Page 6 of The Millionaire Mortician

T he city was moving as it always did. Cabs were honking, bikers weaving through traffic, and people rushing past like time owed them money. I wasn’t caught up in any of that, though. There I was, standing in front of a glass storefront in Tribeca, staring at what could be my future.

Talina stood beside me with her arms folded. Her oversized shades slid down just enough for me to catch her eyes gleaming. “Sis,” she murmured, “this is the one.”

Before I even walked inside, something in my chest told me she was right.

It was different there — quiet enough to feel exclusive, but busy enough to keep steady traffic.

Pushing the door open, we stepped inside and were in awe. The space swallowed me whole almost immediately. It had high ceilings stretched tall, industrial lights hanging down, and polished hardwood floors that reflected the afternoon sun pouring through the wide front windows.

I froze still, letting my eyes sweep from corner to corner.

In my head, I was already rearranging everything the way I wanted.

I saw barber chairs lined up on one side with long mirrors flush across that wall.

I was thinking maybe a mural in the back would look dope.

Of course, it would’ve had to be something fly, something urban but classy, representing both me and the culture.

Talina was already in motion, strutting across the room in her little denim jumpsuit and white sneakers. “Look at this corner, Daij,” she called out, pointing to a space tucked to the back left. “This could be the salon section with shampoo bowls along the wall, and dryers over here.” She pointed.

No other location had evoked that reaction from us.

I turned in a slow circle, letting it sink in. My pulse was beating wildly with all the thoughts rushing through my head. This ain’t just a dream anymore. This shit is real , I thought to myself, and it was all because of Milan.

That thought pulled me back, like a rewind button pressed in my chest.

A Week Ago...

It was a Tuesday morning when I reached over to feel Milan, but he wasn’t there. As I cracked open my eyes, I saw the sun spilling through the blinds. I reached over to my nightstand to grab my phone and saw it was seven-thirty a.m. Checking my messages, I saw one from Milan.

My Milly: I had to dip early, baby girl. Have a great day.

Me: I just woke up. Have a great day as well, my love.

I responded to my other messages, then somehow ended up on Instagram, scrolling still half-asleep.

I nodded off for a quick second until my phone buzzed.

I figured it was just some DM notification or a like from somebody I ain’t care about.

That wasn’t the case, though. It was a notification from my bank.

Deposit received: $100,000.00

I blinked a few times, sat up straight, and wiped my eyes.

I thought maybe my vision was playing tricks on me.

After closing out and reopening the Bank of America app, the numbers still didn’t change.

One hundred thousand dollars was sitting in my account.

My throat closed up as my breath got caught.

My hands shook so badly that I almost dropped my phone.

Milan really came through, I thought. That man didn’t just love me in words or in bed. He believed in me enough to fund my dream without asking for anything back. Tears finally started to well up, and before I knew it, my face was wet as hell.

The first thing I did was call my man. On the first ring, he answered on FaceTime.

“You good?” he asked immediately.

I never really bugged him while he was out working. He would usually be the one to hit me with a text or call me first.

“Yes, I’m fine.” I giggled. I saw the tension instantly ease.

“Oh, aight. Wassup?”

“Thank youuu for the money babyyy,” I sang happily with a big ass smile.

I guess my smile was contagious because he showed her perfect white pearls.

“You should know by now I’m a man of my word. Now go do yo’ thing, shorty.”

“I love you, Milan.”

“Love you too, Dai.”

As soon as we hung up on FaceTime, I hit Talina up right away.

She answered on the third ring. “Bihhh, wassup?”

My voice cracked. “Girl... Milan just dropped a hunnid stacks in my account.”

“What?” she screamed so loud I had to yank the phone back from my ear. “A hunnid?”

“Yes, sis! He wired it for me to open my shop.”

Talina squealed again, laughing like she had won, too. “Daij, you lit lit bookie. That man loves you for real. Like, stop playin’. You’re really blessed.”

I was crying and smiling at the same time. “I know! Like, who does that?”

“Only a real one, bih. Period.”

That’s when I asked her to help me find a spot and situate it. Of course, my girl was more excited than I was to get started.

Now there we were, a week later, standing in what felt like destiny.

