The Noir Flame

I settle into a routine.

Every day, I order breakfast from the patisserie nearby or sometimes Brandon sends it over. Then it's usually a toss-up between Desmond and Shawn one sends lunch, the other sends dinner. They never come all at once. Their visits alternate, almost like they have an unspoken schedule. Brandon is the constant. He visits every day, always carving out time to spend with his son. He's even taken us out to lunch and the park a few times. Noah loves those outings, and I… well, I pretend it's all casual, but it warms something in me that I thought had long gone cold.

Dr. Lisa is thrilled with Noah's complete transformation. He's even gained a few pounds. The light is back in his eyes, and he laughs easily now — that full-bodied laughter that only children can manage. We're to be discharged tomorrow. Desmond will be picking us up at noon, and Brandon says he'll meet us at home after work.

We dress casually that morning — matching T-shirts and jeans. I pack our things while Noah helps in his chaotic way, and I feel a strange twinge of nostalgia. It's bittersweet leaving the hospital room that's been our home for two weeks. The nurses all stop by to say their farewells. Some hug us, others pat our backs, and wish us well. They've all fallen in love with Noah, and I can't blame them. He has that effect.

Desmond is prompt, arriving exactly at noon. He comes up to our room personally, a warm smile lighting up his otherwise cool expression.

He drives us in his brand-new Escalade. Noah whistles when he sees the sleek black car.

"Uncle Desmond, this is the new Escalade — the one Eminem has!" he exclaims, eyes wide.

Desmond chuckles. "Yes, it is… I couldn't resist."

I laugh softly as I buckle Noah into the back seat and settle in beside him. We make our way toward the Noir Flame. But the minute I see the gates, something shifts in my chest.

I was nineteen the first time I walked into that place. Nineteen — without knowing what the future held, without knowing the consequences of that one reckless week. And now, at twenty-nine, I return with the result of that very week besides me.

Isn't life ironic? I shake off the gloomy thoughts and take a deep breath. We walk in. The staff are lined up at the entrance to greet us, warm and smiling. Noah is practically vibrating with excitement.

I hold onto his arm, laughing as he tries to sprint into the building like he owns the place. We take the elevator to the third floor. Desmond walks us to apartment 13A. "This is you," he says, producing the key and unlocking the door.

The apartment is beautiful — a stunning view of Manhattan right from the living room windows. The interior is opulent yet cozy. Nordic-style art pieces decorate the walls, and the layout is clean and airy. The kitchen is state-of-the-art, gleaming, and inviting. I blink in awe for a moment. Noah races off to find his room. I call out after him, "Baby, don't run!"

Desmond chuckles. "I've got him. You go find your room." I turn the next corner and find my bedroom beige, coffee brown, and splashes of white. Minimalist and soft. Perfect. Just then, I hear Desmond opening the door for the staff bringing in our suitcases. Mine is wheeled into my room, and Noah's into his, which is conveniently next to mine. I drop the suitcase gently and head to the kitchen to check what we might need. I open the fridge and pantry both are fully stocked. Of course. I know it was the men's doing. Their way of saying welcome. I'm touched. On the kitchen table sits a large fruit basket with a card:

"Welcome home, Aaliyah — from Brandon, Desmond, and Shawn."

I blush, pluck a tangerine from the basket, and peel it slowly, a smile playing on my lips. Once we're settled, I get started on dinner. Desmond has gone back to his office on the fourth floor, and it's just me and Noah in our new home. He insists on helping me cook. We move around the kitchen like we've done this forever. Pasta. Rare steaks for him and Brandon. Chicken for me. A light salad. Simple, warm, and delicious.

"Mommy, can I season the steaks?" Noah asks excitedly.

"Yes, baby. Just a little. That's enough… good job," I smile at him.

By the time we finish and begin setting the table, Brandon walks in. He's dressed sharp as ever — charcoal suit, no tie, jacket folded neatly over one arm, and a large brown paper bag in the other.

"Smells amazing in here," he says with a smile.

Noah runs to him like he hasn't seen him in years. "Uncle Brandon! We cooked dinner!"

Brandon lifts him for a hug. "You cooked? Then this is going to be the best dinner I've ever had."

I raise a brow. "Careful. I might start cooking burnt rice every night."

He laughs, deep and genuine. "Fair warning."

He sets the bag down on the counter and peeks at the plates. "You made pasta?"

"With rare steaks," I reply. "Your favorite."

He gives me a look. "You remembered."

"I forget nothing," I say, brushing past him.

Dinner is wonderful. Noah eats like he's never had real food before, and both men enjoy their steaks. After dinner, Noah yawns dramatically, and I know it's time.

I bathe him quickly, brush his teeth, and tuck him into bed. He clutches his new stuffed bear — a parting gift from the hospital staff — and drifts off quickly. Finally, it's just me and Brandon. We sit in the living room, the soft glow of the lamps painting everything in gold and amber. The city hums outside the window, and for a moment, the silence between us feels heavy.

Then Brandon clears his throat and bares his soul :

"I love him so much, I want him to know I'm his father," he says softly. "Not now. Not today. But someday… please, Aaliyah."

I watch him, emotions swirling in my chest. This man… this boy from ten years ago… is now standing before me asking for a place in our son's life.

"I'll think about it," I whisper. He doesn't push. He simply nods, gets up a few minutes later, and quietly leaves.

After he's gone, I put away the leftovers and the plates. I take the welcome gifts — the fruit basket, the small bottle of wine Shawn brought earlier, and a white box I haven't opened yet — and place them inside my wardrobe. Then I change into my nightwear, slip into my robe, and sit by the window. I open my all-time favorite book, 48 Laws of Power, and begin to read. Midway through a chapter, I remember—I was supposed to place a call. I get up, walk to my handbag, and retrieve the card Shawn gave me.

I dial the number.

It rings twice, then a man picks up.

He listens silently as I speak, my voice cool and clipped. "My name is Aaliyah Moore. Find out everything there is to know about Geena Sparks and her husband, Morgan Sparks. I want a full dossier by next week."

There's a pause.

" Mr Shawn sent me your number. He said to tell you he will handle the payment. Spare no expense."

The man responds smoothly, "Got it, madam. Good night."

I hang up.

I rub my hands together, feeling the weight of the moment, the power of planning, the thrill of preparation. Then I sit back down on the bed, book forgotten, mind already racing.

I start to plot my next move.

They will never see me coming.