s from women who hated her on principle.
Even the men she crushed in business would get their taste of victory, not because they outsmarted her, but because her man had humiliated her.
The final insult came when she read the caption.
Happy birthday, boo. He won’t be able to make the party, but I’ll make sure he eats enough cake for both of us.
The phone slipped an inch in her grip, and her lungs seized mid-breath.
Her fingertips tingled, then went pink around the edges as she tightened her hold.
She blinked once, then again. The image remained fixed on the screen, growing sharper with every passing second, as the comments multiplied beneath it.
@MiaWithTheViews: (Three laughing emojis.) Chile, this is a mess. Niggas love to embarrass you, and they don’t give a damn when they do it.
Three hundred and forty-two comments already.
@RealEstateBabe: sending you prayers, Tahlia. Nothing about this shit is cute. (Praying hands.)
@KingMaker212: ain’t no way I’d be sucking a broke hoe pussy if my bitch was a fucking billionaire. This nigga down bad. The only way I can see this is if wifey’s pussy is trash.
“I’m thinking the roses should be elevated another three inches to really catch the light from the chandeliers,” the decorator’s voice pierced through Tahlia’s fog.
Her chair screeched against the floor as she stood and spun around, phone still clutched in her hand. Pearl, Tahlia assumed that was her name, froze mid-gesture with her clipboard pressed against her chest.
“Out. Everyone out. Now.” Tahlia’s voice was firm, though holding it together took everything in her.
The room emptied so quickly one would’ve thought she had pulled a weapon instead of throwing a tantrum.
Forty thousand dollars’ worth of custom florals and a battalion of waiters and caterers scattered, all afraid of her, or what she would do to them if they disobeyed. It was impossible to know which.
When Tahlia was finally alone, she sank back into the chair, fingers trembling as she pressed the woman’s profile image. The name on the screen was Shanice Carter.
The scroll began. Videos of Shanice shaking her ass in clubs, laughing with drinks in both hands, and posing half-dressed in bathroom mirrors under fluorescent lights that did nothing for her complexion filled the entire page.
She was thirty-five, graduated from James Madison High School in 2007, and had two children under the age of five, although her captions read like those of a teenager.
The children appeared every so often, smiling with missing teeth and holding juice boxes, but they were mentioned only in passing.
Kids with Grandma tonight. I’m outside.
Tahlia stared at the photographs longer than she should have.
Shanice was a party girl who sought attention by posting thirst traps in lingerie and measured her worth by the number of views and comments she received.
She lived her life out loud, cheap and loud.
Tahlia had never been one to judge because she felt people were free to live how they saw fit, but Shanice had dragged her into that world, and now she could not unsee it.
Every fucked-up priority leapt off the screen, such as the nights spent at a bar instead of reading to her children.
Every filtered selfie screamed of her desperation, and every caption begged for attention.
It was quite pathetic in Tahlia’s eyes. For Shanice to be such a beautiful woman, she was such a waste of space.
And that was who Tyriq had chosen to embarrass her with. A broke imitation of everything she had left behind. A woman who reminded her far too much of her older sisters, whom she secretly despised.
Tahlia stared at Shanice long enough to hate everything about her, then tossed the phone to the end of the table, knocking over the centerpiece.
Every promise Tyriq had ever made to her had been broken, and Tahlia was in shambles. She had been cheated on before, but never that publicly, which made her take a moment to try to tally the things she might have done to deserve it. That was if the universe believed in fairness.
After sitting there for minutes and coming up empty, unless simply existing as a woman who expected the bare minimum from those who claimed to love her counted as some cosmic offense, Tahlia finally gave up.
What more did they want from her? A perfect daughter, a perfect friend, a perfect lover.
Yet not so perfect that she shamed the rest by comparison.
Her eyes closed as she summoned the ritual she had created in middle school, a nervous code she called the Konami Calm.
Up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, B, A, start.
She pressed the invisible buttons in her mind, repeatedly chanting the sequences.
By the time she opened her eyes, her pulse had steadied into something she could control.