ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 5: ᴄʜᴀᴍᴘᴀɢɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴀʙᴏᴛᴀɢᴇ

The Moreau Grand Hotel stood tall and proud, flexing its glass-and-steel muscles like it was the destination in the city. When Deja's taxi pulled up, she already knew what she was about to walk into: another one of her family's pretentious milestones where they forgot the most important part—her. She spotted her family gathered like a damn shrine at the front, posing like the cover of a tacky magazine. Her father, looking stiff enough to be a statue, her mother all elegant and perfect, Trevor standing off to the side with a smile that looked faker than a $5 weave. And there, right in the middle of it all, was Dominique.

Deja didn't even try to hide the eye roll that practically broke her neck.

"Oh, I see how it is," she muttered, slapping the cash into the driver's hand. "You couldn't wait five minutes for your actual daughter to arrive, huh?"

She stepped out of the cab, adjusting her oversized sunglasses and smirked. The ribbon was cut, the crowd went wild, and Deja's father turned to spot her. His face immediately soured—because, of course, it would.

"Deja." His voice carried that familiar tone of disappointment. "You're late. Again."

Deja clicked her tongue, looking at her father as if he'd just told her to eat a rock. "Really? I'm late? You're the one who left without me, remember? It's not like I'd be in the family photo anyway." She gestured dramatically toward Dominique, standing front and center, her wig bouncing in the sunlight like it was its own personality. "What is this? Is she the queen now?"

Her parents exchanged glances, their faces a mix of confusion and maybe a touch of shame—maybe. Trevor, ever the loyal soldier, just stared at the floor like he was hoping it would swallow him whole.

Deja didn't even break a sweat. She shrugged, tossing her designer clutch over her shoulder. "Whatever, I'm starving. This event better have some decent food, though, or I'm out."

She strutted into the hotel like she was a celebrity, heels clicking loud enough to echo through the marble lobby. As she walked past the grand chandeliers and art pieces that probably cost more than most people's rent, she couldn't help but feel a little rebellious. This was her show now.

The scent of fancy hors d'oeuvres and champagne wafted through the air, and Deja's stomach immediately answered. She grabbed a plate and began piling it high—forget the dainty bites the other guests were taking, she wasn't here for a snack. She was here for full plates.

"Are you going save some for the rest of us?" a deep voice teased from behind her.

Deja turned to see Trevor, all stiff and polished in his suit, standing there like he had a stick shoved up his backside. He was staring at her plate, his mouth twitching in irritation.

"Maybe if y'all had waited for me this morning, I wouldn't be starving," Deja snapped, unbothered as she piled on a third canapé.

"Stop embarrassing us," Trevor hissed, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching them. "This is an important day for the family business."

Deja's eyes flashed with mischief, and she turned to face him with a grin that could cut through ice. "Oh, I'm sorry! Am I not performing my role as the perfect Moreau daughter?" She grabbed a petit four, popped it in her mouth whole, and exaggerated a dramatic "mmm" as if she were at a five-star restaurant.

Trevor's face flushed with anger, but before he could respond, Deja's expression suddenly changed. Her eyes widened, and she frantically began looking around.

The pastry tasted... wrong. Not just bad, but chemical. Bitter underneath the sweetness. "This lil bougie-ass cupcake tastes like evil," she mumbled, lips half-closed, chewing slower now like she was suspicious of it betraying her again. "Why it taste like battery acid and broken promises?"

She locked eyes with a waiter zooming past like he owed her money. "Hey! Bathroom?"

The poor man nearly dropped his tray. "Uh—down the hall, to the right, ma'am—"

"Say less."

She took off. Not walked. Not strolled. Moved. She stomped through that luxury hotel like she paid for the marble floors herself and they owed her rent. She made it to the bathroom, kicked the door open with a dramatic flair, and spit the pastry remains into the sink with a vengeance.

"Nah, see, this was premeditated," she muttered, washing her mouth like she was trying to erase bad decisions and generational curses. "Who the hell tries to assassinate somebody with a cake? This ain't even subtle poison. This is 'I-hate-you-AND-your-mama' flavor."

She was about to leave when she heard the door creak open. Something told her to chill—really chill—so she dipped into a stall and went full spy mode.

Two voices slipped in behind her.

"You got the special drink for Miss Moreau?" one asked in a hushed tone.

"Yeah, clear liquid. Just like Miss Duval said. I'm supposed to make sure she finishes it."

"She better. Miss Duval was real specific about it."

Deja's eyes flew open. She slapped her hand over her mouth to hold in the cackle threatening to burst out. Not Dominique trying to drug her at her own family event. Not Poison Ivy in a Fashion Nova dress plotting on her downfall.

As soon as they left, she stepped out, staring at her reflection with the calm of a woman who was about to start a controlled fire.

"Oh, Dominique wanna be evil today? Okay. Cool. We doin' sabotage now? Bet. She forgot I was from the South Side of somewhere. Let me show her how we really do revenge."

Deja reapplied her gloss with war general energy, adjusted her afro, and marched back to the ballroom.

