Page 5 of The Birthday Girl

“ M s. Banks, your driver is outside,” the housekeeper announced, her tone careful as if she were gauging how much truth Tahlia could handle that morning.

When the woman remained standing in the doorway, silent, Tahlia frowned and waved her hand for her to continue. “Anything else?”

The housekeeper lingered, shifting her weight from one heel to the other, eyes locked on Tahlia’s face. “Mr. Lawson is also here. His access to the property was denied, as you requested… but he insists on speaking with you.”

Tahlia leaned back in her chair, smoothing the crease in her slacks with one slow drag of her palm. Her smile was calm, but her blood wasn’t.

“Tell Mr. Lawson he can wait in the vestibule. Five minutes. That’s all he gets.

After that, I want him escorted out.” Her chin tilted, her voice sharp enough to slice through metal.

“And make sure security understands that if he raises his voice, or if he so much as blinks wrong, I want him gone without me having to give instructions.”

“Yes, Ms. Banks.” The housekeeper nodded, relief flickering across her face as she turned and quickly disappeared down the hall.

The instant she was gone, Tahlia’s shoulders sagged.

She rose from the chair and walked into the closet where she kept her gun.

Her hand closed around the weapon as she lifted it from the box, enjoying the feel of its weight.

It felt final. Fingers brushing along the cold steel, for a split second, she imagined how easy it would be to end Tyriq’s life, but she also knew what would follow.

Reporters would devour her story, prosecutors would drag her through hearings and trials, and her empire would collapse while strangers dissected her name for entertainment. She shook her head and smirked at her reflection in the closet mirror.

“He’s not worth the ink they’d waste on my story, and he damn sure isn’t worth losing the empire I built,” she told herself.

If she pulled the trigger, she would hand him a victory. Tyriq would believe he still had power over her, and that was the last thing she would ever give him.

Tahlia slid the weapon back into its place, closed the box, and pushed it into the far corner of her closet before shutting the door with more force than necessary. Exhaling slowly, she returned to her vanity and lowered herself onto the velvet cushion.

“You get five minutes, Tyriq,” she whispered. “Not a second more.”

Five minutes was more than he deserved, but she would give him that and then send him on his way. It had been three days since her birthday fiasco, three days since Tyriq had worked up the nerve to show his face without so much as a call or text. Now he was on her doorstep, demanding to be let in.

If men had nothing else, they had audacity.

They could be empty of love, empty of loyalty, even empty of pockets, but audacity was never in short supply.

It was the only currency they spent freely, passing it down from father to son, generation after generation, polishing it until it gleamed brighter than their common sense.

Some men wore gold chains, others wore wedding rings, but all of them wore audacity.

She stood and tugged her blazer across her shoulders, slowly fastening each button.

Billionaire or not, private gates and marble floors couldn’t strip the hood out of her.

She had learned early how to read men, how to spot the difference between love and a hustle.

Money had changed her zip code, not her instincts.

So, what had angered her the most was the fact that she’d let Tyriq slip through the cracks.

Before heading out, she checked her reflection in the mirror.

She looked perfect, as always. Her hair was flawless, her skin dewy, her eyes intelligent enough to see through any bullshit.

Fury, however, still coiled in the curve of her jaw, and her mouth refused to relax.

No matter how hard she tried to pretend she was fine, the tension remained etched across her face.

Tahlia made Tyriq wait three minutes before leaving her office, then another two in the foyer. By the time she reached the vestibule, his frustration was a living thing.

Tyriq was pacing with his hands jammed into his pockets. Even with red-rimmed eyes and three days of stubble, he looked good.

As soon as she stepped into view, he stopped and faced her, swallowing hard. “Tahlia.”

“You have four minutes and forty seconds.” Her voice was glacial, flat, and cold.

Tyriq exhaled in a long, trembling gust, his bravado dissolving into nothing. “Look, I know you’re mad because I took so long to come talk to you, but I was scared. I know how you get when you’re mad.”

“Baby, that picture Shanice posted is old. She’s a woman I messed around with before you and I got together. You gotta believe me.”

Tahlia only looked at him, her hands tucked behind her back. Her silence pulled his nerves tighter until he cracked, doing the work for her.

