Page 73 of Omar

He told the waiter I was the most beautiful woman in Brooklyn. The waiter agreed because you agree with the man holding the black card. Supreme topped up my wine without asking if I wanted more, told a story about a business deal he'd closed that morning, reached across the table to wipe a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his napkin.

Every gesture was ownership dressed up as romance. Every touch was a claim. We were both performing for each other, two actors running lines in a play neither of us believed in but couldn't leave.

The difference was he didn't know I was acting. He thought I was coming around.

At home he kissed me in the kitchen, long and slow, his hands on my waist. I kissed him back because that was the job. When he pulled away he looked at me with something in his eyes that might have been real affection, genuine belief that the flowers, the cooking, the shopping had worked. That the escape attempt was a blip, not a warning.

"We're good, right?" he asked, his forehead against mine.

"We're good, Premie."

"Promise me you ain't gonna do nothing like that again."

"I promise."

He kissed my forehead and went to take a shower. I stood in the kitchen with my hands on the counter, looking at the flowers he'd bought me, listening to the water run.

I picked up my phone and checked for messages. Nene had texted twice.

You okay? Haven't heard from you in a minute.

Ash. Text me back.

I went to the bathroom, locked the door, ran the tap, and typed carefully.

I'm here. Can't talk much. Things got tighter after what happened.

Nene replied fast: What happened? Are you hurt?

I tried to leave. He caught me before I made it to the corner.

A pause. Then: Shit. Are you safe right now?

Yeah. He's being extra nice. Flowers, cooking, shopping. You know what that means.

I know exactly what that means. Another pause. Ash, we need to get you out properly this time. No solo shit. You hear me?

I hear you.

I mean it. You tried it your way and it didn't work. Let the people who know how to do this do it.

She was right. I'd packed a bag and walked out the front door like I was going to the store, and Supreme's people had been waiting for me like they already knew. Because they did know. Because Cee had been reporting back for days about my movements, about the gaps in my schedule, about the home visits that didn't add up. Supreme might frame it as concern for my safety but he'd had those men posted because he'd already suspected something.

I couldn't outrun his operation on my own. I'd proved that.

I hear you, I typed again. I'm done trying to do this by myself.

Good. Stay safe. I love you.

Love you too.

I deleted the conversation, flushed the toilet, and went back to the bedroom. Supreme was out of the shower, towel around his waist, picking out clothes. He smiled when he saw me.

"Come here, baby."

I went to him. He wrapped his arms around me, his skin still damp, and held me against his chest. I let him hold me and counted the seconds until he let go.

That night I lay in bed waiting for his breathing to even out into sleep. It took longer than usual because he kept touching me, his hand on my hip, his lips against my shoulder, mumbling things I tuned out. Eventually the touching stopped, the breathing slowed, and he was out like a light.