SUSAN... OOH SUSAN

The rain was tapping on the window like it was trying to put on a show. Thunder rumbled in the distance, sounding like a grumpy old man who was too nosy for his own good.

Tiffany was sitting on her couch with her legs crossed, her satin bonnet forgotten, and her afro was big and free, just like her words. She wore her favorite baggy "Howard Alumni" sweatshirt, which had a small bleach spot that she liked to think made it unique, along with some mismatched fuzzy socks.

Her skin was glistening, glossy from the 9-step skincare routine she refused to gatekeep. She flipped another page of The Wilted Magnolia — a tragic romance novel that had slowly but surely been getting on her last nerve.

Flip.

Gasp.

Her wide brown eyes scanned the words like they might rearrange themselves if she stared hard enough.

"Oh, HELL no," she said flatly.

Her hand shot out dramatically, snatching the book closed like it owed her money. She stared at the cover like it had personally insulted her.

"This is the dumbest sh*t I've ever read in my life," she declared to the empty apartment like it was an audience.

She stood up mid-rant — book still in hand — pacing now, because sitting still with this foolishness? Couldn't do it.

"First of all...Deja didn't even LIKE that crusty, emotionally unavailable, bland-ass man! Ren ain't got NO personality! Dry like unsweetened oatmeal! But everybody wanna act like he the prize? Girl, bye."

Tiffany waved her free hand like she was swatting flies.

"And Dominique...oh don't EVEN get me started on Dominique. That fake, snake-in-the-grass cousin. Stealing Ren like she really did something. Like sis, congratulations on winning a man who couldn't even form a complete sentence without looking confused!"

She stomped over to her kitchen, snatching her lemon water like it was liquor.

"And poor Deja??! Nah. Nah. I get it, baby was desperate — I get it. But this was just cruel." Tiffany's voice softened just a little, shaking her head. "Nobody deserves that."

She counted on her fingers like she was listing crimes at a trial.

"Lost her daddy. Lost her mama. One brother trifling. One brother crazy. No money. No family. No future. And then she DIES??? Meanwhile Dominique and Dollar-Store Prince Charming living happily ever after in their little snake palace??"

Tiffany scoffed so hard she almost choked.

"If I was Deja? Oh baby, I'm haunting EVERYBODY. Ren wake up in cold sweats hearing 'you ain't sh*t' in the middle of the night. Dominique can't look in a mirror without seeing me standing behind her like 'still a homewrecker, huh?'"

She flopped back down on the couch, shaking her head, completely disgusted.

"And the author really sat there and wrote this like this was romantic or something? Girl this not tragic romance. This is character assassination."

She gave the book a long, hateful stare.

"Zero stars. Would NOT recommend."

Then — because she was Tiffany — she picked the book back up anyway.

"Mmm. Lemme see what other dumb sh*t they got going on."

Tiffany opened the book again, her eyes darting around like they were searching for the plot's soulmate that never showed up. She found it in the last place she expected — the acknowledgments page.

Her eyes widened. "Wait, hold up. This author thanked their mom for 'putting up with their moody writing phases'? Bitch, YOUR MOODY PHASES KILLED THE SECOND FEMALE LEAD! Y'ALL GOT A LOT TO TALK ABOUT!"

Tiffany let out a dramatic, full-body sigh — the kind reserved for heartbreak and hunger pains.

And right on cue...

Grrrrrrowlllllll.

Her stomach betrayed her loud and proud, gurgling like it was tryna harmonize with the thunder outside.

"Ughhh, I'm starving," she groaned, dropping her tragic little book on the couch like it had personally ruined her night and her appetite.

Her stomach grumbled again, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since that sad desk lunch of microwave mac and cheese and carrot sticks. Rainy nights had a way of making you crave something warm, something with a kick of spice that could cut through the dreariness like a hot knife through butter. She snatched up her phone, already scrolling through her food delivery apps with hope in her heart and cuss words on the tip of her tongue.

"Okay, lemme see," Tiffany murmured, her thumb skimming over the glowing screen. "DoorDash? Down. UberEats? Down. Grubhub? Girl, down." Every single app had the same message flashing at her like it was taunting her soul:

"Due to inclement weather, no drivers available."

