He chose silence. And so did I. I clutched the folded clothes to my chest and brushed past him, my shoulder bumping his on purpose. He didn't reach for me. Didn't stop me. Didn't ask me to stay. I walked straight down the hall and into the guest bedroom—the same one that used to be mine before I made the mistake of loving him with my whole damn soul. I closed the door quietly, locked it behind me, then leaned against it for a second, eyes closed, breath shaky.
The click of the lock felt like the last word in an argument that never had a winner. This was how I spent the first hours of my birthday. Locked behind a door, in a house filled with a man who had become a ghost in his own body. And for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, I let myself cry.
_
The next morning, I laid still, staring blankly at the ceiling, my body wrapped in cotton sheets that felt colder than usual. The quiet was loud—too loud. No knock. No voice on the other side of the door checking to see if I was okay. Just silence. I rolled over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand, swiping through the bright notifications that felt dull against my mood. A few "Happy Birthdays" from friends and cousins I hadn't talked to in months. Texts from Amina and Nia asking how I was feeling, if Juste had come to his senses. I didn't reply. Instead, I scrolled through social media for a minute, watching other women be spoiled, kissed, loved on for their birthdays. Soft background music, "Happy Birthday" overlays, balloons and brunch plates. I locked my phone.
I got up, brushed my teeth, and wrapped a silk robe around my body before heading downstairs. My feet padded softly against the wood floors as I took the familiar turn into the kitchen. And froze. Pink and yellow roses spilled across every surface—countertops, the island, even the damn floor. Designer boxes were stacked with precision near the dining table, each wrapped with ribbon and labeled in that familiar bold cursive font. A bouquet of helium balloons floated near the ceiling, dancing in the early morning light.
The scent of syrup and butter hit next. Breakfast from Sammie's—my favorite—was spread across the table: crispy catfish and grits, Belgian waffles, honey-drizzled biscuits, and two tall flutes of mimosas waiting side by side. At the head of the table, Juste was sitting back in one of the chairs, head bent over his phone . But when he looked up and saw me, his phone slid onto the table, forgotten. He stood immediately, walking toward me with a look that was softer than anything I'd seen on his face in weeks. Without saying a word, he pulled me into his arms, holding me like the world hadn't gone sideways. Like we were still good. Still us.
He pressed slow kisses up the side of my face, each one like a quiet apology, stopping just at the curve of my jaw. "Happy birthday, baeeby," he murmured against my skin, his voice low and gravelly, full of that old warmth I used to crave. The kind of tone that could've melted me a month ago. Now It barely softened the wall I'd started building between us.
"I know I been fuckin' up," he breathed, pulling back just enough to look me in my eyes. His gaze held weight. Regret. And that same fire that used to pull me under so easy. "I'm sorry, Chiana. I love you, baeeby. I just wanna make sure you safe. Seeing you in that hospital bed like that? Shit damn near broke me. Girl, you don't even know—I turned the whole fuckin' city upside down about you." He exhaled and started placing soft kisses up my neck, like he was trying to remind my skin of something my heart hadn't felt in a while. And for a second, I let him.
"That's the problem, Juste," I whispered, barely able to get it out. My voice trembled, but I held my ground. "I don't need you turning the world upside down for me. I need you right here. Present. I need you. Not the version that disappears behind locked doors and late night meetings. Not the man chasing ghosts when I'm standing right here." He looked at me like I'd punched the air out of his chest. Then he nodded slowly, rubbing his hand down my lower back, his other one finding the curve of my ass. "I know dat, Chi," he muttered. "I do. Let me make it up to you." His voice dropped even lower, his lips brushing against mine again. "Eat breakfast. Let me take you shopping. I got somethin' for you—something I been workin' on." Before I could respond, he dipped his head and kissed me. Deep and slow. Like he was trying to breathe life back into us.
I didn't answer, but my body moved anyway, betraying me the second his mouth met mine. I melted into the kiss, into him. My hand gripped the back of his neck, mumbling a soft "mmhmm" into his mouth as I pulled back, dazed. That was the thing about Juste. Even when I was mad at him—sick and tired of chasing his attention—he made it hard to stay angry for too long. He had that charm. That magnetic pull. The kind that could wrap itself around your throat and kiss it at the same time.
We sat at the kitchen table surrounded by roses and balloons, sharing breakfast from Sammie's like we didn't have a single care in the world. Between bites of fish and grits, he had me laughing at some foolishness Pierre did the other day. For a moment... just a moment, it felt like the world slowed down. Like it was just us, the way it used to be before the accident, before Maseon, before everything got heavy. And it reminded me—when Juste was present? He lit me up in ways I couldn't even put into words. That man could fill a room without saying shit, just off the strength of being him. And when he was mine, really mine? It made everything else fade out.
After breakfast, we got dressed and left the house. I threw on a two-piece knit set with some shades, and he kept it chill in a clean black tee, joggers, and that slick Cuban link he loved to tuck under his collar when he was being laid-back but still wanted to flex a lil. Now, what he didn't know was—I had a trick up my sleeve.
He thought we were headed to buy purses and heels, some fancy designer shit to butter me up. Nah. I'd been peepin' a washer and dryer set with a digital panel and steam option. I wanted a new dishwasher too—the old one was starting to hum like a bad remix—and I'd been craving a bigger dining table, something more us, more grown. I wasn't about to let this moment go to waste.
