Chapter 3

Flashes lit up like fireworks as Alaya pushed her way through the crowd of reporters. Their voices buzzed in her ears like flies, questions piling on top of each other, none of them kind.

“Did you know about the proposal?”

“Are you pregnant?”

“Was it all about the money?”

“Did he leave you for Janelle?”

She kept her head down and kept moving, her bare feet slapping against the cold marble as she shoved through the human wall.

She didn’t stop until she hit the lobby doors.

Outside, the air hit her like a slap — sharp and cold. She hugged her robe tighter around her body and made a beeline toward the underground parking lot.

All she could think was: Get to the car. Just get to the car.

Her breath fogged the air in front of her as she jogged down the ramp, her pace quickening the closer she got. The sound of her footsteps echoed in the garage — and for a second, she thought she was alone, safe.

Then she saw it.

Her car.

Her sleek, midnight-black convertible Mercedes.

Except… it wasn’t going anywhere.

Bright yellow clamps were locked around all four tires.

“Are you kidding me?” she shouted, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls.

She stumbled toward the car, tugged at one of the clamps like that would change anything. Her hand slipped and scraped against the metal.

“Arghhh!” she screamed, stepping back. “Of course they took the damn keys! What was I thinking?!”

The building owned everything. Even the air she breathed apparently.

No keys. No purse. No cards. Not even a few coins to catch a cab.

Just her phone, a dead name, and a designer bathrobe she didn’t own anymore.

Her heart pounded as panic tried to rise again. She forced it down.

Tasha’s place isn’t far.

You can walk. You’ll be fine. Just keep going.

She glanced behind her once — camera flashes still sparked in the distance at the edge of the garage. She ducked low and darted out the exit, taking the side street instead of the main road.

She ran.

Down sidewalks and alleys. Through traffic and side streets.

Cutting corners. Dodging questions. Ducking behind cars every time she heard someone call her name.

At one point, someone yelled “Is that her?!” and she bolted across the street so fast she nearly tripped over a fire hydrant.

By the time she reached Tasha’s apartment, her legs were aching, her lungs burning, and her throat raw. Her robe was clinging to her body, twisted at the hem, and her phone was at 9%.

She raised a trembling hand and knocked on the door.

It swung open before she could even knock a second time.

Tasha stood there — wide-eyed, barefoot, holding a mug of tea. “Girl.”

Alaya didn’t speak. Her eyes said everything.

Tasha grabbed her by the arm and yanked her inside.

“Come in, come in. Jesus.” She looked her up and down, mouth twitching with disbelief. “You’re still in the robe? What the hell happened to your shoes?”

“I didn’t have time. And I didn’t want the press following me.” Alaya leaned against the wall, breathless.

“I don’t care about reporters,” Tasha snapped. “Are you okay?”

Alaya stayed quiet.

Her eyes were bloodshot. Her lip was trembling, though she was trying to hold it together. Her silence answered everything.

Tasha wrapped her arms around her and held her tight. “I told you he was no good,” she whispered.

Alaya’s shoulders shook. “What do I do, Tasha?” she asked, her voice hollow. “They took everything.”

She covered her face with her hands, sobbing into her palms. “I have nothing left.”

Tasha helped her sit on the couch, draped a blanket over her shoulders, and placed the mug of tea in her hands.

“We’re gonna figure this out, okay?” she said, voice firm. “You can stay here as long as you need to.”

Before she could say more, the TV caught her attention. Tasha turned her head toward the screen — then went very still.

The silence made Alaya look up too.

“Is that…?” she asked slowly.

“Turn the volume up.”

Tasha grabbed the remote and hit the button.

“So she’d been his side chick all along?” the interviewer asked, brows raised with performative shock.

“Oh yeah,” said a familiar voice — dripping with fake sweetness.

Alaya’s heart dropped.

Selena.

“He used to take her on yachts, private vacations, spoil her rotten,” Selena went on, flipping her wig dramatically. “She was basically draining him dry.”

The interviewer gasped. “And she thought he’d actually marry her?”

“Delusional,” Selena snorted. “I mean, c’mon. She believed she was the one. Meanwhile, we all knew she was just the placeholder.”

They both laughed.

Onscreen, a video of Alaya running barefoot down the street played on loop. The camera zoomed in on her tear-streaked face, her tangled hair, her robe flapping as she disappeared into the city.

“That bitch,” Tasha said under her breath. “You trusted her.”

Alaya just stared.

Her humiliation was now prime-time entertainment.

“She even believed he was going to marry her,” Selena giggled.

“Bless her heart.”

“More like curse her dumbass,” the host replied.

Tasha lunged for the remote, cursing, and switched off the TV.

Alaya sat frozen, the sound of those cruel laughs echoing in her ears.

Tears trickled slowly from her eyes. “What am I going to do, Tasha?”

Tasha sat beside her and took her hand. “First thing: forget them. You’re not staying down, you hear me? You can stay here for as—”

The screen behind them flickered again.

“We interrupt this program for breaking news,” the anchor’s voice cut in.

Alaya and Tasha turned their heads in unison.

“Billionaire Darius Westwood, who made headlines earlier today after proposing to Janelle Brooks, has just been confirmed dead following a high-speed car accident. Authorities say his vehicle struck a median and flipped several times before catching fire…”