Tiffany blinked.

"Wow," she deadpanned. "Love that for me."

With a sigh — and a bit of flair — she trudged over to her fridge. She opened it like maybe, just maybe, a meal had magically spawned since the last time she looked. But nope.

Empty.

Barren.

Dry.

Colder than Ren's fake love.

She squinted into the fridge.

"This fridge emptier than my ex-boyfriend's brain," she muttered, closing it with an offended glare. "And about as useful."

Her stomach growled again — louder this time — like it was fed up with her too.

Tiffany placed both hands on the counter, thinking. Then her eyes lit up.

"Mika's Kitchen ain't too far from here," she said slowly, as if convincing herself. She checked their website real quick — still open.

"Hah! Bet. That's why y'all my day ones," she said to nobody, already heading back to her room. She threw on her puffer jacket, slid into her rainbow fuzzy slippers because cute > practical always, and grabbed her keys

"This is peak desperation energy," she told herself in the mirror. "But I'm not about to starve." Outside, the rain was doing the most. But she was on a mission. A woman scorned — not by love — but by hunger.

She made it to Mika's Kitchen in one piece, albeit slightly damp and side-eyeing every puddle like it had beef with her.

Inside smelled like heaven.

She ordered her usual — lemon pepper wings, mac and cheese, and a sweet tea, because balance.

While she waited, she scrolled on her phone, shook her head at memes, and mentally cursed Ren one more time for being the most boring man alive.

Her order came. She paid. Tipped well — because she wasn't trifling like Ren.

Food secured.

Mission accomplished.

As she left, her slippers slapped against the wet sidewalk while she mumbled to herself, "Ain't nobody gonna say I ain't dedicated."

And then—

Tires screeched.

Headlights flared.

THUMP.

The world tilted. Her food went flying. Her body hit the ground. For a second — just a second — everything was weirdly quiet.

The rain still fell. The streetlight flickered overhead.

And Tiffany — very much on the ground, slightly dazed — blinked up at the stormy sky and managed to say, with absolute disbelief: "Ain't no way..."

The first thing Tiffany felt was warmth. Like...real warmth. Sun-on-your-skin, vacation-in-the-Bahamas kind of warmth. Which made zero sense. Because the last thing she remembered was rain. Wet streets. Wings flying through the air. And—oh yeah—getting bodied by a whole car. She groaned low in her throat. "Ughhhh..."

Her body felt heavy, her head was throbbing, and everything smelled weirdly expensive. Like...lilac, coconut oil, and generational wealth. She cracked one eye open slowly, squinting against the blinding sunlight pouring in through massive windows.

All she saw was white. A clean, perfectly polished white ceiling with gold crown molding. Tiffany frowned. "...Is this...heaven?" she croaked, voice all scratchy like she'd been in a battle.

She winced, sitting up slowly — like old-lady slow — holding her pounding head. "Oooh, this is painful," she groaned. "Okay...nah. If this is heaven why my head feel like a construction site?"

She blinked, vision clearing a little... and froze. This was not her bedroom. This was not anything remotely related to her broke, hungry, studio apartment life. This was a bedroom bedroom. Big. Bright. Beautiful. Classy.

Cream walls. Velvet curtains. Marble floors. A chandelier looking like it cost more than her student loans. The sheets? Silk. The vibe? Luxury. Opulence. Somebody-who-says-"summer home"-in-regular-conversation type energy.

Tiffany's mouth dropped open. "...What in the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills is THIS?" she whispered.

She swung her legs off the bed, slippers gone, toes sinking into a plush rug that probably had its own security detail. She staggered toward a huge mirror on the wall...and when she caught her reflection?

She stopped.

Blink.

Squint.

Double take.

"...Girl, what??"

She looked...like her. But not the "dragging herself to Mika's Kitchen in slippers" version.

This was like...I*******m-filter-but-in-real-life Tiffany.