The realtor, a perky white lady in red heels, was rambling off numbers about square footage and “prime Tribeca visibility.” I barely heard her, though.

I was already picturing clients in the space while music bumped low in the background, the buzz of clippers, laughter, and conversations about life.

I had a dope vision of Barbershop when they had the hair salon across from the barbershop in one establishment. I wanted mine to be high-class, though.

Talina looped her arm through mine. “Bihhh, you see the vision? ‘Cause I do,” she whispered.

“I see it clear as day,” I whispered back.

When the tour concluded, we thanked the realtor and stepped back outside, taking in the view of the front of the space and the surrounding area.

“Yeah,” I said, smiling at Talina. “This is the one.”

We walked a couple of blocks down to this cute restaurant that had outdoor seating.

The streets buzzed with people in business casual and tourists taking pictures, as if they had never seen tall buildings before.

We grabbed a table right outside to feel the spring breeze, then ordered drinks and food, which came almost immediately.

I stared at my grilled chicken salad, barely touching it.

My mind was too occupied with all kinds of decisions to make and numerous tasks to attend to.

Talina was scrolling through Pinterest on her phone.

She kept showing me hair station setups, modern salon chairs, and even neon wall signs that looked dope.

That’s when I leaned in and rested my elbows on the table. “Lina... I’ve been thinkin’.”

She looked up, brow arched. “Here you go...”

“Nah, for real. I don’t just want you to help me with the process. I want you in it with me, like working alongside me at the shop. You run the beauty salon side, while I hold down the barber side,” I offered.

Talina was working at someone else’s salon in Brooklyn. I always heard her complaints about multiple things that she didn’t like, so why not bring my best friend along for the ride?

She froze, not moving a muscle as her lips parted. For a second, I thought she was going to laugh it off. Then suddenly, her eyes watered, and she reached across the table to grab my hands.

“You dead ass, Daija?” Her eyes opened wide.

“Dead ass serious, Lina. Who else I’ma trust with this? You’ve been my day one. You see me, you know me, and you’ve got my back no matter what. We could build something real here.”

A slow smile stretched across her face as she squeezed my hand tight. “Say less, bih. I’m all in. Let’s do this.” She clapped.

Not only was I happy to see my friend excited about things, but a relief washed over me to know I had a real one helping me out.

Talina lifted her iced latte to my glass of water. “To some real ones, finally getting what we want.” We clinked our glasses.

Since we settled that, I finally let myself lean back to soak in the moment. Milan didn’t just give me money. He gave me freedom, a chance, and a future. With the right people around me, I knew my endeavor would be successful.

As soon as Talina and I were finished with our meals and drinks, we parted ways, and I made my way home. My menstrual cycle was on, and while I wasn’t cramping or anything, I felt tired and drained. All I wanted was a nice shower and to relax.

When I pulled up to the block, I peeped Milan’s Benz outside the house, along with his security detail across the street.

I parked, grabbed my bag, and made my way to the house and up the steps.

As soon as I unlocked the door, I heard the low hum of the TV coming from upstairs.

I checked the time and saw it was still early, which was unusual for Milan to be home so early in the day.

It was only two o’clock in the afternoon.

Kicking my shoes off, I made my way upstairs. When I walked into our bedroom, I saw Milan laid out on the bed shirtless, having his tattoos on display, with black Nike basketball shorts. He had the remote in one hand, as if it were a Sunday afternoon.

My heart did this little flip, like it always did when I saw him.

He was thirty-seven years old, with smooth light skin, and that Brooklyn calm written all over his face.

To the world, he was reserved, calculated, and a man who ain’t move unless he meant it.

However, to me, he was my peace, my protector, the one who could quiet my storm just by staring at me.

“Hey, baby, how come you’re home early?” I asked, stripping out of my clothes.

He turned his head, lips curving just enough to count as a smile. “Wrapped up what I had to handle quicker than I thought. Decided to slide home.” His voice was low, but deep.

I was happy as hell to see him. Swiftly making my way over to his side of the bed, I leaned over and pecked his lips. “I’ll be right back. Let me go take a quick shower.” He nodded, then reverted his attention to the TV while I went into the bathroom to handle my hygiene.