I'd been through hell. Damn near died. Watched myself crumble into somebody I ain't even recognize. But right here, right now, I was part of something that mattered. Seeing the smiles stretch across the kids' faces, watching the older folks nod they heads in approval, it filled something in me I didn't even know was still empty. Yeah, the development was a front—to wash money, to flip dirty into clean—but this was real. The laughter, the opportunity, the pride coming' back into Thiloux. It mattered.
I stood near the front entrance, the sun kissing' my shoulders, the soft breeze flirting' with the hem of my black dress. Vendors shouted out deals over the music bumping' in the background, kids tugged their parents toward the food trucks, and people from every corner of town pulled up with their folding chairs, ready to post up for the day. Juste stood a few feet behind me, talking to Pierre and Jules, his eyes steady finding' mine every few minutes, like he couldn't help it. Every time he looked at me, it made my stomach flip. Saint stepped up to the front of the crowd, microphone in hand. The low hum of conversation died out, all eyes fallin' on him. He wore a crisp black linen shirt, slacks, his stance wide.
"Thiloux, we here today," he started, voice low but strong, the kind that demanded attention without ever having' to yell. "We here to open up a door for the future. For every lil' boy and girl that been told they ain't gone make it. For every mama that had to stretch a dollar 'til it screamed. For every daddy that worked two jobs and still ain't had enough." Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. "This here," he lifted his hand, motionin' to the colorful buildings behind him, "this ain't charity. This ain't no favor. This our birthright. Ownin' somethin'. Buildin' somethin'. Passin' it down." I felt a lump rise in my throat. "Y'all support this. Protect this. Grow this," Saint finished. "This ours."
The crowd clapped, some folks hollered, and I couldn't help but beam with pride. Saint turned, lifted the giant silver scissors from the table, and motioned for the rest of us to join him. Juste slid beside me, slidin' his hand onto the small of my back as the photographer shouted for everyone to smile. I pressed into him lightly, feelin' that solid wall of comfort he always gave without even tryin'.
Pierre, Noles, Jules, Saint, a few other partners and vendors all gathered around. The sun flashed off the scissors as Saint handed them to Juste. Together they cut the thick gold ribbon stretched across the main entryway. Snip. And just like that, we was open. Official. The crowd roared louder, cameras flashed, and the band struck up a brass second line beat that made a few grandmas start shufflin' their feet on the spot.
I laughed as Juste pulled me closer for a quick kiss on the cheek. "This just the beginning, baeeby," he murmured low, that promise sittin' heavy between us. "Chiana, did you bring the bubbles for the kids?" Nia asked, popping up beside me, squinting against the sun. "Oh, yeah I did," I said, shading my eyes. "Left 'em in the car. I'll go run and grab 'em real quick."
I didn't think twice. The vibe was too good, the day was too perfect. For the first time in a long time, I wasn't scared to breathe. I made my way across the lot, heels clicking against the pavement. Kids zipped past me laughing, balloons bobbing in the breeze. music thumped from the speakers, mixing with the chatter of families and the buzz of the vendors. The truck was parked at the back, tucked away near the edge of the lot where the grass started. It was quieter back here. A little pocket of peace away from the noise. I smiled to myself, feeling it. Really feeling it. I was proud. Of me. Of us. I was alive. I was happy.
I pulled open the door, leaned inside, grabbing the bag off the passenger seat. I spotted the bubbles, and while I was at it, grabbed the extra speaker cord we might need later. I smoothed my dress down with a quick swipe of my palms, still smiling to myself as I turned around— Maseon was there.
A twisted, sweaty, demonic version of the man I once knew. My heart dropped so hard it felt like it cracked my ribs. Before I could scream, before I could even think— He lunged. His hand slammed around my throat so hard my feet damn near left the ground, the back of my body hitting the truck with a sick thud. The door handle stabbed into my spine, the air whooshing clean out of me. "You really thought you could hide behind that nigga?" he spat, breath foul and thick with liquor and something sharper. "Thought you could just forget me?!" Spit flew into my face, his words slicing through the thin shield of peace I'd built.
His face—God—his face wasn't even human anymore. Bloodshot eyes bulging. Nostrils flaring. His nose running. Sweat pouring down his forehead. High as a fucking kite. One look and I knew: he was strung out, twitchin' on something he couldn't control. I clawed at his wrists, nails digging, scratching, fighting for air. "Maseon—let me go!" I gasped out, the world already starting to tilt around me.
Instead, he slammed me even harder against the truck, rattling the whole frame. His free hand yanked at my dress, rough and greedy, the fabric tearing at the seams. "You always been mine, bitch," he growled, voice low, ugly, feral. "Always. And you gon' give me what's mine." Tears burned behind my eyelids—not from fear. From pure, undiluted rage. Not today. Not like this. Somewhere deep in the back of my mind, instinct roared to life. The truck door was still open. The center console wide open. I just had to move.
With a burst of adrenaline, I twisted, bucked my body like a wild thing. His grip slipped—just barely—but it was enough. I ducked low, spinning out from under him, my elbow grazing the rough asphalt. I dove into the truck, scrambled over the seats, my hands shaking so bad I almost missed it—The pen. My fingers closed around it. Cold. Small. My only chance. I turned just as Maseon lunged again, spit flying, fury making him faster, crazier. Without thinking, I drove that pen straight into his neck. Thunk.