She clocked Dominique instantly—across the room in a black bodycon and a wig so stiff it had its own zip code. Dominique was smiling sweetly at the crowd, her fake lashes blinking lies into the air.

And then there was Ren.

Tall, devastatingly handsome, and in deep conversation with her father. Her stomach did an involuntary flip. Deja rolled her eyes so hard they almost fell out. Ugh. Why he gotta look so damn correct in a suit? Too bad he's supposed to dump me for Fake McFakerson.

Her dad spotted her and waved her over with the energy of a man who already regretted it. "Deja," he said, voice all tight, "we were just talking about the hotel's new eco-friendly features. You remember your fiancé, Ren."

"How could I forget?" Deja said, her tone suggesting she very much wanted to. She extended her hand like she was daring Ren to kiss it, which he, being the predictable little weirdo he was, did.

I'd rather eat glitter and scream than pretend to be into my knockoff Prince Eric fiancé while my fake-ass dad watches like a hawk with a reading lamp.

Ren's eyebrows rose slightly, but he maintained his composure. "Lovely to see you, Deja. You look beautiful today."

"Thanks," she deadpanned. Even if you're clearly two seconds from leaving me for my cousin. Bold of you to dress like a gentleman while plotting betrayal like a telenovela villain.

Her father made a noise that was technically a cough but spiritually a 'get it together'. "I'll leave you two to... socialize." He disappeared into the crowd with suspicious haste.

For a moment, they stood in awkward silence, the buzzing of the party filling the space between them. Ren finally broke the silence. "Are you enjoying the event?"

"Oh, I'm thrilled," Deja replied, eyes darting around like she was looking for the exit, a drink, or both. "Nothing screams joy like pretending I'm not the least interesting part of a love triangle at a party where everyone smells like generational wealth and rosé."

Somebody drop a chandelier. Please. I'll even settle for a dramatic faint. Can I get a fire alarm? A well-timed food poisoning? Anything?

Honestly, if Dominique walked in here right now and asked him to run away with her, he'd probably carry her off like a Disney prince with student loans. And I'd clap. I'd help her pack. I'd throw rice.

Ren's jaw tightened. "I see."

"Cousin Deja! Mr. Zuo!"

Lord, speak of the Sephora-sponsored serpent.

Dominique descended like a pastel plague, floating across the ballroom in a powder-blue dress so sparkly it could blind satellites. Behind her trailed a waitress with champagne and bad timing.

"Isn't this event magnificent?" Dominique beamed, and the chandelier above her actually twinkled in agreement. "Uncle has truly outdone himself with the hotel."

"Dominique," Ren said, like he hadn't just flinched. Weak.

"Mr. Zuo, it's always a pleasure," Dominique purred, eyelashes doing the absolute most.

Then she turned to Deja, her voice dipped in syrup and shade. "Cousin Deja, you must be so thirsty after arriving so... late." She gestured to the waitress, who extended the tray. "Please, have some champagne."

Okay. This is it. This is the scene. They're all waiting for me to be a villain, right? Bet. I'll give 'em one. I'll be the Meryl Streep of this entire family drama. I'mma make this look so good they'll name a scandal after me.

She could feel eyes on her. Ren. Trevor. Her mom in the corner holding her purse like a holy relic. Her dad leaning against a plant like he could feel the chaos through the leaves. But Deja? Deja was undeterred.

"Thank you, sweet cousin," Deja said, taking the glass. She swirled the champagne slowly, pretending to admire its clarity while watching Dominique's expectant expression from the corner of her eye.

Then she stepped right up to Dominique, still smiling.

"You know what?" Deja said, her voice honeyed but her energy unhinged, "You look a little parched."

And with the grace of a chaotic angel, she cupped Dominique's chin, tilted it up, and poured the champagne into her mouth like she was blessing her with Prosecco holy water.

Except it splashed everywhere—Dominique's mouth, chin, dress. Gasps erupted. Somewhere, a string quartet missed a note.

"Deja!" Trevor lunged forward, his voice cracked like glass. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Oh my bad!" Deja said, releasing Dominique gently like a cat that just knocked over a vase. "I thought that's what cousins do at fancy events—hydration with a splash of elegance."

She should thank me, honestly. Champagne exfoliates.

Trevor's jaw dropped. Ren looked like he'd just witnessed a murder. Her mother turned around slowly like she was reconsidering the entire concept of family.

Dominique coughed and sputtered, champagne staining the front of her perfect outfit. Her parents descended on them immediately, her mother putting a protective arm around Dominique while her father's face contorted with rage.

"Have you lost your mind?" he thundered, drawing even more attention to the scene.

So y'all really thought I was about to sip on a drugged-ass drink and collapse like some Lifetime movie extra? Not today. Not ever. I may be dramatic, but I ain't stupid.

Everyone around her froze. Her father's angry tirade stopped mid-sentence. Her mother's hand flew to her pearls. Trevor's eyes widened in disbelief. And Ren—Ren was looking at her with an unreadable expression, his gaze intense enough to burn.

Deja blinked.