Skin glowing, eyes wide with shock, she looked like a whole photoshoot. Her hair was laid—no frizz in sight—like she'd just walked out of a salon. Her Howard Alumni sweatshirt had been replaced with a silk robe that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. "What kinda sorcery—?" she whispered, turning her head side to side. "This ain't no regular glow-up...this is witchcraft."

Her heart started racing. "Oh no... Oh no no no."

Panic setting in. She backed up slowly, eyes darting around the boujee room like somebody was about to jump out at her.

"Okay Tiffany...think," she whispered. "You wake up in a stranger's mansion...you look suspiciously good...you don't remember nothing after getting hit by a car..."

Her eyes widened. "I BEEN KIDNAPPED." But then she paused. She squinted around again.

"But...this don't look like no regular kidnapping," she admitted slowly. "Where's the zip ties? The ransom note? Why it smell like eucalyptus and black girl luxury in here?"

She was pacing now. Stressing. Hands on her knees. "Oh nah. This rich people kidnapping. Organ harvesting? Sugar mama application process? Illuminati recruitment???"

Then— A voice.

Calm. Clear. Echoing slightly like it had no business sounding so peaceful. "Tiffany Wilson."

Tiffany froze mid-step. Heart. Stopped. Neck. Stiff. Eyes wide.

"...Who said that?" she whispered.

And then— Out of nowhere — like literally materializing in front of her — a small glowing figure appeared. Elegant. Ethereal. Floating just slightly above the ground. It kinda looked like...an angel?

But like...if angels wore Fenty Gloss Bomb and had locs slicked back into a perfect bun. Tiffany's jaw dropped.

"What the HECK is THAT?" she yelled, stumbling back and grabbing the nearest thing — which happened to be a gold candle holder shaped like a swan.

The figure just smiled calmly. "Be not afraid, Tiffany Wilson."

Tiffany squinted hard. "Be not afraid? Baby, I'm two seconds from swinging this boujee-ass candle holder at yo head. You better start explaining."

The glowing figure floated down, graceful like it rehearsed this speech in the mirror a hundred times. "I am your Guardian Angel," the voice announced, calm and crisp like a HR rep with a superiority complex. "Sent here to guide you through this...transition."

Tiffany blinked slowly. "...Transition??" She pointed to herself, still in shock. "Sis, what transition?? I got HIT by a car, not promoted to the afterlife."

The angel clasped their glowing hands together. "Tiffany Wilson...you died."

Silence. Beat.

Tiffany's whole soul left her body for a second. "...DIED?!?" she practically screamed. "BUT I WAS JUST 27!"

The angel raised a perfectly arched brow. "27...," they echoed slowly. Then added, with so much casual disrespect it felt personal: "And you accomplished nothing, I mean no disrespect, but...it's time to move on."

Tiffany gasped like someone just slapped her with a church fan. "EXCUSE ME?!" she clutched her imaginary pearls.

The angel didn't even blink. "You're excused."

Tiffany squinted. "...Oh you lucky I ain't got no shoes on right now."

The angel floated like they couldn't be bothered. "Relax," they said. "*This is actually an opportunity. You've been given another chance at life...under certain terms and conditions."

Tiffany folded her arms, still fuming. "Lemme guess. I gotta donate to charity? Save some orphans? Start a soup kitchen?"

"Not quite."

"Can I go back to my old life?" Tiffany asked hopefully.

The angel's face did not move. "Absolutely not."

"Wow," Tiffany deadpanned. "Ghetto."

The angel continued unfazed, like they were reading out loud from a heavenly PowerPoint. "You have been transported into the story of The Wilted Magnolia. You are now inhabiting the body of Deja Moreau."

Silence.

Tiffany blinked slowly.

"...Deja?" she echoed blankly.

Then it hit her. Her mouth dropped.

"DEJA???"

The rage that erupted from Tiffany's spirit could've powered a small city. "Are you deadass right now???" Tiffany snapped. "DEJA??? The same Deja whose life was a tragic dumpster fire wrapped in misery and sprinkled with depression??? The same Deja who lost EVERYTHING while that sneaky cousin Dominique got her man, her money, and a happily ever after??? THAT Deja???"

