Chiana
I leaned back in my leather office chair, stretching my legs under my desk as I scrolled aimlessly through my phone. The numbers and spreadsheets on my dual monitors had already started blurring together, my brain shutting down for the day even though I technically had a few minutes left on the clock.
The last client of the day had left damn near forty minutes ago, leaving me with nothing but silence, the distant hum of traffic outside my window, and the soft tick of the clock mounted on the wall. I sighed, tossing my phone onto the desk and rubbing my temples. This was my life. Routine. Orderly. Predictable. And lonely as hell.
I ran a successful private accounting business out of a sleek, downtown Baton Rouge office—nothing fancy, just professional enough to let people know I wasn't here to play. My clientele ranged from small business owners to rich folks looking to keep their money out of Uncle Sam's hands, and I had built my reputation on being discreet and efficient. I worked, I went home, and on occasion, I let Amina, my best friend, drag me out for drinks when she was actually in town.
That was it. That was me. And for the most part, I was fine with it. Until the moments like this, when the silence stretched too long, and I had nothing to do but sit in my thoughts. I tapped my nails against the glass surface of my desk, debating on packing up early when my phone buzzed, the name flashing across the screen pulling a small smirk from me.
Amina:Bitch, you better not still be at work.
I shook my head, swiping to reply.
Me:Where else would I be?
Her response was immediate.
Amina:Literally anywhere else. Happy Hour? My flight lands in 20.
I rolled my eyes but grinned. Amina knew I wasn't a last-minute, pop-up type of girl, but that never stopped her from trying.
Me:I'm not going to happy hour. It's Tuesday.
Amina:AND?
Before I could respond, my office phone rang, cutting into our conversation. My brows pulled together. I wasn't expecting any more clients today. I hesitated before answering, my voice smooth and professional. "Chiana Alexander."
A deep voice filled the line, the kind that carried weight even through a phone. "Miss Alexander," the man greeted, voice slow and Southern, but firm, like he wasn't the type to repeat himself. "I heard you're the best at what you do."
My grip on the receiver tightened. Something about his tone sent a ripple of unease down my spine. I'd dealt with all kinds of clients—some shadier than others—but my gut was warning me that this wasn't just another businessman looking to straighten out his accounts. "I appreciate that," I said carefully. "Who am I speaking with?"
A pause. Then— "You can call me Noles." I frowned. The name didn't ring any bells, but the way he said it made me feel like it should.
"Well, Noles, I'm actually finished for the day," I said smoothly, hoping to brush him off. "But if you're interested in my services, you're welcome to schedule a consultation through my online portal ." Another pause. Then a low chuckle. "Yeah... see, I don't think I got time for all that. I need someone with your expertise, and no disrespect, I’m not filling out no online portal."
I sat up a little straighter. "And what exactly do you need help with?" The line was quiet for a beat too long. Then he exhaled, the sound like he was weighing his words. "Let's just say... I need to make some numbers move the right way. Make sure everything looks... clean."
My stomach tightened. That was all I needed to hear. "I don't do that kind of work," I said firmly, already reaching for the disconnect button, but before I could press it, his voice came back, calm and unbothered. "Think about it. We'll be in touch."
The line went dead. I stared at the phone for a long moment, my fingers still curled around the receiver, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
I'd had my fair share of clients trying to play slick—business owners fudging expenses, trust fund babies looking to dodge taxes—but this? This was different. That man, Noles, wasn't asking for a loophole or a little financial gymnastics. He wanted his money cleaned. And that meant one thing. He was dirt, and I wanted no parts of it. I exhaled sharply, setting the phone down and shaking my head. Hell no. I wasn't about to get tangled up in something that could put my entire career—hell, my life—at risk.
I pushed away from my desk, suddenly feeling drained. I needed to go home, pour a glass of wine, and pretend this conversation never happened. The drive home was quiet, but my mind was loud. I rolled down my window, letting the warm Madene, Louisiana night air slip in, thick with the scent of magnolias and the distant brine of the bayou. The hum of cicadas blended with the distant music floating from some hole-in-the-wall bar, the kind of place where old men sipped whiskey and played cards until the early morning. This was home the only place I'd ever known, where history was buried under moss-covered oak trees, where the air carried whispers of the past like a secret only the land understood.
I should've been at peace. But that phone call stuck to me like the humidity in the air, heavy and suffocating. By the time I pulled into the parking lot of my condo, I felt drained, like my body was present, but my mind was stuck somewhere in between what the hell and how do I make this go away?
Inside, I locked the door behind me, kicked off my heels, and let out a slow breath. My place was my sanctuary, modern but warm, filled with rich earth tones, plush rugs, and soft lighting. It smelled like vanilla and sandalwood, the kind of scent that made a house feel like home. I needed to unwind. Stripping out of my work clothes, I ran a hot bath, pouring in my favorite vanilla-scented bubbles until the water was frothy and thick. Sinking into the tub, I let my head rest against the cool porcelain, eyes slipping closed as the warmth worked out the tension in my shoulders.
This was my routine. Work. Home. Wine. A movie or some old reruns. I didn’t do chaos. I didn’t do drama. My parents had instilled that in me from early on. You get an education. A good job. You take care of yourself and don’t wait on nobody to save you. My parents, Terry and Calisa, worked regular jobs—no degrees, just hustle. That’s why they pushed me so hard. I was their second chance. Their everything. And they never got to see how far I came. A drunk driver ended all that my freshman year of college. It used to hurt so bad I couldn’t breathe. Now... I just try to believe they’re still watching me, proud of the life I made from the pieces they left behind.
Romantically? That chapter had been closed. Antonio Buffurd was my high school sweetheart. Quarterback. Star. All the girls wanted him—but he only wanted me. At least back then. By our junior year of college, things shifted. Antonio decided to go pro, and I was still deep in my grief, barely piecing myself together. Long distance didn’t last. One day he told me he couldn’t keep playing with my heart while living his new lifestyle. Called himself “freeing me.”
That “freedom” nearly broke me. After I clawed my way out of that darkness, I swore I’d never let myself fall like that again. And I haven’t. My life now is calm, quiet... maybe too quiet. Peaceful, but alone.
By the time I was out, wrapped in a plush robe with my silk bonnet on, I had a glass of red wine in one hand and the remote in the other, flipping through movies. Something light. Something easy. An hour in, my body was relaxed, my mind finally drifting, when my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen, expecting Amina, but instead, a notification popped up at the top.
New Email: Juste St. Jean.
