A portfolio with my name on it.
There was my name, PRIME. Written in loopy handwriting with little hearts dotting the letters like a middle schooler.
I opened it.
First page was her notes from when I hired her to redo my place. Color swatches. Fabric samples. Furniture measurements. Normal shit.
Second page was not fucking normal.
Photos of me. Dozens of ’em. Some was from events we both attended—galas, fundraisers, Banks Reserve parties. Candid shots that ain’t never made it to no final album. She was an event planner. Had access to every photographer in the city. Probably been collecting these for years, asking for “extra shots” and paying for pictures nobody else ever saw.
But others was different. Me walking into Banks Reserve on a random Tuesday. Me at the gym. Me on my own balcony. Surveillance angles. The kind of footage Rashid kept on all his “sons.”
This crazy bitch had been raiding her daddy’s files.
The fuck was wrong with this woman?
I turned the page.
A handwritten letter. Nah, not a letter. A whole journal entry.
“Dear Future Husband…”
I almost put that shit down right there. Almost. But I needed to know how deep this rabbit hole went.
“I know you don’t see me yet. Not really. You think I’m just Rashid’s daughter. Just another female throwing herself at you. But I know the truth. We’re destined for each other. I’ve known it since the first time I saw you at my father’s house. You were wearing that gray suit, the one that makes your shoulders look like they were carved by angels. You barely looked at me. But I looked at you. I’ve been looking ever since.”
“One day you’ll understand. One day you’ll see that Zahara (or whatever her real name is) isn’t worthy of you. She’s trash. Ghetto trash pretending to be something she’s not. You deserve a queen. Someone who was raised right. Someone who understands your world. Someone like ME.”
“I’ve already planned our wedding. I have a Pinterest board with 847 pins. I know what flowers we’ll have (white roses and orchids). I know what song we’ll dance to (At Last by Etta James). I know what we’ll name our children (Prentice Jr. for a boy, Pilar for a girl). I know EVERYTHING.”
“All I need is for you to wake up and see what’s right in front of you.”
“Soon, my love. Soon.”
I closed that shit.
This wasn’t no crush. This wasn’t even an obsession. This was full-blown psycho shit. The kind that end with somebody getting stabbed in they sleep ’cause they “betrayed” a love that never existed in the first place.
Zainab was right to be worried about this bitch. More right than she knew.
I almost felt bad about what I was ’bout to do.
Almost.
But this was war. And in war, you use whatever weapons available. Farah was a weapon—just not the way she always imagined.
Found a chair in the corner of the living room. Dark corner, away from the windows. Sat down. And waited.
She came home around ten.
Heard her keys in the lock. Heard her heels clicking on the hardwood. Heard her humming Go Girl by Summer Walker as she dropped her purse on the table by the door.
She ain’t notice me. Too busy being in her own little world.
Kicked off her heels. Walked into the kitchen. Poured herself a glass of wine. Checked her phone. Laughed at something on the screen.
Then she walked into the living room and hit the light switch.