The angel nodded. "Correct."

Tiffany was pacing now. Hands on her hips. Hair practically vibrating from frustration. "Outta all the stories in the fictional multiverse...you drop me in THE most miserable one? I coulda been Sailor Moon! I coulda been a Bridgerton! I coulda been in Fast & Furious with a stunt double! But noooOOOooo. You gave me BROKE, BETRAYED, and BARELY BREATHING??*"

The angel cleared their throat gently. "This is where the terms and conditions come in," they said smoothly.

Tiffany stopped mid-rant. "...Go on."

"You have a mission. You may choose one of two paths," the angel explained, voice calm but serious. "Path One: Become beloved by everyone. Be the light. Heal the wounds. Win hearts. Or—"

A faint glint sparkled in their eye. "Path Two: Embrace your inner villainess. Be bold. Be ruthless. Make them fear you."

Tiffany narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "And what do I get if I win?"

The angel smiled — that knowing, mysterious, rich-auntie-who-don't-play smile. "Twenty. Million. Dollars."

Silence.

Tiffany's soul paused. Her whole attitude reset. "TWENTY."

"MILLION," the angel repeated.

Tiffany's eyes went glossy like she just saw a Gucci sale marked 99% off.

"...Dollars?" she whispered, reverently.

"Twenty million American dollars," the angel confirmed. "Tax-free. Spend-it-how-you-like money. Life-on-easy-mode money."

Tiffany clutched her invisible pearls. "Lawd." Tiffany's brain was already doing backflips. Twenty million?? In this economy??? Forget heaven — this was the REAL afterlife prize.

"Okay okay okay..." Tiffany paced, rubbing her chin. "Beloved angel Deja... or Villainess Deja... hmm..."

She grinned slow. Her gold-digger spirit started tingling. She looked up like she was crunching numbers in her mental calculator. "$20 million..." she whispered, eyes sparkling like Scrooge McDuck counting gold coins.

"Are you choosing beloved?" The angel's voice was so calm it was grating.

Tiffany burst out laughing. "BELOVED?! In whose story? Not this one!" She shook her head. "Baby, Dominique already got these people eating out the palm of her hand. I'm not about to waste my time playing Girl Scout while everybody wanna kiss Dominique's designer heels."

She placed her hands on her hips. "Nah. I'm choosing VILLAINESS. I'mma stay alive, stack my coins, dodge the family tragedy, and when I'm done? Disappear like I was never here."

She gave the angel that look. "Ohhhh girl... they done gave the wrong black woman a second chance."

"Okay then. Your mission has been chosen." The angel's expression remained as unflappable as a statue, but their eyes sparkled with the faintest hint of amusement.

They snapped their fingers, causing this faint little ding! sound like a game achievement just unlocked. "I will check in on your progress every one month," the angel added, casually filing away invisible paperwork in the air.

Tiffany narrowed her eyes. "Every month? That's it?"

"Mhm," the angel hummed.

Tiffany crossed her arms. "Okay but like—what's the time limit? A year? Two? How long I got before you come back snatching me like rent's due?"

The angel paused, then smiled faintly like this was about to be real funny.

"Oh, there's no time limit," they said sweetly. "You have all the time in the world."

Silence. Tiffany blinked once. Twice. Then—

"PFFFFT—" she burst out laughing. "ALL the time in the world? Oh baby, say less! I'm 'bout to be rich, petty, AND stress-free."

She shook her head, grinning hard. "No deadlines? Bet. I'm 'bout to be like Rihanna dropping an album—whenever I feel like it."

"I'll check in later," the angel said, and with a swift, graceful gesture, the figure disappeared, leaving nothing but an empty room filled with silence... and Tiffany's infectious laughter.

Tiffany's face lit up with a whole new, slightly manic energy as she looked around the room again, now free of angelic interruptions.

"I guess I'm Deja now..."

She stood there for a second, processing the absurdity of it all. Her fingers drummed on the silk sheets.

"Deja...," she said with a sigh, then grinned. "Okay, fine. Let's see what kind of mess we working with."