He staggered back, eyes going wide in shock. Blood sprayed hot against my hand, my face, my dress. But he didn't stop. Still snarling. Still reaching. "You stupid ass bitch!" he howled, voice gurgling now, thick with his own blood. I screamed and stabbed him again. And again. And again. The pen broke off inside him with a sick crack, but I didn't stop. I hit him with my fists, elbows, knees—anything I could.
He stumbled forward like a dead man walking, finally collapsing on top of me with a heavy, wet thud. I hit the ground under him, pinned, dazed, breathless. The metallic smell of blood flooded my senses. It soaked into my dress, my hands, my skin. I could feel the heat of it pooling around me. I blinked up at the sky, the sun suddenly too bright, too loud. My ears rang. My body wouldn't move. My mind spiraled, stuck on one loop: Get up. Get up. Get up.
"Chiana!" A voice broke through the ringing. Footsteps pounding like war drums. "Chiana, baby!"
Juste.
I tried to lift my head, tried to call out, but all that came out was a cracked whimper. Suddenly strong arms yanked Maseon's body off me like he was nothing but trash. Then Juste was pulling me into his arms, cradling me so tight against his chest it hurt. I shattered. I clutched at his shirt, sobbing, shaking, gasping for air between broken cries. "I—I had to," I choked out against his chest, my voice raw, unrecognizable. "I had to, Juste... he—he tried—"
"I know, baeeby. I know," he murmured into my hair, rocking me gently like I was made of glass. His voice broke on the words, thick with rage and heartbreak all tangled up. "You safe now, you hear me?" he whispered fiercely, kissing the top of my head over and over. "You safe. Ain't nobody gon' ever touch you again. Not while I'm breathin'." The world spun around us—sirens wailing in the distance, people screaming, chaos erupting—but in that moment, it was just me and him. Just Juste's arms, his warmth, his vow.
_
Three Years Later
Killing Maseon had took its toll on me. It wasn't some quick, clean move on situation like I thought it would be. Some nights I cried so hard my chest felt like it was caving in. Some mornings, I woke up with the weight of it all sittin' heavy on my chest, my mind racin' through all the what-ifs and why-me's. Guilt gnawed at me like rats in a dark corner, leaving bite marks I couldn't show anybody. But if there was one constant through all that darkness, it was Juste. He had dedicated his everything to seeing me through. That man loved me outta the hole I damn near fell in. When I couldn't find my way, he lit the path. When I couldn't breathe, he breathed for me. And Lord, I loved his ass to death for it. Real, ugly, ride-until-the-wheels-fall-off kinda love. Not the fairy tale shit. The kind you feel in your bones.
We spent a lot of time out on that boat — that damn boat from white boy Mike felt like a joke back then. But it ended up saving my life in ways therapy couldn't even reach. Out on that water, where the sky kissed the ocean and the whole world felt muted, I found peace again. Out there, it was just me, Juste, and God — sometimes a bottle of tequila too, a lot of times weed, but mostly God.
A week after they lowered Maseon's body into the ground, me and Juste packed a bag, sent a text to the family, and eloped. No big wedding. No fancy church. Just us, a small island officiant that barely spoke English, and vows that solidified our love. I could still hear the way his voice cracked when he said," I know ya feel obligated to me and all wit the way a nigga got you, but Baeeby, I choose you. Ain't no question."Still feel the way my hands trembled when I slipped that ring on his finger. We ended up cruisin' the Caribbean, island-hopping in love. Jamaica, Turks and Caicos, St. Thomas — each stop another memory, another piece of healing stitched into my heart.
Looking back now, it was crazy as hell to do, just up and disappear like that. The family was hot. But I didn't regret a minute of it. Not one damn minute. Because that was the beginning of me finally choosing me. Finally choosin' us. And for the first time in my life, the world didn't feel so heavy. It felt like ours.
Three years later, and life was... softer. Not perfect, but softer. Some days, I still woke up tangled in my sheets, heart racing from dreams I couldn't remember. Some days, the guilt still whispered in my ear when the world got too quiet. But most days, most beautiful days, I could finally breathe again. I leaned against the side of the boat, the late sun painting the sky a slow, syrupy orange, and closed my eyes, letting the breeze tangle in my braids. My mind wandered, the way it did sometimes when everything finally slowed down. I thought about us... and then I thought about everybody else.
Nia and Jules.
Lord, those two. They been to hell and back. But they stuck it out. Real love — the ugly, stubborn kind that don't fold when it get hard. Marriage counseling helped, but really, it was them choosing each other every day that made the difference. And now they had another baby girl, Julise. Little thang with fat cheeks and a mean side-eye. She had Jules wrapped so tight he couldn't even breathe without her permission. She brought the two of them together. I smiled to myself, seeing Nia's smile flash in my mind. They deserved that happiness. She did for sure. They fought for it.
Then there was Amina.
Wild, beautiful Amina. Somewhere in Germany right now, thirty thousand feet above ground, unbothered. Her and Pierre... whew. They grew to love each other, but loving somebody and being ready for them ain't the same thing. They were still learning that the hard way. Still, I prayed they found their way back to each other — if not for them, then for the version of themselves that fit so damn perfectly.
And then there was Ms. Evie.