Wow, why is everybody lookin' like I just confessed to murder? Calm down. I'm the only one thinking logically here. Dominique's shady, the champagne was shady, and I just saved my own fine Black life. You're welcome.

Deja turned to Dominique, whose perfect facade was beginning to crack as the drug took effect. Her eyelids drooped slightly, and she swayed on her feet. "Oh, cousin Dominique," Deja said sweetly, folding her hands like a preacher's wife. "Are you feeling alright? You look a little... unstable."

She clutched her chest like the drama was giving her heart palpitations.

"I feel just terrible about spilling your drink. I hope there wasn't anything... special in it."

Dominique's eyes, which were now definitely losing their high-gloss finish, snapped up at her. "I—I don't know what you're talking about," she slurred, fighting to hold her composure—and losing.

Mmhm. She's twitching like a WiFi signal in a basement. Girl, go reboot.

"Really?" Deja purred, starting to circle her like a hot girl with too much time and not enough patience. "Because you look like you're about two blinks away from fainting into a shrimp tower."

She turned to the nearest server with a fake-concerned gasp. "Somebody get her a chair. Or a cot. Or maybe just a priest. Honestly, whatever's closest."

Dominique wobbled again, clinging to Trevor, whose jaw was clenched so tight he looked like he was chewing bricks.

"This is ridiculous," he snapped, propping Dominique up like she was a prop in a haunted house. "She's obviously not feeling well."

"Oh, I bet she isn't," Deja said brightly, with the tone of someone who knew exactly what kind of tea she was sipping.

"And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the 'special drink' I overheard your little waitress friends whispering about in the bathroom." She turned dramatically to her parents, who were both doing Olympic-level mental gymnastics trying to look normal while processing her thoughts in surround sound.

"You really thought I was gonna embarrass the family today?" she scoffed. "Please. At least I own my mess. Y'all let Dominique out here acting like the prom queen of poison."

Her dad opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. Her mom blinked like she was buffering.

Without missing a beat, Deja turned on her heel. "This family drama is exhausting. I'm out."

I'm gonna go eat three mini crab cakes, call an Uber, and take a long bath while y'all figure out who needs to be arrested or exorcised.

Deja strode toward the exit like she was walking out of a bad date she didn't even care about. Her heels clicked with each step, and her head was held high, even as the whispers and stares followed her like a cloud of gossip.

She was nearly at the revolving doors when she felt a hand close around her arm. Whipping around, ready to unleash another verbal beatdown, she found herself face-to-face with Ren. She narrowed her eyes.

"What do you want?" she demanded, yanking her arm free like it was a bad date. "You gonna shout at me too? Tell me how I've embarrassed the mighty Moreau name? Oh, let me guess, I'm ruining your family's reputation—again."

Ren cleared his throat, adjusting his tie. "Actually, I—"

"Are you going to break off the engagement?" Deja cut him off before he could finish, crossing her arms. "Because if that's where this is going, do it quickly."

"No," Ren said firmly, his gaze never leaving hers. "That's not what I was going to say."

Deja blinked, caught off guard. What was this? The man was supposed to be angry, fuming, ready to call the whole thing off—he was supposed to be mad at her. Why was he calm? Where's the meltdown? The drama?!

Wait... hold up. He's not mad? What is this? Why isn't he flipping out?

She shook her head and snapped back to reality, her brain already switching into self-preservation mode. "Welp, then I'm going home," she said, turning away before he could see the confusion flickering in her eyes. "Enjoy the rest of the perfect party. Not like I care or anything."

She pushed through the revolving doors, stepping into the bright afternoon sunshine with a sigh of relief.

The ride home was a blur, her mind racing with questions. Why did he follow me, though? Is he trying to be all heroic and 'chivalrous' now? But wait—did he even defend Dominique? Why didn't he rescue her in front of all those people? He stood there all quiet like a zombie, watching her go down like she's got good hair and a plotline. No. He didn't fall for that damsel in distress mess. That boy's clearly not all in.

By the time she reached the mansion, exhaustion had overtaken her. She kicked off her heels with zero cares in the world, and they went flying—somewhere into the abyss of who even cares. She trudged up the stairs, heading straight for her room.

Without even bothering to change out of her outfit, she collapsed face-first onto her bed. "Twenty million dollars better be worth all this mess," she muttered into the pillow, her face squished. And with that, sleep claimed her, leaving the mess of the day behind. For now

────•⋅⊰༻♥༺⊱⋅•────

Meanwhile, back at the venue, Ren was about to leave when his security chief, Jensen, approached him, holding a tablet with the kind of serious expression that could only mean bad news.

"We've got CCTV footage of Dominique," Jensen started, his tone low and clipped, "asking the waitress to drug her drink. However, Miss Moreau was nowhere in the footage, so there's no way she could have known about it."

Ren's brow furrowed as he processed this. "I see," he said, his voice a little too calm for someone who just got hit with a bombshell.

Wait a minute. His mind began to churn, the wheels of suspicion grinding against each other.

First, Deja knew my mother would collapse before it even happened. Now she knew Dominique's drink was drugged. What's going on with Deja Moreau?

"Let's go." Ren said, as Jensen opened the car door for him.