So when I told him to make a right and we pulled up in front of the home improvement store, Juste looked at me like I had two heads. "Chi, what we doin' here?" he asked, eyebrows raised. "Grown woman business," I said with a smirk, already unbuckled He followed behind me, hands in his pockets, his chain glinting under the sun. But he didn't complain. Not once. Didn't make a face, didn't roll his eyes. He just let me point out what I wanted—touchscreens, custom options—and when it came time to swipe that card, He paid without saying a word.
On the way home, I was feeling good. A little tipsy off the champagne we'd had with breakfast and still floating from the fact he was actually giving me his time. We ended up detouring off the main road and stopping at this little pop-up food truck festival on the outskirts of the city. The air smelled like smoked brisket, jerk wings, and funnel cakes. Kids were running wild, music played low in the background, and vendors were posted up like it was a block party. Juste and I walked side by side, close enough for our hands to brush, even though he didn't grab mine right away.
We ordered tacos from a truck that had a line wrapped around the back and stood off to the side to eat. Mine were beef birria with extra consomé. His were spicy shrimp. I looked over at him as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, the gold on his wrist catching the light. "You know," I said, licking a little sauce off my thumb, "this actually been one of my better birthdays. Even without the trip." He glanced at me, then finally reached for my hand. "It ain't over yet." I gave him a look. "Mmm, you got more up your sleeve?" He smirked, that cocky grin sliding across his face. "Somethin' like that." And just like that, I let myself lean into him. Resting my head against his shoulder as we walked toward the next food stall, the music behind us playing a slow, soulful R&B track.
After we left the festival, Juste didn't take the usual turn toward the house. Instead, we headed out past New Orleans, where the concrete turned to cracked gravel and the street signs started fading. Before I could ask where we were going, I saw it—Thiloux.
A small, mostly Black town that sat quietly just outside the city. It had heart, but you could tell it'd been overlooked. Boarded-up buildings, corner stores with rusted-out signage, schools that hadn't been painted in years. It was one of those towns with potential, but no damn backing. We pulled into a wide, empty parking lot surrounded by construction tape. The foundation of something big was being laid—literally. Framing and steel beams stretched high into the sky. It didn't take a genius to figure out this was a project in motion.
Juste put the truck in park and leaned back in his seat, one hand resting on the wheel, the other on his thigh. Calm, quiet... that kind of energy that meant something was up. "Remember that Black-owned shopping center we talked about? For community flow, and money recirculation?" he said, turning to look at me with that low, serious gaze. I nodded slowly. "Yeah. That was a solid plan."
"What you think about this location?" he asked, motioning toward the lot in front of us.
I looked out the window at the land. Then back at him. "You smart as hell, you know that? Thiloux needs this. Nobody ever invested in this side of town like that. You might be onto somethin'." He grinned, reached into the center console, and pulled out a slim manila folder, handing it to me.
"I know you be sayin' you not a St. Jean," he teased, making me side-eye him and laugh under my breath. "So I wanted to make sure you got your own piece of this empire. Happy Birthday, baeeby." I blinked, slowly flipping the folder open. My eyes scanned the documents inside, and my breath caught in my throat. Chiana Alexander was printed in black ink—notarized, stamped, official. My name was listed as 50% owner of the St. Jean & Alexander Development Group. Every page confirmed it—buildout plans, ownership structure, projected revenue streams.
I looked up at him, heart full, eyes shining. "You serious?" I asked, voice soft. He nodded once. "Dead serious. You said you didn't wanna just be attached to my name—I respect that. This ain't no gift. This is equity. This yours." I stared at him, speechless. Then, without another word, I leaned across the console, cupped his face, and kissed him. Not soft. Not sweet. But deep. Grateful. I slid my tongue past his lips and tasted the richness of him—everything he was, everything he gave. "Thank you," I whispered against his mouth.
We left Thiloux with the sun dipping behind the trees, casting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. I didn't say much on the ride back—I was still too caught up in what he'd just done for me. Not the shopping center. Not the paperwork. But what it meant. He saw me. He respected me. That meant more than anything he could've wrapped in a bow.
The closer we got to the house, the more I caught Juste glancing at me with that sneaky little smirk—the kind that said he was hiding something. I side-eyed him, suspicious but too tired to press. The drive had been peaceful, his hand resting on my thigh, the silence between us comfortable for once.
But as soon as he pulled into the driveway and parked, I climbed right over the center console and onto his lap. "Mmm," I mumbled against his neck, trailing kisses up his jawline as my fingers tugged at the waistband of his joggers. "I missed you like this." He chuckled, trying to hold me still. "Chi—wait."
"I don't wanna wait," I whined, grinding my hips against him. It had been too long. Between physical therapy and all him not really being home, we hadn't touched each other in weeks. My body was starving for him. He groaned low, his voice strained. "You tryna make me forget my whole damn plan."
"I hope I do," I teased, kissing him again, deeper this time. But then he grabbed my waist and tapped my butt twice. "Out. Now. Go." I blinked, lips parted in protest. "You serious?" He just grinned and nodded toward the house. "Go on."
Still slightly annoyed, I climbed off his lap and smoothed out my outfit as we made our way to the door. I didn't even notice how quiet the neighborhood was. As soon as he unlocked the door and pushed it open, we were hit with a loud—
"SURPRISE!!!"
