“No. No. No way,” Love said, hand flying to her mouth.
“It’s real. I saw the paperwork. It’s almost a sure thing. You’re about to be in production!”
Tears welled in Love’s eyes as she stared at the two women who knew her best.
From a girl who scribbled love stories in the margins of school notebooks . . . to this.
She thought she would always remain that scared eighteen-year-old college freshman with swollen ankles, sitting in the back of her creative writing class at Eastern Michigan University with a secret: a baby growing inside her and a future so blurry she couldn’t imagine next week, let alone this.
She could still hear Yana’s baby laugh in her memory, still feel the fear she carried during those early nights. Now, her daughter would watch her live a dream most people only ever whispered about. She felt like she was rising.
“Excuse me,” she whispered, smiling through her tears. “Just one second.”
Q watched her lovingly as Love slipped upstairs and headed to the walkway toward her bedroom.
She walked into the room and shut the door behind her. She reached the closet and walked to the far end where her oldjewelry box sat untouched on top of a shelf in the corner. She pulled it down gently, like she was handling something fragile.
Inside, nestled in velvet, was a small sterling silver necklace. In the center, a tiny heart-shaped diamond.
Not worth much, but not like anything she could afford today.
To her, it was priceless.
She held it in her palm as a familiar feeling washed over her. It was the necklace that held the memories of what led her to write this book to begin with.
A cold, Detroit winter night in a beat-up Ford Fusion. A boy with music in his eyes and bruises he never explained. A promise whispered between two teenagers who thought love would always be enough.
She closed her hand and for a moment she was that girl again. Before the books, the betrayal, . . . before everything.
Just pure love and the only person who ever really saw her.
Leo’s Don’t Fold
Zavier Woods was a star,and he carried himself like one.
Diamond chains rested just right on his chest. Dreads freshly retwisted. A tailored bomber jacket zipped halfway, just enough to show the fitted tee that clung to his chest and arms. His energy was quiet and cool, but when he stepped into a room, people noticed. Even if he didn’t say a word.
He was successful. Wealthy. Respected.
And completely disconnected from everything that once made him feel alive.
His Downtown L.A. loft overlooked the skyline, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows and cluttered with studio gear, plaques,and luxury sneakers. On the couch was a woman he barely remembered the name of, wearing one of his T-shirts, scrolling through his TV like it was hers.
“You want breakfast?” she asked, eyes never leaving the screen.
“Nah,” he replied, adjusting his watch. “I got a meeting.”
She started to pout, but he was already gone from the living room. He grabbed his keys and texted his manager, Kam, as he walked out the door.
Zay:
Call this bitch a Uber.
He wasn’t mean, just efficient. He knew the game all too well and mastered the art of giving just enough conversation, attention, and the occasional smile if it felt earned, but nothing more.
He learned to guard his heart like the money in his safe, because that was all it was now. Too many women played the role to a tee. They had stroked his ego, told him he inspired them, and loved him, but then when the cameras came out, the bags they carried suddenly came with invoices and rent payment requests. They didn’t love him; they loved the access.
By the time he reached his thirties, his feelings became a locked room in a house no one visited anymore.