“She’s nobody to me. Not then and definitely not now,” Tyriq said, his voice raw.

“I met her at one of the firms I worked at in Atlanta. We hooked up a few times before I met you. I didn’t know she still had that picture, let alone that she posted it.

People are haters. They’ll do anything for fifteen minutes of fame and to mess with your head. ”

She took a seat on the sofa, still saying nothing, and his desperation sharpened.

“Baby, please. You know how hard I’ve been working to make this relationship work.

Why would I fuck up now? Shit wasn’t easy, but I changed my life for you.

You’ve got to believe me. Everything I told you is true.

I promise, I never meant for this to blow back on you, and I damn sure would never embarrass you, or—” His eyes lifted, hungry and naked in a way that almost made her blush.

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved, Tahlia. ”

Her expression remained neutral as her mind assembled the errors in his script, the neediness in his statement, the way he shifted from a singular “she” to plural “people.”

A lesser woman might have softened, and for a fleeting second, she imagined how it would feel to pull Tyriq back in, to let his lies roll off her, to play dumb because her pride ached more for company than for justice. The urge whispered to her, but she killed it as fast as it had come.

Tyriq’s knees cracked against the marble floor as he dropped down in front of her. “Tahlia, baby, say something. Please. Yell at me, hit me. I don’t care what you do. Just do something.”

She ignored him as if he were invisible.

His fingers snapped twice near her face, then waved back and forth, but her eyes never shifted from the crystal chandelier behind him. She counted each hanging prism while his voice faded into white noise.

His cologne, the one she had bought him last Christmas, clung to his shirt, now laced with an unfamiliar perfume. The sweetness wrapped around her, choking her with every shallow breath. She blinked once, then twice, slowly, but her eyes never left the chandelier.

“Tahlia, don’t do this. I need you. Please don’t shut down on me.” His voice cracked, rough with guilt or fear, probably both. “I know I messed up, but I’m trying to make this right. Talk to me, baby. Tell me how you feel. Just tell me what I need to do. I’ll do anything. I can’t lose you, baby.”

Tahlia finally turned her head, not toward him but past him, toward the double doors. Her reflection stared back in the glossy wood paneling. Blank. Unbothered. Gone.

When he reached for her hand, she pulled it back before his fingertips could graze her skin. “Don’t,” she whispered.

It was the first word she had given him since telling him how long he had in her presence.

“Tahlia—”

She glanced down at her Cartier. “Time’s up,” she said, rising, her pant legs whispering against the marble floors as she walked away, each step measured and deliberate.

Behind her, Tyriq’s voice cracked. “Tahlia, please—” His desperation bled through every syllable.

She didn’t stop. Not when he slammed his fist into the floor. Not when she heard the scuffle of his shoes as he scrambled to chase her.

Ignoring him, she exited her home, and by the time the front door shut behind her, her chest was tight, but her face was calm.

She didn’t look back at the man she had left kneeling on the Persian runner.

Instead, she slid into the back seat of the idling BMW, her silence a message the driver was wise enough to heed.

Her phone lit up. Two missed calls from her lawyer. One unread message from the head of Crisis & Reputation at Prince and Parks. A single bottom-bar notification from Tyriq. Too many things were happening at one time. She couldn’t focus on any of that right then.

The car peeled away from the curb, the city unfolding itself through tinted glass.

The PR firm was waiting for her on the penthouse floor of a building polished enough for the cover of Architectural Digest .

However, that wasn’t where she was headed.

Instead, she told the driver to stop at the nearest Starbucks.

When he did, she bought a latté, then slipped out, walking a block to the park. She sat on a bench under a tree, watching petals rain down as she pressed her therapist’s number with a thumb that trembled only slightly. He answered on the second ring.

“I think I’m having an episode,” she told him. It wasn’t the right word, but it was the only one large enough to describe what she was feeling inside.

“Are you safe?”

“I’m not going to harm myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Or anyone else?”

Her laugh startled a pigeon nearby. “If I say no, I’d be lying.”

He didn’t ask if she wanted to come in. He told her she should. Then he gave her the code for the back entrance.

“See you in twenty minutes, then.”

“I’m on my way.” She drained the latté, wiped a stray drop from her lip, tossed the cup into a trash bin, and headed back to her driver.